After leaving the Rock of Cashel, we traveled to Cobh. Located on the southern coast of Ireland, Cobh could also be called “the vertical city” for its very narrow, very steep streets. Initially named “Cove” for its harbor – the second largest in the world — the English rechristened the city “Queenstown” after Victoria’s visit in 1849. After the Irish Free State was established in 1922, the Irish reclaimed the original with the Gaelic translation “Cobh”. Museums here detail two famous, ill-fated ships. The Lusitania was sunk by German torpedoes on this coast, and this harbor was the final port of call for the Titanic. We usually focus on the fate of its glamorous passengers, but the Irish traveled in steerage, which suffered the greatest losses.

The city is also known as “the Harbor of Tears” for the one and a half million people who emigrated from Ireland between 1845 and 1851 because of the “Potato Famine”, the blighted crop which caused the death of over a million Irish people. England’s lack of response to the “Great Hunger” forced the Irish to leave their homeland to escape starvation and the brutal laws imposed by English landlords. As “famine ships”, and often “coffin ships” — unseaworthy and destined to sink — set sail for new lands, Cobh was the last view of their ancestral home and the realization of never laying eyes on their beautiful island again. Ireland has never regained its population, currently less than 5 million, but 80 million people worldwide claim Irish descent. Some of the Irish we met attribute their tolerance of others to this – that their very survival was dependent on other countries letting them in.

Ireland’s weather is as notorious as its roads, but we were prevented from only one excursion due to conditions during the rain. We intended to drive to the middle of nowhere and the memorial erected where Michael Collins was assassinated to honor another of the Easter Uprising Rebels. Collins was the head of the Provisional Government which would eventually lead to the Irish Free State, yet he knew his fate was sealed when he signed the treaty with England that partitioned the country and created Northern Ireland and ultimately “The Troubles”.

The sun was shining when we arrived in Killarney, where it never really sets, though we should note that darkness doesn’t descend on Ireland’s summer until after ten o’clock. A tourist stop because of its proximity to natural wonders and castles, Killarney is a lively place well into the night, and we enjoyed one of its several pubs which provide wonderful meals and wonderful music along with the wonderful Guinness.

Of the many places people visit in Ireland, the Ring of Kerry is an absolute must. Though it’s only 111 miles, it takes over three hours to drive and at least six hours to see. Whenever we approached something spectacular, I would pull over to take in the view and a photograph. Every corner, and there are hundreds, exposes something even more beautiful than what was left behind. The drive of a lifetime, it reminded me of the Pacific Coast and Nova Scotia. It’s a sensory experience — the greens are vivid and distinct from one another, as are the blues of the sky and the clouds and the North Atlantic, the stonewalls that ramble on forever, the stony ruins located here and there, the silent puffins and the crying gulls, the sea air, salty and refreshing, mingling with the scent of peat fires nearing towns.   We stopped in Waterville for lunch and to allow time for my Irish girls to walk along the strand with its frigid waters, and the warm, welcoming streets. Entering Irish towns, you notice that the buildings and townhouses along the perimeters are painted white and shades of gray from pearly to slate, but turn the corner and enter the village center and the buildings bedazzle you with color – rows of pastel walls, vibrant doors and window frames spilling cascades of colorful flowers. We also marveled at lone homes on cliffs and on shores, desolate yet inviting. We caught sight of Skellig Michael, yet didn’t venture there. Though one is never sure of the weather, or the temperament of the sea, a reservation must be made a year in advance for the journey. Seeing the massive rock in the distance rise from the churning ocean was enough.

Passing through the Lakes of Killarney and the lovely village of Adare, we reached Limerick for the night. Approach this city with vigilance. We lost count of the number of round-abouts we survived to get there. We enjoyed two relaxing nights in a pub, which is the Irish version of the American living room. Along with good food, drink and music, there are the friendliest people, and it’s true – they love to talk and to laugh. Just remember the rules about “getting your round in”.

We spent the next day walking (not driving!) around Bunratty Folk Park, a sort of Irish version of Sturbridge Village with businesses, farms and the homes of families of different economic classes. We started with the castle and its many levels — the dining hall, the dungeon, the chapel, the sleeping quarters and finally the ramparts, which provided a view of the lush surrounding landscape and the River Shannon. I wonder how royalty survived winters in these castles. Even in June it was cold and damp and you could smell the “aroma” of centuries of habitation. We toured the landlord’s mansion, the one-room, thatched cottages of fishermen and laborers, the home of a prosperous farmer, and the more common one for poor families who slept in the same house as the animals with only a trough separating them. We walked through a village square with shops and the school where girls and boys learned in segregated classrooms. As our day drew to an end, we were treated to a medieval dinner and served mead and Irish cream, lamb stew and crusty bread, tea and desert, and most importantly, entertainment. Musicians playing traditional instruments accompanied singers and step-dancers while a story teller wove together Irish folktales, legends and history. Bunratty was a wonderful respite.

Juan Arriola