Outrunning the angst in Ireland's Gaeltacht

If you've read my other posts, you will likely have noticed the derision I sometimes cast on "tourism" as opposed to "deep travel" but in reflection I do think part of that is because I'm just not sure how to do it right. Walk the promenades? ride on bus tours? Eat all I can? I never really know. I land without an itinerary and expect great adventures but usually spend more time figuring out my next step than taking in the. . . whatever I am supposed to be taking in.

I find, like CS Lewis, desires which nothing in the world can satisfy, I sigh at curated tourist traps, lines of other privileged folk stacking up to stare at a thing before bumbling on to the next thing, waiting to be told what to enjoy. Too much free time and money, I silently remark as I wander, jetlagged and alone through magicless corridors. My mood turns dour. At times like these, I like to get kinetic.

My trip to Ireland last April was mostly a bucket list item. I had a vacation planned, and reasoned that Ireland, a place which produced great poets, ethereal music I enjoyed since childhood, and some branch of my family tree from generations ago, should make the list. I landed in Dublin and found the whole affair much less Irish than I had envisioned. Such is a common tourist experience.

What was I hoping to find? I can't put my finger on it, but something of the inspiration of Keats or Seamus Heaney; some mystical doldrum that would ignite a cold flame of furor poeticus and turn a simple barstool into some hallowed writing sanctuary.

But you know, these days America is everywhere (Say Great Britain is everywhere if you prefer - same difference). I had several delicious cups of coffee; in fact I can hardly remember a bad cup of coffee in Ireland. Tasty dark stews, a bustling city center. Generally amenable people - save for the punk who tried and FAILED to steal my phone on the street before running away on his bike.

But speaking of bikes, pedaling half-frozen through the Gaeltacht salvaged my mood on this trip in a big way. I had already been to Dublin and Killarney before I came to Dingle, a picturesque little cove of a town with the most placid bayside views which has, naturally, become another tourist hub, which has darker-than-ironically been squashing the few precious remnants of Ireland's endangered native language.

Dingle is in what is called a "Gaeltacht" region of Ireland, the designation given to the few spots left where (ostensibly?) the Irish language is still widely spoken. The calligraphers should probably reassess their lines; the foreign tourists like me who flock here to spend our money in this "authentic" (loaded word, I know) region need our Anglophone bus tours, after all.

I'm a patriot so don't get me wrong. But it's incredibly difficult to leave America. Go to Canada if you want more hockey, Australia if you prefer hot climates, the UK for tea and royalty. But wherever you go, rest assured you will find a hawker selling monster burgers for big beefy appetites, coke and diet coke, Taylor Swift and Beyonce. I did say I was a patriot, so don't presume that I won't ravage a monster burger as savagely as the next guy. But sometimes it feels like I get on a plane and use my passport to walk across the street. This desire for something truly foreign likely leads many of us to the Galetacht, where we promptly order a monster burger and hum along to Swift's latest song being played in the background.

I found a less touristic pub or two to sit in and write, very much alone while the locals talked and talked well into the night. That was nice, but I was a stranger in a strange land. I wanted to know and learn more. My fault for not taking the courage to walk into the crowd of Irish folks and say "what in the world are any of you talking about which concerns me not at all? Local sports teams I never heard of? Gossip about people I will never see?"

So I decided to get kinetic. I rented a bicycle and decided to head deeper into the Gaeltacht, through mountains and coasts and manifold sheep. I was unprepared as usual with my poofy jacket and shorts, but I set out jolly and determined. It was the best thing I did in Ireland.

Now, I know not everyone enjoys painful challenges. But when your soul feels numb and your mind addled, thirst and frostbite can wake you up better than the greatest espresso. Like your second pair of lizard eyelids opens up and you realize, "Oh yeah. I actually am still alive." And your cold blood pumps hot and your scales fall off.

I might have wished for a thicker exterior on that trip; first to Murreagh to the North, then in a big loop around road R559 through various hills and villages I didn't have the time to tarry in if I wanted to make it home before dark, and before incurring a penalty on the rental bike.

It would have been no laughing matter; I nearly froze on that trip even with the warmth of the sun to partly amend my woeful unpreparedness. This impelled me to pedal on and on, though I got off and walked my bike like a failure when the hills were steep or the wind was in my face - which, somehow, it always was even though my course went South, then East, then North again toward Dingle.

I saw the ragged ocean cliffs, westernmost point of Europe, which could not contain legions of enterprising Irish expatriates from the New World, from fashioning no small part of my own country's history. I saw monuments I couldn't read (finally, THIS must be the Gaeltacht), and I did allow myself a small rest stop to eat a veritable monster burger at a pub in Ballyferriter.

Other than this, I pedaled. Wind in my face in the least romantic way possible, pulling ice-tears from my eyes as I framed the whole endeavor like a fight to motivate myself to kick my way up the next mountain, wrestle the handlebars and brakes into submission with my frozen hands, and pace my breathing as best as my stamina would allow.

I received more than a few puzzled looks from other cyclists and adventurers who had the proper gear unlike me, and likely still felt chilled to the bone. I somehow reveled in it. Probably a survival mechanism from childhood.

The mind became clear. But what about all of those existential and potential worries? Somehow they always seem to make it even during those few moments when I forget them. But you're older than before and still never learned Mandarin. Yes, but I am drawn to the more pressing issue of surviving this misadventure.

An ablution of sweat and ice. Fatigue beyond fatigue. The sting of my excursion stuck with me; sharp was the memory of the sheep-crossing I briefly waited for, the hillside home that was even farther away than the others in the distance, where I stopped to stare and wondered if the people who lived there knew or cared about Wallstreet or Mainstreet (I fancied they didn't).

Sharp were the wind-knives which cut through me, carving indelibly the memory of the shadows of cliffs I didn't know if I had the strength to pedal up and over another several miles back to Dingle. Wayward thoughts flung away from, rather than inside of me. A school this far away from everything - what do the kids learn there? What do the people in their country homes do with themselves? Is this land at all mysterious to them like it is to me? Is it home-sweet-home or do they dream of big city life? Are there any red deer or fairies around?

I pedaled into town as the sun's last rays barely lit my way, making it back to the bicycle rental store exhausted and fresh. Stopped in a pub and eavesdropped on a crowd of younger travelers, one of which remarked how little he liked the city of Paris. Fair enough. I went back to my rental room and relished the warmth as one does in that sort of situation.

Where Dublin was blurry, Dingle was clear. I didn't make great revelations or, sadly, new friends. But I did paint pictures in my memory with colors that don't run. And something in me tells me that I will visit those cliffs again, a veteran to the old battlefield, smiling wryly at the old pains and the contest of wills that only the mountain and myself will understand.

#dublin #ireland #travelingtheworld #dingle #irishland #Ballyferriter #Murreagh #travel #travelingadvice