Oh, Danny boy

I just read a post I wrote about a year ago. They say you should never go back: I think they're right. It was all about the Gila monster and a man in a white coat.


Well, anyway, I was looking to see if I had previously written about something that came to me while I was doing the dishes and listening to the Archers. I can't remember what brought it to mind, but last year - or maybe the year before - we went to Ireland on holiday. (It turns out it was 2004!)




We stayed in a beautiful, quite remote, little thatched cottage on the Dingle Peninsula. The lady we were renting it from was there to greet us when we arrived, with a pot of tea and a fresh rhubarb pie. It had been her family home but she now lived in the nearby village. As well as the warmth of the welcome, there was a wood-burning stove, and the house was filled with personal touches, some of which were quite unusual, such as the collection of ornaments on the dresser.


Although the Dingle peninsula is quite small, it takes some time to get anywhere as its road are narrow and windy. There is a main thoroughfare that runs around the peninsula and two lanes that cross it, going over the mountains in the middle. One day we decided we'd go to the north of the peninsula via a lane that led over the top of the mountains.


We were driving along the bottom coastal road when we saw the sign for the first of the 'mountain crossings'. Husband slowed down but as we came to the turning, we saw there was a Road Closed sign. As we were about to drive on, a workman, a hundred yards or so up the road, saw us and signalled to us to come on up.


'That's good,' I said. 'They must be opening the road.'


We drove up and as we approached him, he signalled again, this time for us to stop. I wound down the window and he leaned in before saying confidentially, 'The road's closed.'
xx