Cathal was bound and determined to go surfing on the west coast. Mari-Liis and I, as passengers in his car, didn't have a chance to argue. Peering out into the dripping cold, we mumbled acquiescence and braved the grey clouds. The Lahinch beach was dreary and we were almost shivering as we grabbed our wetsuits to go into Seaworld to change.
We were soon laying on our boards on the sand with Ollie the patient and ever present instructor before us. We practiced jumping up into the cool surfing dude position, knees bent, back straight, and well balanced. Easy enough without the waves sliding around underneath.
proof!
I remembered this being somehow much easier when I was 13 in California.
"This isn't California," Ollie barked. "The Irish invented surfing."
The rain had finally stopped at least, and the sky began to clear, showing the hills in the background. Not that we looked around much, we were mostly trying to catch that perfect wave, although Cathal had been stealing most of them, the crazy natural.
Finally coming out of the water, well worn out and stung by mini jellyfish, a good pint of smithwicks was in order.
Intending on going to Spike Island, we arrived at Cork Harbour instead in time for a good fish dinner and a walk along the pier. Where we came to understand was the final docking point for the Titanic. Cork harbour at Cobh (go on, try to pronounce it) ran alongside friendly pastel apartments with pubs and a hotel even boasting the Queen's Victoria's one time presence (she really didn't get around much, or ever make repeat visits, so she was kinda a big fat royal deal).
The irishman thought he smelled fish and chips.
And off he went.
Spike island
The Cliffs of Moher, a site well visited in Ireland, were actually in the running to be one of the 7 wonders of the world a couple years ago. They are best taken in by ferry ride, which are offered at the small coastal village of Doolin, my new favourite place in Ireland (with exception to the restaurant Made in Belfast).
...ya think?
Here's where the real masochistic thrill-seekers come
Not having drank too many guinnesses or smithwicks or jaeger bombs (pointedly raised eyebrows) the night before, Fred and I caught the bus from Galway in time for the last cruise after a well-timed tea with scones on the rocks by the pier watching the gutsy surfers.
This was unfortunately not our boat
Et, voila.
the view back *enter dreamy sigh here*
"Ireland is where strange tales begin
and happy endings are possible"
-Irish blessing
The rain had finally stopped at least, and the sky began to clear, showing the hills in the background. Not that we looked around much, we were mostly trying to catch that perfect wave, although Cathal had been stealing most of them, the crazy natural.
The Cliffs of Moher, a site well visited in Ireland, were actually in the running to be one of the 7 wonders of the world a couple years ago. They are best taken in by ferry ride, which are offered at the small coastal village of Doolin, my new favourite place in Ireland (with exception to the restaurant Made in Belfast).
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