sign indicated that I could get to Kilmallock by turning left, but gave no hint of how to get to Newcastle West. I turned right.
This was probably a mistake. About ten kilometres later, I spotted a gigantic broken curb jutting into the road the instant before it tore a hole the size of a €2 coin in my front right sidewall. I kept control of the car and pulled into a quiet side street.
Before leaving Shannon airport, I had paid the rental agency a lot of money for the best possible car insurance and the promise of roadside assistance. In the hope that I could get someoneelse to change my tire, I set off to find a public telephone. Coming to a crossroad, I found a sign that told me I could turn right for Limerick or left for Tralee. Still no indication of how I could get to Newcastle West, and no telephone box in sight. I hailed a fellow pedestrian, only to be told, “I don’t speak.” To Canadians in particular, or as a matter of general principle? While I was hauling the flat tire off my rental, a big white lorry pulled up, and the driver stuck his head out the window. He asked me if I had a puncture, and I thought for a moment that he was going to offer to help me put on the spare. Instead, he looked the car up and down, told me that new cars aren’t supposed to get punctures, and drove off.
When I finally found Newcastle West and my hotel, I called the rental car agency’s roadside assistance hotline. I was told that my super-duper, extra-costly, truly special, all-inclusive insurance package included everything except tires. If the car had gone over a cliff, they would have been straight out with a replacement vehicle, but I was on my own when it came to the punctured tire.
Of all the towns in southwest Ireland, I had chosen to spend the night in Newcastle West because of an entry in my guidebook that described Duggan’s Pub on Bridge Street as having a fine selection of beer. Trying to walk off the tension of the day, I followed street signs toward the town centre, reasoning that Bridge Street would have a bridge, that a bridge would cross a river, and that a river would be a good place for a town centre. When I found Duggan’s Pub, a sign above the door proclaimed Frank and Kathy Duggan as Proprietors. A big metal gate barred the entrance, and the welcome mat, buried under competing levels of dirt and junk mail, hadn’t welcomed a drinker in quite some time. My guidebook was clearly in need of an update.
I am told that the Atlantic Ocean’s Gulf Stream carries warm water north from the Caribbean to the coast of Europe, keeping Ireland unusually warm for its latitude. I am also told that some experts fear that global climate change brought on by greenhouse gas emissions could cause the Gulf Stream to stop flowing. On a cool and drizzly evening in Newcastle West, it was hard to believethat the Gulf Stream hadn’t already come to a screeching halt. As I trudged back to the hotel, I stumbled across Newcastle West’s Famine Cemetery. Now little more than an overgrown field twice the size of a tennis court, it is the resting spot for locals who had perished in the famine following the potato blight.
I HAD BEEN TOLD that the Ring of Kerry around the Iveragh Peninsula was beautiful beyond belief, and that no trip to Ireland’s southwest could be considered complete without its circumnavigation. It should be just the place to find my first rhododendrons. My guidebook suggested that, without detours, the 180-kilometre road around the Ring of Kerry could be driven in three hours. This might be true for a professional driver in a Ferrari with racing suspension if the road was closed to all other traffic. I began to suspect that the woman who had written the guidebook had never been to the Ring of Kerry. Or indeed, to Ireland.
The roads were twisting and painfully narrow, and I found I could afford only brief glimpses of the hills around me. Dairy cattle that dotted the hills were befriended by a smaller number of
This was probably a mistake. About ten kilometres later, I spotted a gigantic broken curb jutting into the road the instant before it tore a hole the size of a €2 coin in my front right sidewall. I kept control of the car and pulled into a quiet side street.
Before leaving Shannon airport, I had paid the rental agency a lot of money for the best possible car insurance and the promise of roadside assistance. In the hope that I could get someoneelse to change my tire, I set off to find a public telephone. Coming to a crossroad, I found a sign that told me I could turn right for Limerick or left for Tralee. Still no indication of how I could get to Newcastle West, and no telephone box in sight. I hailed a fellow pedestrian, only to be told, “I don’t speak.” To Canadians in particular, or as a matter of general principle? While I was hauling the flat tire off my rental, a big white lorry pulled up, and the driver stuck his head out the window. He asked me if I had a puncture, and I thought for a moment that he was going to offer to help me put on the spare. Instead, he looked the car up and down, told me that new cars aren’t supposed to get punctures, and drove off.
When I finally found Newcastle West and my hotel, I called the rental car agency’s roadside assistance hotline. I was told that my super-duper, extra-costly, truly special, all-inclusive insurance package included everything except tires. If the car had gone over a cliff, they would have been straight out with a replacement vehicle, but I was on my own when it came to the punctured tire.
Of all the towns in southwest Ireland, I had chosen to spend the night in Newcastle West because of an entry in my guidebook that described Duggan’s Pub on Bridge Street as having a fine selection of beer. Trying to walk off the tension of the day, I followed street signs toward the town centre, reasoning that Bridge Street would have a bridge, that a bridge would cross a river, and that a river would be a good place for a town centre. When I found Duggan’s Pub, a sign above the door proclaimed Frank and Kathy Duggan as Proprietors. A big metal gate barred the entrance, and the welcome mat, buried under competing levels of dirt and junk mail, hadn’t welcomed a drinker in quite some time. My guidebook was clearly in need of an update.
I am told that the Atlantic Ocean’s Gulf Stream carries warm water north from the Caribbean to the coast of Europe, keeping Ireland unusually warm for its latitude. I am also told that some experts fear that global climate change brought on by greenhouse gas emissions could cause the Gulf Stream to stop flowing. On a cool and drizzly evening in Newcastle West, it was hard to believethat the Gulf Stream hadn’t already come to a screeching halt. As I trudged back to the hotel, I stumbled across Newcastle West’s Famine Cemetery. Now little more than an overgrown field twice the size of a tennis court, it is the resting spot for locals who had perished in the famine following the potato blight.
I HAD BEEN TOLD that the Ring of Kerry around the Iveragh Peninsula was beautiful beyond belief, and that no trip to Ireland’s southwest could be considered complete without its circumnavigation. It should be just the place to find my first rhododendrons. My guidebook suggested that, without detours, the 180-kilometre road around the Ring of Kerry could be driven in three hours. This might be true for a professional driver in a Ferrari with racing suspension if the road was closed to all other traffic. I began to suspect that the woman who had written the guidebook had never been to the Ring of Kerry. Or indeed, to Ireland.
The roads were twisting and painfully narrow, and I found I could afford only brief glimpses of the hills around me. Dairy cattle that dotted the hills were befriended by a smaller number of
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