After a long set of flights from Portland to Austin to Atlanta, we were across the dark Atlantic to Dublin.
My niece, Stella, was entranced by the idea of staying in a hotel, The Clarence, owned by members of U2. The back room assigned was plenty big but didn't offer the advertised view of the River Liffey. The Edge never showed either.
Walking around Dublin, particularly in the Temple Bar area near the hotel, was much easier off-season: The Book of Kell at austere Trinity, the haunting majesty of Dublin's two largest cathedrals, Christ Church and St. Patrick's.
Tour buses, in red and blue, everywhere. The Guinness factory. Kilmainham Gaol. After two days, a quick car rental and off to Cork and kissing the Blarney Stone, quite a contortionist feat in and of itself.
Heading into the Ring of Kerry, and onto the resort community of Waterville, the former summer home of Charlie Chaplin on the southwestern coast. Charming Killarney and little Kildare, a night in Limerick and back to Dublin. Not-so-warm ale, after all. Breakfasts of strange blood sausages and fried tomato.
And, of course, lots of Irish stew.
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