Escape to pure Ireland
By Rick Steves
Tribune Media Services
updated 7:07 a.m. MT, Tues., March. 24, 2009
Be forewarned, Ireland is seductive. Traditions are strong and stress is a foreign word. I fell in love with the friendliest land this side of Sicily. It all happened in a Gaeltacht.
Gaeltachts are national parks for the traditional culture, where the government protects the old Irish ways. Shaded green on many maps, these regions brighten the west coast of the Emerald Isle. Gaeltacht means a place where Gaelic (or Irish) is spoken. But the Irish culture is more than just the language. You’ll find it tilling the rocky fields, singing in the pubs, and lingering in the pride of the small-town preschool that brags “All Gaelic.”
The Dingle Peninsula — green, rugged, and untouched — is my favorite Gaeltacht. While the big tour buses clog the neighboring Ring of Kerry before heading east to kiss the Blarney Stone, in Dingle it still feels like the fish and the farm actually matter. Fishing boats still sail from Dingle, and a nostalgic whiff of peat scents its nighttime air, offering visitors an escape into pure Ireland. For 30 years my Irish dreams have been set here, on this sparse but lush peninsula where locals are fond of saying, “The next parish is Boston.”
Dingle is my favorite place in all the world. The beauty of the land, the grandeur of the sea, the mystery of the archaeological sites, the dignity of the fishermen–it is all magic. One day, while walking down a narrow track heading back to the road from a ring fort, I met a vigorous elderly man with his border collie. He addressed me in Irish and was shocked when I told him I had no Irish. What, he said, ye have no Irish?
Comment by Gb — April 22, 2009 @ 10:24 pm