Panini, Church Road, Holywood,
County Down, N. Ireland

Dublin contains some of the sharpest, eye-pleasing photographs I’ve seen; Claudia and Ingo Latotzki show you pictures of Dublin that reveal its innermost soul; photos of ancient buildings, beautiful sculptures and modern scenes and people pull you into the town and tease you into being there. The text even advises you of the best time of day to be in a specific spot, the best time of year to visit and even lets you know when the last guest usually leaves a bar. Local customs are exposed, such as ordering up two or three drinks at one time at “closing time” when no more alcohol is allowed sold. There is no law, however, prohibiting one from ordering up a few and slowly sipping while pursuing the three Great Falsehoods. Doors must be locked at the legal closing time and no one can come in. If you are already in, however, there is no law dictating how long you may stay.

There are many English-speaking writers from Ireland and they are appropriately remembered. There is a life-like sculpture of Poet Patrick Kavanagh, sitting on a bench and peering out across the water, just as he did in real life. From a distance, he appears to be truly still alive, although he died in 1967. With each photo in Dublin, there is an extremely informative mini-history. Under Kavanagh’s photo the text reveals that he once smeared his boots with cow-dung before entering Dublin so all would know he was a son of the soil. The text goes on to tell us that Kavanagh once described, in one of his books, the act of masturbation. His publisher decided to delete it from the text. He acquiesced but when the book was out, he went into the bookstores and personally hand-wrote the missing passage, astounding and pleasing bookstore owners and buyers. A critic once called Kavanagh a second rate poet to which he replied that of course he was – all poets were second rate after Homer.

Buildings by well-known architects are all over Dublin. Trinity College is here, designed by architects Keane and Sanderson, in the mid-1750’s. Various styles of architecture abound: neo-classical, Venetian, Queen Anne, Victorian façades, Romanesque façades and supporting photographs indicate a place of great beauty and strength in its buildings. There is a chronology giving Dublin’s progress into the cultural city it is today; a couple of maps showing points of interest and, always, references to the Three Great Falsehoods. If you want to read a book that really pulls you into the heart of Dublin, this book, Dublin, will do so; it will surely beckon you to visit every time you pick it up

Horse care: You don’t need to know much about horses to drive a caravan. The horses know the way and the places you stay will help you if you can’t figure out how to put on a harness.

We purchased food each day at small villages along the way, and generally had a picnic for lunch and ate in pubs in the evenings. The few other tourists in the area were recognized by the fact that they would roar past our little caravan, stop their rental cars, jump out, take our photo and roar away. It was sad to think that they wouldn’t experience the pleasure of moving at less than three miles per hour through the most beautiful rolling hills of County Kerry. How would they ever know the lanes lined with rock fences or hedges of roses and scotch broom? Their vacation was one of racing from picture opportunity to picture opportunity, for tomorrow they had to see Cork or Dublin. Tomorrow, we were going to see a pasture near Inch.

Most of the people we saw on the Dingle Peninsula were farmers or shopkeepers. Their fields were tidy and the greenest we have seen anywhere in our travels. They drove small cars at reckless rates (or so it seem to us, as we plodded along at three miles per hour). We saw many sheep and dairy cattle. Unlike the dairy farms of the Midwest where I grew up, the milkman didn’t come to the farms of Ireland to pick up their milk. Each farmer had a small stainless steel tank on a trailer or a number of cans on a wagon which he took to town each day. Most were pulled by cars but some were packed on horse or mule-drawn carts. The people of Ireland generally show little signs of wealth. At the time we were there, the per capita income was $5,190 and 67 percent of the work force was engaged in agriculture.

For the next few days we drove to places with names like Castelgregory (where we camped on a narrow spit between Brandon Bay and Tralee Bay) and Cloghane (on the bay between Stradbally and Brandon mountains). We’d cross ancient looking stone-arch bridges and stop to graze Bob and to record the scene on film.

After a shower and a change of clothes, Becky and I went to explore the pub. It was nearly filled with local families having dinner and conversation in English with enough brogue to make eavesdropping difficult. Becky was a bit disappointed that the Irish people weren’t more boisterous in the tavern. They hardly lived up to the American movie image of the hard-drinking Irish; there was no singing and no fights. We had delicious meals which included excellent potted mussels and a cockle and mussel soup. At our home on Lummi Island, Washington, mussels grow on pilings and, at that time, no one we knew considered mussels food for humans; but we found we preferred them to clams. The cost of dinner for two with wine was nine punts, or about US$13.50 including tip.

I was embarrassed at having to be shown how to harness a horse; but Mr. Slattery assured me not to worry, the people at each of the suggested camping places would help me if I forgot. Our first-day goal was Mrs. Ashe’s Pub at Camp, some 15 miles west of Tralee. But Bob was sure a night at Mrs. Gleasure’s would be more pleasant. When I used the reins to pull his head around so he couldn’t see the driveway he was trying to enter, he stopped dead. He knew where the first day was to end and he wasn’t planning on going any further. The day was sunny but cool, and the sun was not yet over head. I jumped down from the plank driver’s seat, took Bob’s head and pulled forward. He pulled back. He out-weighed me and knew it. I turned to pleading, but Bob only understood Gaelic. Finally, for reasons that I failed to understand, Bob began moving forward. A few miles later I began to understand why Bob wasn’t looking forward to the road ahead. The narrow, paved lane began to climb up among heavily grazed hills. At Becky’s insistence, we climbed down from our caravan and walked alongside, as Bob actually began to put his shoulders into his work.

We never got to Dingle. Maybe it was because we missed the boat from Wales. Maybe it was because we missed the plane at Heathrow. But I think it was because Bob just might have been the laziest horse in Ireland.

Driving a Gypsy peddler wagon around the Dingle Peninsula, you quickly catch on to your horse’s foibles. Bob, who hadn’t been on the road since the previous summer, still remembered the turn in to Mrs. Gleasure’s Annagh Farm; it was his usual first stop. But it was my contention that a day’s work for a horse consisted of a bit more than pulling a lightweight, rubber- tired wagon less than five miles over paved, level roads.

Mr. Slattery, of Slatttery’s Travel Agency in Tralee, had given us a map showing routes to explore, and camping spots where he had arranged with farmers to allow us to stay for about $5 U.S. per night. Mr. Slattery was a most accommodating man. We arrived late on the day we were to pick up our horse-drawn home. First, we missed the ship from Wales to Ireland. Then we arrived at London’s Heathrow Airport too late to board the plane to Cork. The airline people were sorry, but they couldn’t refund our money. What could we do? Well, we could pay some additional money and take the plane to Shannon in a few hours. Rather than lose a $300 airfare we went to Shannon, where we were able to catch a bus to Limerick. From there another bus went to Rathkeale, but there was nothing to Tralee where our $20-per-day caravan waited for us. Ireland is a small country, at 26,000 square miles half the size of Florida. Tralee seemed like Montana away. We phoned Mr. Slattery, who told us public carrier couldn’t get us there before some time the next afternoon. I said we would hitchhike.

Mr. Slattery arranged for us to stay in our rented wagon that night. We mentioned that we hadn’t eaten and asked where we could buy some food. It was 6 p.m. and he had a school board meeting at seven, but said he could take us three miles to the nearest store if we didn’t spend a lot of time shopping. We shopped quickly for dinner and for the next morning’s breakfast. Back in our caravan, we piled on the covers and dreamed of the journey ahead.