Squinting into the Atlantic

Location:
Ireland

Dingle, cliffs, sunset

By Cara Binder

I had my motion sickness bracelets on tight for the bus ride.

It was rocky, the roads never seemed to go in a straight line and I’m quite sure there were no windows cracked.

I put my head between my legs when the friendly Irish bus driver assured me that he would tell me when my stop was near.

“This is Ballintaggart, dear,” the bus driver yelled to me.

The immediate and intense calm I felt as I stepped off the bus onto the green grass of Dingle was something out of a song. Or a novel. Or a travel guide. But certainly nothing I had experienced first-hand.

I brought my bags up to Ballintaggart Hostel, where I was to meet my brother, John, and a friend, Sonke. The hostel cat swung between my legs as I scribbled my name in a massive book to show that I had checked in. I rushed up the creaking wooden staircase in an urgency to see familiar faces. Within a few moments of each other, we had all arrived in Dingle—one from Dublin, one from Grevenbroich, and one from Chicago.

We spent the first night drinking Guinness, listening to Irish jigs and watching the sun set behind a row of pastel houses, docked sailboats and spirited pubs. We all felt alive that night and were anxious for the next day. We were going to explore the cliffs of Dingle, which John had been telling Sonke and me about since he traveled to the peninsula four years earlier.

We awoke to a windy, rainy day. Peering out our window, we could see the trees swaying in time with the blustery weather while the tiny sheep in the distance stood their ground as if they had roots streaming through their hoofs. Soon, the rain softened, and after a quick breakfast we dressed to climb the cliffs.

Throughout the hike, I saw the green that really cannot be captured by a coffee table book dedicated to Irish landscapes. I saw the jagged cliffs that hold in them such a delicate balance of dominance and peace. I saw two people next to me with such excruciatingly huge smiles that no words were necessary to explain how we all felt.

As my eyes were flushed with beauty, my body felt the cliff’s power as I struggled to push through the kind of wind that could knock you to the ground. Putting the hood of my sweatshirt on to counter these winds proved useless as I stood squinting into the Atlantic.

We were in Dingle a mere three days, and I have since deemed it a necessary staple for any trip to Ireland. Only weeks later, my best friend went to scribble her own name into Ballintaggart’s book. On a previous page, she saw where I had written mine, back when I had no concept of what that trip would become for me.

Further Information

Travel tips: Ballingtaggart Hostel is a wonderful experience. And although I did not have a chance to do so, a bicycle tour around the penninsula would be splendid.

Must see/do at this place: Pet cows, climb cliffs, eat stew, swim, watch the sunset, enjoy the rain, engage the locals, have a picnic.

You should avoid here: NOTHING.