EUROPE – PART 3 – LUXEMBOURG, GERMANY, LIECHTENSTEIN

Less than half the land area of Prince Edward Island, Luxembourg is roughly triangular in shape, boxed in by Belgium, France, and Germany.  This small country is the birthplace of the idea of a unified Europe and the headquarters of several European institutions.  It’s also very wealthy, with a long-held reputation as a tax haven for the rich, thanks to its airtight banking secrecy laws.  One could reasonably skip Luxembourg on a northern European trip, but that would be a mistake.  There's much to see and do, the people are friendly, and the abundance of French-speakers made it easier for us to communicate.

After a leisurely six-hour train trip from Ypres to Luxembourg City, we settled into our modest hotel near the station.  What a pleasure is train travel: downtown stations easy to get to and from; no security ordeal; always on time; quick transfers; and lots of room onboard for luggage, sitting, and reading.  We had time on our first afternoon to walk to the center of the old city, get our bearings, and visit the Tourism Office where we got all the information we needed for our two-day stay.

On our first full day, we took a couple of walking tours of the old city, a UNESCO World Heritage Site.  We strolled along the valley park in the Basse-Ville, crunching fallen leaves and soaking in the dappled sunlight of a beautiful fall day.  

In the Haute-Ville, we particularly enjoyed the magnificent Notre-Dame Cathedral and the Bock Casemate, a vast defensive complex of underground tunnels and galleries begun in 1644 and used for military purposes until 1867.  Several times, we found ourselves coming back to Place d’Armes, a central square where residents and tourists gather to people-watch.

On Day 2 in Luxembourg, we opted for a self-guided day trip.  As we continue to learn how to travel, one important lesson is how to use public transit, and 2017 has been our year.  Our five-year-old granddaughter, Lucie, understands bus schedules better than I do!  I wish we’d learned forty years ago, but I suppose you’re never too old.  Now, it might make sense to rent a car for a day trip into the Luxembourg countryside.  That is, until you discover how much a public transit day pass costs, about the same as a good cup of coffee: $6!  For $6, you can ride the trains and buses all day, anywhere in the country.  So, we did!

The Luxembourg countryside is a mix of farmland and forest, a dead ringer for the Bonshaw Hills on our Island.  Our first stop was the pretty little town of Vianden in the Ardennes region, home of Château Vianden.  The Château, one of the more interesting ones we’ve seen in our travels, was rebuilt by the government after falling into ruins in the mid-nineteenth century.

From Vianden, it took a couple of buses to get us to Echternach by early afternoon.  This town of 4,000 lies on the west bank of the Sûre (Sauer) River, the border between Luxembourg and Germany in the region called La petite Suisse.  Echternach bills itself as the oldest town in the country.  The tranquil pedestrian mall that runs between the bus station and the main square made for a lovely walk.  We visited Saint Willibrod Cathedral, founded in 698 by the English monk of the same name.  Just a couple of blocks away stands the church of Saints Peter and Paul, the oldest part of which dates from the second century AD during the time of Roman occupation.

After two full days in Luxembourg, it was time to pack the tent again and travel to Frankfurt, Germany, next stop on our European itinerary.  We crossed the border and entered the Saar Valley, a heavily-industrialized area marked by gigantic steel mills; quite a contrast from the tranquil countryside we’d seen since Ireland.  As the bus approached Saarbrücken, it dawned on me that the city’s name must mean “bridge over the Saar”.  I was close, “brücken” means ‘bridges”.  We boarded the TGV and, two hours later, walked through the very crowded Frankfurt Hauptbanhof (my other new German word for the day) and took a cab to our hotel, the Alexander am Zoo.

Frankfurt, the business and financial center of Germany, straddles the Main River, hence the oft-used name “Frankfurt am Main”.  We walked to the center of the city along the pedestrian Zeil Mall, said to be one of the most frequented shopping districts of Europe.  We then made our way to the old centre of Frankfurt, the Römerberg.  The city is in the process of rebuilding this historic quarter after it was completely destroyed by Allied bombing during World War II.  To get a better view, we climbed the corkscrew stairway to the top of the 95-metre Saint Bartholomeus Church tower.

Frankfurt is a walkers’ paradise.  There are beautiful parks in the city and along the Main River.  We took a sightseeing cruise along the river and learned about the importance of river transportation in Europe.  Frankfort’s river port handles 2,500 ships per year, not including the cruise ships that call here transiting from the Rhine to the Danube.  In fact, the Rhine-Main-Danube Canal provides a navigable artery from the North Sea all the way to the Black Sea.

At 10:00 on Saturday morning, things were relatively quiet in central Frankfurt.  That soon changed!  By the time we arrived at the Kleinmarkthalle, the place was abuzz.  Though not the biggest, it's one of the most attractive markets we've seen.  We’d been told that to sample the best sausage in Frankfort, one had to stand in line at Schrieber’s, a hole-in-the-wall run by two seventy-something sisters.  After twenty minutes or so, it was finally my turn.  This special treat was well worth the wait!

Frankfurt stays home on Sunday; everything was closed and downtown was deserted as we strolled through city parks, past the financial district, down to the river, and back along the Zeil pedestrian mall.  The only people around were tourists and a few locals out for a stroll on a cool, misty day.  Frankfurt is a nice city, but not one we’re likely to visit again.  It lacks the charm of Bruges and the sophistication of Luxembourg.

We picked up our rental from a cranky Hertz employee — clearly more interested in talking on her cell phone than serving us — and headed south toward Baden-Baden.  The city’s name evokes the natural springs and adjoining spas, defining features since Roman times.  We spent an enjoyable afternoon there, wandering through cobbled streets in the old town, and along the magnificent riverside park, the Lichtentaller Allée.  Baden-Baden is a popular tourist destination, summer and winter, and is the home of an impressive casino.  And it doesn’t take long to figure out that there’s big money there; Bentleys and Maseratis galore!

In nearby Bühl, site of our hotel for the night, I got my hair cut by Abdul the Turkish barber.  Watching him work on the guy before me, I could see this barber was an artiste, like a butcher with a sharp cleaver.  When my turn came and the job was nearly done, he pulled out a fresh blade for his straight razor.  I didn’t flinch when he tidied up the sides and back and shaved my neck with it.  But when he proceeded to singe the hair in my ears with a Bic lighter, it was all I could do to stay in the freaking chair!  There’s a first time for everything, I suppose.

We arrived at our next stop, Frieburg, mid-morning, found our hotel and walked to the old town.  Like Baden-Baden, the city features a historic core, a nice riverside park, and a panoramic viewpoint from the hilltop called Schlossberg.

We’ve observed that graffiti seems to be considered an art form in this part of the world, with the notable exception of Luxembourg.  I HATE GRAFFITI.  I can understand devoting a wall or two to budding artists but Freiburg, an otherwise lovely city, is plastered with the most tasteless crap imaginable.  It’s everywhere.  It must be very discouraging for civic officials and residents alike.

Freiburg is the gateway to the Black Forest, an area of mixed forest and agriculture located in the southwest corner of Germany.  It's a land of cuckoo clocks, stunning scenery and lovely towns right out of a Grimm Brothers fairy tale.  Ten minutes outside Freiburg, we found ourselves in the heart of the Black Forest.  Around every turn, we were treated to postcard-pretty scenery.  I’d have loved to have a bike to ride the winding, hilly roads, and the old forester in me drooled over the quality of the timber growing on steep hillsides.

At our first stop, Furtwangen, we visited the Clock Museum and learned about the interesting history of this craft, a hallmark of the Black Forest.  In Triberg, we parked the car and walked down a steep path to see the highest waterfall in Germany, a cascade ending in a series of pools just above the town.

On our way to Gutach, we stopped at the iconic House of 1000 Clocks and were serenaded by dozens of locally-made cuckoos.  On a stroll through the village, we walked around the tiny churchyard and watched several people tend gravesites, each one a pocket garden, a unique manifestation of a relative’s tender love and care.  It’s the little things that make a day interesting.

I’d read about the Black Forest Open Air Museum and wanted to learn about the distinctive architecture of the region.  The museum features a dozen or so traditional Black Forest farmsteads, as well as mills of different types.  All except one were moved from their original locations and reassembled at the museum site.  The oldest dates from 1599.  One was occupied by 16 generations of the same family over a period of almost 400 years!  What makes the homesteads unique is that they housed farm animals and people in the same building.  Some still do!

With a land area of 160 square kilometres and a population of only 37,000, you’d think tiny Liechtenstein would be the smallest country in Europe.  It isn’t.  Vatican City (0.44 sq. km.), Monaco (2 sq. km.), and San Marino (61 sq. km.) are smaller.  Surrounded by Switzerland and Austria, the tiny perfect state thrives on a strong financial sector, manufacturing, small-scale agriculture, and winter ski tourism.  There are more registered companies than citizens in Liechtenstein!  On a per-capita GDP basis, it's among the richest countries in the world, maintains no military force, is officially neutral, and boasts one of the world’s lowest crime rates.

We parked the car in the center of the capital, Vaduz (population 5,500), visited the local tourist office and hoofed it to Vaduz Castle, high above the town.  The castle is the official residence of Hans-Adam II, reigning Prince of Liechtenstein.  I knocked on the door and asked if he could receive our official delegation, saying I’d been sent by the Prince de l’Acadie himself, Cayouche.  “Avez-vous rendezvous avec Son Altesse?”, I was asked.  “Chez-nous, on a point besoin de rendezvous pour visiter d’la parenté”, I replied.  The guard slammed the door in my face!

I’d booked a hotel in the nearby village of Malbun, thinking it would be nice to spend a night in the countryside.  The GPS on my iPhone sent us straight up a wall, climbing almost 1,200 metres in 18 km. or so; one hairpin turn after another.  The alpine scenery was stunning.  Turns out Malbun is the country’s ski resort, sitting in a high meadow surrounded on three sides by snow-capped Alps.  Except for a few red-cheeked hikers, it was pretty quiet while we were there, but Malbun must be a happening place during the height of the ski season.  Sitting on a bench in front of the village chapel, we watched the sun dip below the mountain, thankful that we’d discovered tiny Liechtenstein, yet another pleasant surprise on our European adventure.

EUROPE – PART 2 – BELGIUM

From the window of my hotel room, I watch as cyclists — from 8 to 80 — pedal past on their way to the Saturday morning market.  Others walk.  There are very few cars.  The pace is slow.  I can’t help but wonder what the center of Charlottetown would look like were we so fortunate as the citizens of downtown Bruges.  I wonder how many of our decision-makers — planners, politicians, and business leaders — have ever visited a place like this on their own dime to see what a real city should look and feel like.

We flew from Dublin to Brussels and took the train from the airport to Bruges Station, a ten-minute walk from our hotel, the Salvators.  While many things are more expensive in Europe, travel is not one of them.  The flight and train cost a mere fraction of what it would have set us back in Canada: $260 for the two of us!

The Lonely Planet Guide says of the city: “If you set out to design a fairy-tale medieval town, it would be hard to improve on central Bruges.  Picturesque cobbled lanes and dreamy canals link photogenic market squares lined with soaring towers, historic churches and old whitewashed almshouses.” 

The city center, one of the best-preserved medieval towns in Europe, is a UNESCO World Heritage Site.  It’s almost too beautiful to be real.  The clippity-clop of horse-drawn carriages on cobblestone streets added to the ambiance as we sat in the central square on a cool Saturday evening and people-watched.  We spent two enjoyable days wandering around, sampling the famous Belgian chocolate and waffles, and taking in the atmosphere of this special place.

We arrived in Ghent just before noon and walked 30 minutes or so to our hotel using a feature I discovered on my iPhone: Google maps without WiFi, on airplane mode!  Although Ghent lacks the charm and intimacy of Bruges, it proved a very nice place to spend a couple of days.  It’s a port and university city of some 250,000, about twice the size of Bruges.

On our first afternoon there, we took a boat tour on the central canal and learned about the history of the city.  We also visited the Gravensteen, a twelfth-century castle built for the Counts of Flanders.  It is much better preserved than the castles we visited in Ireland and has a great display of instruments of torture, much enjoyed by Elva, I might add.

The centers of both cities are dominated by bicycles and public transit.  It’s fascinating to watch people come and go, riding casually to work or to shop; mothers and fathers cycling to and from school with their children.  There is little evidence of obesity here.  Everyone seems relaxed and healthy.  As for parking, this is what an underground lot looks like in downtown Bruges.

Belgium has a population of 11 million and covers an area about half the size of Nova Scotia.  The country’s capital and largest city, Brussels, is home to the European Parliament, NATO, and international agencies such as the Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development, and the World Trade Organization.  The northern part of the country is Flemish and the southern part, closest to France, is Waloon.

We had to change our travel plans because of a national rail and bus strike.  Fortunately, our friends, Liz and Ira, were able to pick us up in Ghent and drive us to Ypres.  We settled in to our comfortable apartment in downtown Ypres, ready for a seven-day stay.

Next morning, we headed straight for Vimy, with the young couple in the front and the old people in the back.  It sure was nice to get a break from driving.  The Vimy monument was easy to spot, dominating the landscape as we approached from the north.  Driving through the village of Givenchy-en-Gohelle, we noted many Canadian flags flying in people’s yards.  The names of the 3,598 Canadian soldiers killed in the Battle of Vimy Ridge are inscribed on the magnificent Vimy Memorial.

Our victory at Vimy Ridge, the first time all four divisions of the Canadian Expeditionary Force fought together in a coordinated effort, became an important national symbol of achievement and sacrifice.  Canada entered World War I when Britain declared war on Germany; as a member of the Empire, we had no choice.  But things changed after Vimy.  Many historians claim that Canada took a first step toward true independence on April 9, 1917.

Wherever I go, I look for the Island connection.  One room of the brand-new interpretive centre features the stories of veterans who survived the battle.  Alfred McKenna made it back to Prince Edward Island; he and his wife raised a family of 13 children. 

A small plaque leaned against the tomb at the foot of the Vimy Memorial.  Something drew me to it and helped me discover the story of Patrick Raymond Arsenault who fought and died on April 9, 1917.  I shed a few tears when I read the words: “May this fine Island boy rest in peace”.  Georges Arsenault, good friend and eminent Island historian, helped me fill in the blanks.  Private Arsenault, son of Joseph and Isabelle of Seven Mile Bay was a machine-gunner.  But, he wasn’t supposed to be at Vimy.  The person who should have been there was Benjamin Arsenault of Summerside who sailed to England on the same day, on the same ship.  Their names were reversed due to a clerical error.  Benjamin Arsenault survived the war.

The city of Ypres lies at the center of the World War I battles of the same name.  The third and last battle resulted in an Allied victory over the German army, but at great cost to both sides: close to half a million casualties and the obliteration of the old town.  The photo below was taken in early 1919 before reconstruction started.

In the early 1920s, the Commonwealth War Graves Commission built the Menin Gate Memorial for the Missing.  On its walls are engraved the names of more than 54,000 officers and men who died in and near Ypres but have no known grave.  Every evening at 8:00, 365 days a year, hundreds gather for a remembrance ceremony at the Menin Gate.  We attended several of these and found them deeply moving.

Cycling was the second main theme of our visit to Ypres.  On our second full day there, we drove across the border to Roubaix, France, to see the finish line of the famous Paris-Roubaix bike race.  The race, a one-day, 260-km torture test, is run on a course that includes long stretches of cobbles, slick as ice when wet.  I saw my first indoor velodrome and we walked over to the outdoor velodrome where the annual race finishes.

The four of us set out on a sunny Saturday morning to ride the Peace Cycle Route, stopping at a couple of war cemeteries.  We’d ordered “racing bikes” from a local tour guide.  Danny of MacQueen’s Bike Shop wouldn’t be caught dead renting the clunkers Kurt from Biking Box showed up with.  One was a 25-year-old street bike with a suicide shift.  Two of the others were very low-end Scatto, a brand we’d never heard of, and the fourth was a beat-up Scott.  But the ride was glorious and the Belgian countryside looked lovely in the bright sunshine and 20-degree temperature.

We rode to Tyne Cot Cemetery, the largest Commonwealth War Graves Commission in the world, and the final resting place of almost 12,000 servicemen killed on the Passchendaele battlefields during the First World War.  We were there to attend a special ceremony marking the 100^th anniversary of the final battle.

My mother’s first cousin, Ulric J. “Spud” Arsenault, enlisted in the Army on April 29, 1916, on his 18^th birthday.  At least that’s what the recruiters thought.  Spud was actually 17, stood all of 5-foot-3 and weighed 130 pounds.  He fought with the 26^th New Brunswick Batallion and was wounded at Amiens and Passchendaele.  I thought of him as I watched the sun go down over Tyne Cot Cemetery and remembered the child soldier depicted in this photo.

The ceremony was called “Silent City Meets Living City”.  I don’t know how many thousands attended, but it seemed that someone stood behind each one of the graves, holding a candle as night fell.  Letters from the battlefield and soldiers’ diaries were read, a pipe band played, and the choir sang On the Road to Passchendaele.  It was a low-key affair and demonstrated yet again that Belgians are experts at veneration and tribute.  There were no patriotic speeches by politicians feigning knowledge, glorifying war and sacrifice, and pretending to be sincere.  We rode the 10 kilometres back to Ypres in the darkness, trusting feeble lights to show us the way.

We hopped in the car next morning and drove to Zonnebeke where we visited the Passchendaele Museum, followed by the Canadian Memorial, a German cemetery, and Essex Farm, where Canadian John McCrea wrote the definitive World War I poem, In Flanders Fields.  The German cemetery holds the remains of 44,000 soldiers, 25,000 of them in a mass grave.  The contrast between this one and Allied cemeteries is glaring: black stones bearing several names lie on the unkempt ground.  In the Allied cemeteries, the lawn is immaculate, there are flowers everywhere, and the plain white tombstones stand arrow-straight.  Relatives and schoolchildren leave wreaths and notes.  The one that read “Dear Grandad” brought a tear to my eye.

Ira and I saddled up one last time after our tour and rode to the small town of Kemmel, about 10 kilometres from Ypres.  The town centre marks the start of the 3-kilometre climb up Kemmelberg, averaging 4% and topping out at 22%.  That’s bad enough, but half the climb is over cobbles!  Not my favourite way to travel.  But we made it up and back down safely and, after a detour to Zonnebeke, rode triumphantly into Ypres, through the Lille Gate.

I can’t begin to imagine what it must have been like to be a soldier in World War I, but these few words I read on a plaque in an Ypres park sum it up best for me:

“Here for all of a couple of years

it’s the second before you die.

Little things are all there is.”

(Herman De Coninck)

On our last full day in Ypres, we reluctantly said goodbye to Liz and Ira, our sterling travel companions for the six days we spent together.  Then, we took one last walk along the Ypres rampart and through the main square.  It was time to pack and prepare for the next phase of our European adventure.

EUROPE – PART 1 - IRELAND

We left home on the warmest day of the year, September 26, when the mercury registered almost 29 degrees Celsius!  In the Charlottetown Airport departure lounge, we watched and listened as a group of high school students prepared to leave for a trip to a leadership camp in Waterloo, Ontario.  We were most impressed, and it was hard not to get caught up in their unbridled enthusiasm.  Then, who walks in but hockey royalty: Ron MacLean and Don Cherry.

Jacques, Isabelle and Lucie met us at Pearson Airport in Toronto, and we spent a pleasant three hours together during our layover.  Lucie is growing up so fast!

Ireland had been on our bucket list for some time and, this fall, things fell into place for a visit.  We booked a self-driving B&B itinerary through Royal Irish Tours.  I wasn’t thrilled at the idea of driving for seven days on the wrong side of the road, but decided I’d give it a try.  We landed at Dublin Airport at 6:30, picked up our rental, a Seat Leon, a Spanish-made car I’d like to have taken home with me.

Then, it was out onto the motorway, try like hell not to get honked at, and stay out of major trouble.  Jet-lagged as I was, I managed to find my way to Belfast and onto the road leading north to the small town of Bushmills, home of the famous Old Bushmills whiskey.  Our destination for Day One was the Giant’s Causeway, a UNESCO World Heritage Site located at the far northern tip of the island.

Ireland, the island, is just a bit bigger than New Brunswick.  It’s divided into the Republic of Ireland, independent since 1921 and home to 4.6 million people, and Northern Ireland, part of the United Kingdom, with a population of 1.8 million.  According to Wikipedia, winters are milder and summers cooler than in continental Europe, and “rainfall and cloud are abundant”.  There’s a lot of history here, much of it of hard times, and far too much to recount in a travel blog.

We arrived at the Giant’s Causeway in the rain.  It wasn’t pelting at the time but the wind gave a hint of worse weather to come.  We followed our guide from the interpretive centre down to the strand, listening to his detailed but colourful explanations of how this impressive natural feature gained notoriety.  His geological explanation included references to tectonic plates, volcanic activity, lava flow, basaltic beds; yada, yada, yada!

I like the “Once upon a time” explanation better.  The one that says the causeway between Ireland and Scotland was built by Finn McCool, a giant 53½-foot tall Irishman as a test of strength against his rival, the Scottish giant, Benandonner.  It’s the one I’m more likely to remember.

We checked in to our B&B, the Valley View, and were welcomed warmly by hostess, Valerie.  She was a delight, full of suggestions for places to eat and things to do in the area.

Day Two saw us drive to Carrick-a-Rede, site of a rope bridge first constructed by local salmon fishermen in 1755 to help them cross from the mainland to a rocky outcrop.  From there, they netted migrating Atlantic salmon as they swam past the point, searching for the river in which they were born.  We’d been told by Maynard, Valerie’s husband, to get there before the crowds.  Good advice, as it turned out.

From Carrick-a-Rede, we drove west along the Causeway Coastal Route, stopping briefly at the tiny village of Ballintoy and the beautiful White Park Beach.  Next, we came upon the ruins of Dunluce, a medieval castle perched precariously on a windswept headland.  In Portrush, we passed a beautiful links golf course and watched golfers crouch as they smashed their balls into the wind.

I’d seen Mussenden Temple on a BBC travel show and wanted to go there.  We walked from the parking lot, through the Bishop’s Gate and up to the ruined Downhill House, part of a magnificent estate built in the late 1700s to the greater glory of one Frederick Hervey, Church of Ireland Lord Bishop of Derry.  The Temple, built to house the Bishop’s library, stands precariously close to the cliff edge, high above the ocean.

Having had enough excitement for one day, we beat it south, crossed the border back into the Republic and made our way to Donegal, our destination for the night the magnificent Rossmore Manor.  We had a lovely meal at the Olde Castle Bar in Donegal.

Day Three began with a one-hour drive west toward Slieve League.  We’d been told it was not to be missed.  The weather in Donegal was lovely but it soon changed.  Dark clouds scudded above the hills as we neared the town of Killybegs and the rain began to fall.  But, as experienced travellers know: “There’s no such thing as bad weather, just the wrong clothes!”  Actually, as we turned onto the country road leading to the cliffs of Slieve League, the sky brightened a bit.  Up we drove along a treacherous mountain path, past grazing sheep, until we got to the end, a tiny car park seemingly on the edge of the earth.  We weren’t disappointed.  The wind was so strong that it carried sea foam up to where we were standing.  You can see a bit of it in the top right hand corner of the photo below.  The cliffs, at 2,000 feet, are the highest in Ireland, three times higher than the more famous Cliffs of Moher.

We stopped at Studio Donegal in the tiny village of Kilcar, where the tradition of handweaving is kept alive.  Then, we drove cross-country to our destination, Westport, stopping briefly at Mullaghmore Head, where we watched massive breakers crash onto the shore.  Across Donegal Bay, we could just make out Slieve League.

After checking in to Adare House B&B, we took owner Christie’s advice and walked into town to check out the music and pub scene.  We found ourselves in Hoban’s, a popular place to have a pint and listen to live music on a Friday afternoon, courtesy of the Mulloy Brothers.  Watching the locals and listening to the band made for a rich cultural experience.

Christie suggested we drive to Achill Island, about 50 kilometres west of Westport.  Arriving there, we turned onto a small coastal road, part of the Wild Atlantic Way, and came upon the ruins of St. Dympna’s Church in Kildavnet.  Between there and the tiny village of Dooega, we were treated to some of the most beautiful scenery I’ve ever seen — anywhere.  The sun shone brightly and the views were stunning.

Our destination, Keem Bay, the end of the road, is reached by a narrow road perched on the edge of seaside cliffs.  But the scene made it well worthwhile.  I’d have taken a dip if I’d had swim trunks; the water was warmer than I thought.

Our next stop on Day 4 was Kylemore Abbey and Victorian Walled Gardens.  The Abbey was built by Mitchell Henry, a wealthy London doctor, in 1871.  It stayed in his family until it was sold to the Duke and Duchess of Manchester.  He lost it in card game!  Benedictine nuns, forced to leave Ypres, Belgium during World War I bought the Abbey in 1920 and ran a private school for girls until 2010.  Today, the Abbey and Gardens together form an impressive tourist attraction.

By the end of Day 4, I was starting to feel a bit more comfortable driving on the left side of the road.  Early on, my brain was locked in a constant battle between competing impulses: the steering wheel is on the wrong side; why am I shifting with my left hand; how do I turn right at a stop sign; Elva should be sitting to my right, not by my deaf ear; etc.  It tires a fella out!

We got thoroughly lost trying to find our B&B in Galway.  The instructions on our reservation were unclear and, when I finally did figure out which direction I needed to go, I could find no trace of street or road signs.  Because there were none!  Eventually, we settled in to our room and walked down to the older section of the city, a pedestrian-friendly area where we found a nice pub for a badly-needed bite after a long day.

We had two things on the agenda for Day 5: the Cliffs of Moher and Bunratty Castle and Folk Village.  It was pouring rain when we left Galway and we debated whether to detour out to the coast.  We’d learned that if you don’t like the weather in Ireland, wait five minutes!  Sure enough, by the time we drove into the parking lot at the Cliffs, the rain had slowed to a drizzle.  We walked past the visitor centre and to the edge of the towering cliffs, bent at the waist, battling the 100-km-an-hour gusts, holding on tight to our cameras.

Bunratty Castle, located near Limerick, is a 15^th-century tower house built by the MacNamara family.  It was restored as a tourist attraction in the 1950s and, together with the folk village, made for an interesting visit.  I was particularly taken by this simple stone farmhouse, all stone: floor, walls, hearth, and roof.  So simple, yet so elegant.  And the fence is typical of ones we saw everywhere in Ireland.

From the castle, we drove southwest to the town of Dingle and had an early supper at the Dingle Pub.  We arrived at the tail-end of a food festival and got to hear some excellent music, courtesy of six jamming accordion players, accompanied by a guitar and banjo.  Our day not yet done, we still had to find our B&B, the Imeall na Mara, in the tiny seaside village of Beale na nGall.  The road signs in this part of the Dingle Peninsula, were unilingual Irish (or Gaelic Irish)!  Long story, short, we were welcomed by Philomena and Michael and had a wonderful stay.

Day 6 saw us travel along the southern part of Ireland toward our destination for the night, the Fern Hill B&B in Tramore, a small seaside town near Waterford.  Along the way, we stopped at the Blarney Castle where I dutifully kissed the Blarney Stone.  Elva chickened out when she saw that to touch the stone with one's lips, the participant must ascend to the castle's peak, then lean over backwards on the parapet's edge, hanging on for dear life to two iron bars, suspended 90 feet above the ground.

The sun greeted us on Day 7 as we drove from Tramore to Waterford, our destination the Waterford Crystal factory in the centre of Ireland’s oldest city.  I’d seen glass blowing before but never the far more complex and intricate art of crystal making.  It takes eight years of apprenticeship and mastery of all stages in the process before an employee achieves the highest rank in the crystal-making trade.  Some of the pieces they make are one-of-a-kind, such as this cute little horse-drawn carriage that will set you back a mere $60,000!

Our next stop was Glendalough, the site of an early medieval monastic settlement founded by St. Kevin in the sixth century.  Although many of the original structures are in ruins, Glendalough is a major tourist attraction as well as an important religious site and pilgrimage destination.  We captured this image of the tiny village of Avoca on our way to the Cherrycreek B&B, our final destination for the day.  Fit for a postcard!

On our last driving day, we headed for Dublin, stopping along the way at Powerscourt, ancestral home of the family of the same name.  The gardens were once ranked #3 in the world by National Geographic but, once you’ve seen Butchart and Versailles, everything else seems unworthy.  Driving into Dublin to drop off our car proved quite an adventure without a GPS.  I got turned around a couple of times, got honked at by impatient taxi drivers, but eventually found my way.  It was nice to get back to our favourite way to see a city: on foot.

Dublin, the Republic’s capital city is home to 1.2 million people.  The city was founded by the Vikings in 983.  Downtown is very walkable and the most interesting tourist sites were close to our cozy hotel.  We started with Trinity College, founded in 1792 and renowned for its ancient library and one of the most famous books of all.  We learned the story of the Book of Kells, an illustrated four-volume set containing the Gospels of the New Testament, created by Irish monks around the year 800 AD.

On our last day in Ireland, we walked to the Guiness Storehouse at St. James Gate, home of the iconic Irish brewery, founded in 1759 by Arthur Guiness.  Today, it’s one of the world’s best-known and most successful beer brands.  We were blown away by the interpretive display at the Storehouse, one of the best we’ve seen in all our travels.  To top it off, we enjoyed a pint at the seventh-floor Gravity Bar, featuring stunning views of the city.

Christchurch Cathedral was the last stop on our list of must-sees in Dublin.  The Cathedral is the seat of two archbishops: Catholic and Church of Ireland (Anglican).  It was founded around 1030 by the Viking King Sitric Silkenbeard upon his return from a pilgrimage to Rome.  The church has been destroyed and rebuilt numerous times, at great cost and sacrifice, and stands proudly today as one of the city’s most impressive landmarks.  And we couldn’t afford to save the Egmont Bay Church!

I can’t leave Ireland without a word about the roads.  An American we met in Galway put it this way: “Whoever designed and built these damn roads should be shot!”  I wouldn’t go quite that far but, suffice to say, the roads here are hell to drive on; an intrusion on the agrarian landscape, wasted farmland, as it were.  There are no ditches; tall hedges and stone walls encroach to within a foot of the edge of the pavement in places; the roads have more curves than a plus-sized model; there’s barely room for two cars to meet, let alone trucks; and sheep have the right-of-way, munching on grass with their butts hanging out, daring you to hit them!

We’d come back to Ireland in a heartbeat.  The scenery is beautiful, the attractions first-class, and you won’t find friendlier people anywhere.  There really are 1,000 shades of green!  As for the rented-car-B&B formula, it was a first for us.  While I found the 2,500-km circumnavigation a bit tiresome, there’s no better way to cover a country like Ireland than by car.  And the B&Bs, mostly four-star, were better than we expected.