At the Edge of Ireland: Seasons on the Beara Peninsula by David Yeadon

By David Yeadon

In contemporary years, eire has loved a newfound prosperity as Europe's so much prosperous kingdom. yet tucked away in a miles nook of the so-called "Celtic Tiger," that different enduring and actual country—that small, hidden position of easy magic and romance—still exists. Acclaimed shuttle author David Yeadon and his spouse, Anne, got down to locate it.

On the Beara Peninsula of southwest eire, the Yeadons came across their very own "little misplaced world," an attractive Brigadoon of hovering mountain levels and unbelievable coastal surroundings, some distance faraway from the touristic hullabaloo of Dublin, Killarney, and the hoop of Kerry. here's the fabled "Old Ireland," alive and good with tune seisuins, hooley dances, and seanachai storytellers—a haven for searchers, healers, artists, and poets hardy sufficient to have braved an analogous slim and winding mountain roads that preserve the package-tour coaches out.

Bursting with colour and lifestyles, At the sting of Ireland is an intrepid wanderer's social gathering of a mystical, unspoiled, and unforgettable Éire.

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In fact, it seems t’me like nothin’ made in our beautiful country will suffice? Is that right? Y’ll just be lookin’ exclusively f’yer English pisswater, it seems. Puttin’ our poor lads at the breweries here out o’ the business while y’ be asking fer yer own imported rubbish instead . ” “Look . . listen . . if you don’t have any, it doesn’t—” “Don’t have any?! As if I’d let anythin’ with a name like Sam Smith’s or Newcastle or Worthington get into my cellar while my lovely barrels o’ the black stuff rest there waitin’ t’be appreciated by them’s as knows their beer an’ their stout .

So,” sneered the barman. “Y’seemed to enjoy that right ’nough, then . ” Go for broke, my proud little Yorkshireman whispered internally. So I did. “Well, t’be honest . . a pint o’ British ale obviously would’ve been far better, but . ” I think the but was actually delivered as I reached the door, flung it open, and rushed out into the dark streets. I expected a clatter of feet behind me, but fortunately, no one seemed to think the chase was worth the trouble. I’d survived this little unexpected brush with mortality.

For those whose images of Ireland conjure up shamrock-garnished horse and carriage rides, leprechaun-filled souvenir shops, pseudocéilí concerts in “traditional pubs,” kiss me quick i’m irish souvenirs in every imaginable guise, and an exuberance of blarney that even make Japa nese tourists wary of overkill hype—then this will be seen as some kind of paddywackery paradise. For those, however, who are willing to work a little harder to discover a more authentic Ireland—may we gently continue to entice you to travel a score or so miles from the crush of Killarney and venture south to the next peninsula, which offers a far more authentic experience altogether.

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