Day 6:
Today was another travel day. The landscapes here, on such a small scale, are amazing. Almost the entire country looks like a national park. In 45 minutes one can go from the beach to treeless mountains akin to parts of Arizona (in vegetation, not heat). One of my daughters noticed how much the country looks like Tennessee and Appalachia, now a homeland of the great Celtic migrations. This is no accident, as before the continents separated, the Scottish-Irish highlands and Appalachia were the same mountain range. The Smoky Mountains seem to have a particular draw to the great Celtic diaspora of the American South, almost a pseudo-homeland in its connection via music and folkways. The concept of genetic memories is a little woo-woo, but perhaps there’s something there.
We continue to enjoy the food. All meat here tastes better, likely because of tighter EU livestock regulations. Chicken, multiple people in my family have noted, actually has a taste here. Yesterday I had pork ribs and I find I actually like this pork. The off-flavors of American pork, the cheapest meat in the states and among the most disgusting of our agricultural practices, which I have eaten less and less because it tastes rotten to me, are absent. The US seems hopelessly captive to agribusiness interests that want to keep us fat and sick, always seeking but never tasting real food flavors.
Our stop today was in Kilkenny, including the castle and exploring the town, before driving three hours to Kenmare, Kerry County. Ireland has a surplus of castles because the Normans were never able to completely pacify the native Celts. Scotland likewise was never truly defeated by the Romans or English, and only unified by placing a Scottish king on the English throne.
Day 7:
After settling in Kenmare, today we did a cycling tour in the Ring of Kerry.
There’s nothing quite like cycling in the cool Irish air, enjoying the landscape as a premium Swedish nicotine pouch works its magic.
Part of our trip included cycling up and then down a mountain. When cycling with my family, extremely downhill sections make me quite nervous. I am acutely aware of all the ways someone could die with the slightest mistake on their or someone else’s part, so I spend quite a bit of the “fun” part on the way down praying that no one gets hurt. I’m quite risk-averse in a strict sense when it comes to irreversible consequences such as unnecessary death or a life-altering injury. I agree with Bismarck who said that “God takes care of idiots, drunks, and the United States of America.” The inverse of that statement is that God does not take care of people who are aware of risks and take them anyway, and I count myself in that group. Bad theology, I know, but it’s how I feel about the situation. Thankfully we made it through our trip without incident.
Those of you who know me as an entrepreneur may be surprised by my risk aversion. I think there’s a misunderstanding in the culture, largely due to certain assumptions in the finance literature concerning “risk premiums.” While a tidy theory, empirical studies have found risk premiums don’t work quite as expected in the stock market, with low-beta stocks often earning more than would be predicted by the theory. Entrepreneurs, then, are extremely risk-averse, more like operating arbitrageurs who address inefficiencies in supply and demand, and what appears to be risk-taking is bold action when risk/reward is actually highly asymmetrical. Even fake tech bubble entrepreneurs take risks with other people’s money, not typically their own. Life and business are like a game of Pac-Man with no lives remaining: Rule #1 is don’t die, get a debilitating injury, or go broke, especially for a dumb reason like going too fast downhill.
Our biking guide today was a Protestant, which here is more of a quasi-ethnic affiliation than a set of theological loyalties. I think he’s old money because he went to boarding school and as best I could figure his career consisted of getting a marketing degree followed by years of extreme mountain biking before settling down. He didn’t mention a job other than leading these bike tour gigs on the side. His opinions of Irish politics were quite different. He thought a unified Ireland would cause severe economic problems. North Ireland, relatively undeveloped compared to the Republic, is partially pacified by the British with a disproportionate number of civil service jobs. Those salaries mostly flow to the Republic of Ireland in trade between the partitions, and so a unified Ireland, without British make-work bureaucracy, would have huge unemployment while losing a massive economic subsidy.
It’s interesting how two conservative people, meeting for the first time, have to figure out each other’s orientation gradually. Since Left-leaning people are highly intolerant of conservative views, and sometimes nasty about it, plausibly-deniable trial balloons must be sent up. Our guide went first, making a passing comment about “not being a fan of the E.U.” Later, at lunch, after our family prayed together to bless the lunch, he said, “So I assume you aren’t Democrats.” Then the floodgates opened, as he was a lifelong fan of US politics and likes Ron DeSantis. Before we left, he thanked us for being his first “real Americans” to take on a tour, by which he meant Southerners. The Irish are very friendly, polite people, so perhaps they find Northern coldness off-putting too.
Days 8-9:
The following day we went horseback riding. The horses were very gentle and well-behaved. It was my first time riding while the horse trotted, and I now understand why cowboys prefer tight, restrictive jeans; stretch denim doesn’t get the job done as comfortably.
The owner of the stables, Michael, led the way up a large hill and back down again. As a horse breeder, he is convinced that all aspects of personality and anatomy are genetic, including in people. Given his experience breeding horses, he made a case for arranged marriages in the old days, as parents wanted girls “from large families” and “healthy birthing hips” for their sons and men who weren’t hotheads, idiots, or drunks for their daughters. Based!
Later that day we explored the town of Kenmare. The village has a provincial beauty repeated a thousand times over in the country:
On Saturday we had a guided motor tour of the Ring of Kerry, including Ladies’ View, Torc Waterfall, and a stop at the beach of Skellig where the iconic islands of Star Wars fame could be seen hazily in the distance.
Our guide for the day was a retired Irish detective. He was more centrist in his politics and simply accepted what his government told him. He seemed convinced that immigration to his homeland was a moral imperative because Westerners were the first to develop petroleum-based civilization which is making the Global South uninhabitable, as if Ireland, which has never oppressed anyone, and wasn’t universally electrified until the 1970s, owed people a living and a home because of carbon emissions. It’s an impressive alternative mythology for a nation historically on the losing side of the privilege fables. One could easily get the impression that the differing cover stories hide a common underlying animus.
Day 10:
This was Sunday again, and we attended the only Protestant church in town, St. Patrick’s Church. Protestants are so uncommon in this part of Ireland that four Anglican churches in Kerry share a single pastor. Anglican services, if the two we attended are representative, consist of more responsive readings and confessions and less preaching, no more than about 20 minutes. It was not entirely unfamilar given we have attended conservative Presbyterian churches, with a more historical approach to liturgy, for 15 years in the states. The pastor’s sermon, however, was more informal than what might be expected.
The day’s reading was Matthew’s account of the selection of the apostles. At the beginning of the sermon, he asked us to put our programs away and walked into the congregation to give an impromptu quiz, asking his congregants, about 30-40 of us, to name all of the apostles. Then he asked two bonus questions. The first was “who replaced Judas when they drew lots?” My wife, who reads her Bible more reliably than I do, confidently answered, “Matthias.” The pastor looks at her and says “almost - it’s [MEH-TIAS].” The Irish do not pronounce the “th” sound, but rather just say it as a “t” phonetically, so he considered her answer technically wrong. As a second bonus question, he asked who lost the lot to Matthias, and no one had a ready answer. Someone guessed Barrabas, phonetically close, but the answer was Barsabbus. The sermon itself was surprisingly evangelical, largely an encouragement to invite others to church and share the gospel.
After the service, the pastor/priest shared of his efforts to build up the local church, including one that had dwindled to two parishioners that he had built back up to 40. He said you just have to be friendly and show interest in people, and they’ll start coming. The congregation was largely older or elderly, and it’s easy to forget those pastors who labor in small congregations to older saints. They are as much a part of the church as the hippest church plant in the city.
Since the Anglicans believe in a high view of communion and apostolic succession, they have an odd distinction in their services. Since he is shared among several churches, the pastor only conducts services on the first, third, and fifth Sundays, and these are designated “Holy Communion.” Alternate day services are designated “Church Family Communion” and perhaps feature a lay sermon and order of worship. We did not take communion, as we chickened out at sipping from a common cup. I researched it a bit afterwards and apparently numerous studies have shown that the sanitary risk is negligible. Next time this seems like a risk worth taking.
That afternoon we hiked to the top of Gortamullin hill. We got fairly soaked after being lucky with the intermittent rain and generally unpredictable weather so far on the trip. The trip down finally allowed us to experience real Irish weather - cold, wet, blowing wind. I found it oddly exhilarating, perhaps a genetic memory of my own Celtic ancestors.
Day 11:
We drove cross-country back to Dublin for our flight, stopping to see Castletown House, an English-style estate, on our way:
Ireland reminded me of my impressions of the French Loire Valley. Americans will work their whole life to retire to a place like this, but never truly belong to it. The people who live here already have it, and organic roots to the land as well. They should be careful about giving up their inheritance.
Thoroughly enjoyable read. Best report I've read that didn't include a pint or two!
Really enjoying these updates—glad to hear the Auld Sod is treating you well!