Galway, the final stretch

It's starting to wind down, and heat up at the same time. The next few days are bittersweet for me, because I'm leaving Eire, but starting another great adventure.
Let's see now, where did I last fill you guys in... ah yes, Killarney. Here's what went down.
The day after that post I remained faithful to my goal of climbing a mountain. I wanted to hike up Carrantuhill, the highest mountain in Ireland at 3000 and some feet, but the hostel guy Mike, whom I befriended, forbade me. His brother is in the mountain rescue and made Mike swear to never let anybody climb Carrantuhill alone. To be honest all the reputation only made me want to do it more, but it was too far anyway. So instead I chose Mangerton Mountain, a measly 900 meters. I got up early, rented a bike, and headed off into the Killarney National Park. It took me about half an hour to get to the foot of the peak, in the rain, warming up nicely along the way. I had a sandwich, a bottle of water, and a printed out trail map. I started off.
If you read King Lear and wondered what the heath is, I'll tell you. It's miles of scraggly grasses weeds and bushes that are constantly whipped by fierce winds and bogged down in rain. No trees. That's Mangerton Mountain, a suitable site to film Acts 3 and 4. I couldn't even see the top of the mountain because it was submerged in cloud. Anyway I'm hiking up and periodically losing the trail; it just disappears and reappears. Trails in Ireland are actually just conveniently carved out paths for water, and soon become streams. This trail was no exception. My shoes (which I had blow-dried yesterday) were soaked within minutes. Up and up I go steeply until suddenly over a rise a lake appears. That was a signal that I was near the top. I just had to walk around the lake and up the steep cliff on its other side, and then around back down. I memorized these directions because my trail map had become a soggy ripped up mess. Anyway as I'm making my way up, not able to see ten feet in front of me for the fog/mist/rain/cloud, I turned around for a nice view of the lake. It had disappeared in the fog. I literally couldn't see a sizeable body of water that I had seen minutes before. And I wasn't even thinking about getting a nice view of the valley. Up on the top, the wind was dangerously strong. I was surrounded by cliffs but I couldn't see where they were. Also, the trail pulled another bout of convenient disappearing. Whatever. Long story short, I found it, got the hell off the top of Mangerton, and literally sprinted all the way down, because this shit was taking longer than I had bargained for, and I was drenched from head to toe, having been, not rained on, but inside a raincloud.
Later that day I, for some reason, thought Kenmare would be cool. It wasn't. I took a bus there, checked into the hostel, had dinner and went to bed. The next morning (before I found out Kenmare wasn't cool), I decided to do some hiking. That's when I discovered none of the good mountains where in the area. Fuck Kenmare. I killed some time wandering around farms, got a pint, and gladly got on a bus to Dingle.
Dingle. Now there's a place. It's a beautiful harbor town in the north of Co. Kerry, on the Dingle Peninsula, deep in the Gaeltacht (regions where Irish is the first language). I arrived and dropped my pack off at a very central hostel and still had time for some hiking so I headed off for the Connor Pass, the highest mountain pass in Ireland. Picture this: a valley with steep mountains on either side of it. The mouth of the valley leads to the sea and Dingle town. A new "highway" snakes up around the mountains. The old road goes straight up through the middle. That's what I walked up, with Dingle at my back and the Pass in front of me. Only halfway up the valley, the road abruptly ends. I thought, no worries, a trail must continue on the other side of this fence. Wrong. More heath. Fucking heath. And mountain goats. Well in these situations you can only go forward so I did just that. At parts there was a trail of sorts. It was actually just heath but lanes of rocks on either side suggested that it had been a road at some time. More soaked sneakers. But then it all became worth it when I hit this river, which for reasons that are hard to describe was very very lovely. Up beyond that a bit was a big mound of rocks. Legend has it that someone was buried there a long time ago, and the custom was to throw a rock on a grave when you pass it. Great idea. Anyway, a lot of heath later I climb over a rise and find myself in the Connor Pass parking lot/viewing area, with people stepping out of cars looking at me strangely. From here, dank-ass views of Dingle to the south and a grand grand valley to the north, and Brendan Mountain the east. It took me an hour and a half to get up. It took me ten minutes to get down. I did some pre-emptive hitchhiking by asking a couple to drive me down. Pre-emptive hitchhiking is very commendable.
That evening in Dingle, I walked around the town, reading menus of the many restaurants, deciding which I should go to. I still had time before dinner, so I wandered into this pub, which was actually an old hardware store with a counter and some drinks on tap. About a dozen people, all locals, where passing around a guitar and singing songs. I was mesmerized and lingered for an hour. When I left, at ten oclock, all the restaurants and pubs which had looked so good had stopped serving food. Fuck. I ate at chinese retaurant (bless their work ethic) and went to bed.
The next day I got up early and hiked up to Eask Tower, which overlooks Dingle harbor from the other side, on a high rise. It's a stone structure with a woonden arm sticking to guide ships into the harbor. Splendid views. Again, about an hour and a half to get up, and half an hour to get down, thanks to two friendly drivers.
Moving north, I took a bus to Adare. It's a town outside of Limerick, also near Old Kildimo, where Jim Hanley's cousin Martina lives with her husband Fergal (not Fergle, Phoebus). I stayed with them that night. We had dinner with Padhraig, another Hanley cousin. After dinner we went to Jared's house, another Hanley cousin, and a drum teacher. Jared and I totally hit it off, discussing at length his job, me filling him in on Phish, and talking about various drummers and cool beats. We went into his garage and drummed for each other for a long time. Eventually Martina and Jared's wife told us it was very late. Martina and I said goodbye and drove back to her house and we slept. The next day Martina and I covered a lot of ground: she has a car! She showed me a castle in the middle of nowwhere that Walt Disney used for that intro thingy before all his movies. Then we went to Limerick and toured King John's castle. Nice. Then we went to a neolithic site on a horshoe-shaped lake. Very nice. Then we went to Bunratty Castle to have lunch. Then she dropped me off in Ennis. If you're reading this Martina, THANK YOU SO MUCH!!!
From Ennis I took a bus to Doolin. This is County Clare now, still further north on the west coast of Ireland. Clare is beautiful. Sparse population and less farms allow for dank scenery. Doolin isn't a town as much as a street with three pubs and innumerable B&Bs, and a hostel, where I dropped my pack and went to McGann's for dinner. I had the luck to sit myself next to John and Sue from Dublin. We spent about three hours drinking and talking about Ireland, America, politics, and lots more that I can't clearly remember. All along a session of traditional music went on but the pub was so full and boisterous we could hardly hear it. That was a good time.
The next day, I rented a bike and went down to the Cliffs of Moher. The cliffs were nice, but the place was inundated with tourists. Busloads of Italian kids and Spanish kids. Shwatever. I continued down to Lahinch, where I had lunch, then up to Kilfenora, around to Lisdoonvarna (don't you love these names?) and back to Doolin, having formed a circle that took me a big part of the day. I was tired but satisfied with my accomplishments, especially considering I hate biking and my ass was sore. I'll just chill out until my bus to Galway at 7:30(PM), thought I. That's when I realized I had forgotten my book back in Lahinch. Fuck. The summary of this story is that i went back down to get the book, went back to Doolin and missed my bus. This was the low point of my trip. I was very, very, very angry that I had to spend an unnecessary night in Doolin, especially considering everybody along the way told me Galway's the shit. But I got over it, took the bus from Doolin this morning, and have been wasting time writing this post from the Claddagh Hostel. But it's only 12:42, so I still can see many things.
Tomorow I will take the bus to Dublin, where I will spend the night. On the morning of the 11th, I will fly to Paris and meet up with my parents. I will sleep in a nice hotel and eat in a nice restaurant. On the 12th I will take the train to Vienna to meet Rob, Charlie and David, and the ghost of Jon. I am still reeling from the shock that you won't be there Juan.
Also reeling from the realization that few of us will still live in Neck/Mont after September. Eric to Florida, J to LA (!!!) and myself to New Rochelle, probably.
I miss you too Phoebus.
Anna, Trinity is awesome and a guy who's read it told me there's a sequel. Did you know?
Charlie, your trip in Corsica and forays in Nice have made me very jealous. Good writing, but horrible spelling, man.
Dave and Rob, what can say. Enjoy your new sunglasses and Italy, also a cause of jealousy, and I'll see you soon.
Friends in Larchmont, we appreciate having you as our audience. We hope you continue to read our posts, and really like your comments.
Thanks everyone for reading about Ireland. We'll catch up from the continent.
Take it easy,
Danny