There’s been too much, altogether too much, far too much serious shit going on here over the last few weeks. Far too much serious shit for my liking and I don’t like it. At all.
I know we had a little light relief (oops!) with the gay porn priest, but by and large, whatever that means, it’s been Bertie Ahern’s pension, Ireland defaulting, the Pope in Cuba, the household charge and Willie O Dea making a complete twat of himself on Newstalk, so I suppose I’ll have to row back from what I just said and admit that we had, in truth, the usual ludicrous mix of reality and absurdity.
All the same, it was time for a complete change, and that change came in the form of a text message from the Baldy Fella.
Do you want to go to Loop Head?
Why would I want to go to Loop Head?
The lighthouse is open to the public. We can take pictures.
Fair enough. See you in the morning.
And so he duly arrived. We have to collect the Evil Fella and the Grumpy Fella, he said.
Not a bother, I replied. You’re driving. Do whatever you wish. And so he did, driving at a speed that terrified the life out of us, but in fairness to him, he delivered us there, even if There was actually Nowhere. Loop Head, you see, is at the end of a peninsula, where the wind blows in all directions at the same time, except when you’re near the edge of a cliff, when it blows only one way: over the edge.
It’s a spectacular location. Over there you can see Kerry. Look! The mountains! Look! The Blaskets!
Over on the other side somewhere is Inis Mór, a place I must get back to soon, and reconnect with the rockhoppers. Maybe next month with any luck.
Ah yes, but what about the lighthouse?
Sorry. It’s closed.
Well, nobody actually told us that, but the steel barricade across the door gave us a strong hint, and even though a car was parked in the grounds, nobody was there to tell us what was happening. Now, it’s true that we arrived at about 1 pm, so maybe the person in charge was having his sandwiches, but a small sign would have been helpful after driving sixty miles to see the place. Closed for Lunch. How hard would that be?
You could daub it on a piece of cardboard with your finger. Back after grub.
No. Instead we wander around like a crowd of burglars casing the place We nose around, looking through windows, before finally buggering off, miserable and foul-tempered, although in fairness, we’re always like that.
Come on, says the Baldy Fella. We’re leaving. Harrumph! and that’s exactly what we we do. Nothing for it to to get food and a pint, so we stop in Carrigaholt at the Long Dock, for sustenance.
The food is reasonably good, but I thought the prices were a little on the saucy side. Yes, my seafood pie was tasty, but in the end it was just a fish pie, with mashed potatoes on top and some fish in a leek sauce underneath, much like the sort of thing I make at home. This is not fourteen euros worth of grub at lunch-time and I wouldn’t recommend this establishment at these rates. Pity.
Nevertheless, we necked a few Guinness and still made it back to Limerick by four, just in time to slip into our pub of choice for two or three healing libations and a healthy dose of laughing at each other. Not an entirely wasted day by any means.
These days, we have to make our own enjoyment, isn’t it true?