Ireland is formed like a big basin, with low mountains around its sea coast and flat farmlands and peat bogs inland. We were traveling in County Kerry home of Carrantuohill, at 3415 feet the highest point in all Ireland. Any grade of more than three percent, Bob considered an affront to his dignity; many times we climbed from the wagon to walk alongside. Driving on the left side of the road wasn’t too hard to learn, except for my tendency to turn into the oncoming lane of traffic when making right turns. The Irish we met welcomed tourists; even tourist like us who spent $35 on an average day for groceries, a hot meal and a place to park our caravan for the night. Mid-May was only the beginning of the tourist season here, and of Mr. Slattery’s 30 caravans, only two were on the road at that time. We never encountered the honeymooning French couple who had the other rig.

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.