Well, if you have sheep and she has sheep, how do you know which sheeps are yours and which sheeps are hers?

Turns out...you spray paint them. The sheep of the Dingle peninsula are all shades of red, green, purple, blue, red & blue, green & purple, and on and on. We discovered this by a conversation we had with a local shepherd who then provided us one of the coolest experiences we could have wished for. More about that later though...I have much to catch you up on.

After we last wrote, we had all intention of doing a 26 kilometer walk through the Burren. The Burren is a pretty desolate area of Ireland. Almost all of the limestone underlayer is exposed from soil erosion over millions of years, and has left the land looking like a lunar landscape. However, on our way to the starting point of the walk loop, we were distracted by a road sign just barely visible in the magical morning mist pointing to Dysert O’Dea castle. Go? Well, ok. Let’s. We made a quick lefthand turn and wound around down a very small lane. The castle viewing area was closed for the season, unfortunately, however there was supposed to be a 4 mile walk that took you on a tour of some 14 field monuments surrounding the castle. We looked for the trail, but leprechauns got there before us and hid it. Boo. Instead, after thoroughly scouring the castle, we walked back up the lane to “Midge” (the car) and asked a kindly gentleman we found along the way if we could walk down another nearby lane. The mist had lifted by now and h e, of course, graciously waved us on and told us we could find a church, high cross, and holy well down the lane. Sure enough, at the end of the lane, we traversed a rock wall and found the monuments. We meandered around several fields, explored another church in ruins, and a high cross, shouted down a well (it wasn’t deep enough for echoes), and looped back up towards the car.

Realizing we’d spent a good portion of our day wandering random fields, we decided that we weren’t going to beeline for the walking point, but instead enjoy a slower ramble (“slower ramble” really means dodge numerous gravel trucks and livestock transporters on tiny one lane roads) through the Burren and see some of the pre-historic sights along the way.

The first thing we came upon was a stone fort. The walls were built about 8 feet high and the people supposedly lived inside these forts for shelter. Not a bad idea. You could see all surrounding hillsides from the fort. I can’t say I’d want to be inside at the time of attack though. It was closed for season, but we just jumped the fence and climbed a few treacherous rock walls to get inside.

After the stone fort we went on just a little bit further up the road and found the Poulnabrone Dolman. This recognizable monument is one that dates back to 4000 BC. The time is really unthinkable when you stand there in front of it. It was a burial chamber (some 33 bodies were found inside when excavated), however, whether they were originally buried here, or moved here is unknown. Megs and I sat on the surrounding limestone rocks for some time and concocted numerous stories of those who lived here.

We continued driving up around the peninsula, through towns with sing-song names like Ballyvaughn and Fanore. We stopped in Doolin for a pint, hoping to find some music and perhaps a fireplace to warm our cold toes. We found the pint, and a fireplace. However, we also found the person who has since so aptly been named “Mary Fecker”. Now, Mary was something else. She was the barkeep at Gus O’Conners, where our weary feet and thirst led us. And....she did NOT like us. Honestly, the first and only unfriendly person we’ve encountered. We seriously sat at the bar for 25 minutes after we’d finished our drinks without any acknowledgement. We made eye contact, we tried to talk to her as she passed us with her head down, looking the other way, we fussed with coins on the counter to draw attention. Finally, a gentlemen by the fire struck up conversation with us and suddenly she noticed we were there. We could only leave Doolin too quickly.

Back to the cottage via Ennistimon, we picked up some provisions at the super market and, exhausted, fell into bed with whiskey warmed tummies. We have been blessed with beautiful weather and such a wonderful place to call home. The next day would only bring more adventures...

Over to you, Megs...

Many of the locals looked at us like we were crazy when they asked where we were off to on Wednesday. We must have heard “All the way to Dingle? Today?” fifteen times. And yet, off to Dingle we went. We’ve discovered that Ireland’s a little like Seattle that way; “All the way to Dingle” is a little like a Seattlelite exclaiming “All the way to Redmond.” Armed with three weathered pages that had fallen out of a well loved Rick Steve’s guidebook, we were ready to explore this western most peninsula of Ireland. Rick had told us there were some 500,000 sheep on this little peninsula, and we were determined to count them all. After a quick lunch (and beer) stop, we began our sheep counting amidst the ‘Hills of 100 Sheeps’. We lost count somewhere around 1,673 sheep. We’ll just have to take Rick’s word for that one.

One of our first stops on the peninsula was at the faery forts. Anything Irish with the word faery in it immediately has our attention. As we looked out over the Atlantic, we wondered who these forts protected the Irish people from, it seemed unlikely invaders would be approaching from the sea, but all the same, these forts have stood the test of time and are a testament to the Irish’s resourcefulness, fortitude and superstitions - they are called faery forts because they are believed to be enchanted by faeries - which is why they still stand strong. Kali was extremely excited our next stop - the beehive huts. From below, these stone igloos are hard to spot, you can’t tell the difference between a stone fence, a hut and a pile of rocks. After parking Midge along the water, we set out up the hill, dodging sheep poop and brightly colored rams, who just chewed on their grass and looked at us as if to say, “damn tourists.” We scoured the hillside, climbing further and further, a look of disappointment coming across our faces. We had thought there would be many of these huts, and were saddened to have only seen the one near the road. Turning down the hill, we began noticing them everywhere - little groupings of 2-3 huts together; all the roofs have crumbled or caved in, but the walls still stand. Its hard to imagine what it must have been like to spend winters in these small huts, surrounded by sheep.


As we went went to pull away after the beehive huts, our curiosity got the better of us, and thank the baby jesus for that. The man in wellies who appeared to be waiting for his sheep was doing just that. He was nice enough to answer our questions about the spray painted sheep. Then he unloaded his little border collie from the back his van and looked out over the water, and asked us if we wanted to help. Like little kids at Christmas, we could barely contain our excitement. Our job wasn’t huge, and could probably have been handled by the quick working dogs, but still, we helped. We helped herd sheep. In Ireland. As the sun set over the Atlantic. And then he told us we’d make good farmers. Oh, how I adore old Irish farmers. It was nice of him to indulge the American girls on their holiday. Still, it was an experience I will never forget. As the sheep lined up waiting for direction, and the collies shot out and around the herd, listening to unspoken commands of the men, it was as though we had taken steps back in time and were a part of something so much bigger than us.
Later, we stumbled upon a gorgeous beach, watched surfers take a wave or two, and marveled at what an amazing country this is. The coastal drive took us along a portion of land where the potato fields which rotted during the famine remain untouched. The vertical furrows were an eery reminder of the thousands of lives lost back in 1846, the land a dark orangish red, stark in comparison to the vibrant green surrounding it. On the Dingle peninsula alone, the population was once 60,000 people, post famine the number hovers around 10,000. The countryside is littered with the remains of homes, and many of the towns we past through had more remains of home than homes that are currently lived it. The Dingle loop took us to another site of abbey remains, the home of the lead singer of the Cranberries (LOVE), an oratory (where road markers displaying a basic cross and a monk confused us - we set off across a field, searching for this monk’s trail, but were unable to find it), and back over the hill to the heart of Dingle Town. We felt as though we had earned ourselves a pint and a bite, so we pulled into town. Murphy’s Pub offered cider, Smithwicks, fish and chips for Kali and seafood chowder for me. We left Dingle Town warm and stuffed to the thicket; gave one last dolphin call to Fungi (the town’s infamous cetacean) and headed back to the cottage.

We chose to stay closer to home on Thursday and headed to Limerick, and the River Shannon. After days of 4000 year old forts, huts, and tombs, the architecture in this quaint city was dramatically different. St. John’s Castle, St. John’s Cathedral, St. Mary’s Cathedral and the perfect arched bridges provided miles of walking, and a new view of Ireland. We sat in the market sipping coffee as Kalena drew likenesses of the locals selling their wares on our colorful street map. There is much history to be had in Limerick, where the Lord of Ireland (St. John) lived in the 1600’s. We spent time imagining fleets invading on this small river, and wars being fought between the Irish and English towns. It was here we made this little video for you, with the castle and the River Shannon in the background. Happy Thanksgiving to everyone at home! Disclaimer: It was cold. Kalena’s brain was slow and Megan couldn’t get a word in edgewise. We are usually much more eloquent. Thanks.





There are so many little things like that have piqued our interest - little things about the way we are living here that we want to tell you about. The electrical outlets, coal fires, the various road signs make us laugh so hard we almost cry, how we have washed our clothes twice - well, three times - now because we can’t figure out how to make the dryer portion work, things like this that are making this experience all the more fun and memorable. More on those little things will be coming soon, but...

One thing we feel must be mentioned now - we are very curious about this, and want your input on it... does anyone know what this box and sign mean? Our thoughts range from “Don’t put your crying baby in the box” to “This is a safe haven for you to abandon your crying baby” to “Beware: Potato bugs live here.” We are open to all comments, ideas and suggestions - the funnier the better. It should probably be mentioned that this box is located by a bridge, its fairly large (definitely big enough for a baby or two OR a few hundred potato bugs), there are no openings, and the box was locked. Thanks much! XOXO.