I once met an elfish, black-clad old man in the little town of Ventry, on Ireland’s Dingle Peninsula. When I asked if he was born here, he paused, breathed deeply, and said, “No, ’twas about 5 miles down the road.”
I asked him if he had lived here all his life.
He answered, “Not yet.”
When I told him where I was from, a faraway smile filled his eyes as he looked out to sea and muttered, “Aye, the shores of Americay.”
The Dingle Peninsula gives the traveler Ireland in the extreme. It feels so traditionally Irish...
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