That’s Killarney To Me and You

I’m spending time in Gaelic Ireland, where English is not the norm. All the locals I’ve spoken to have families going back hundreds of years; inn owners work the inns where they were born, as did their parents and grandparents. It’s not a very modern life here, and town size is measured by the number of pubs. Farming is prominent – one gentleman pointed to a heard of dairy cows and grinned “There’s Kerry gold!” – and evenings are spent drinking, joking, and playing music.

During the daytime, it’s very quiet. Except for the howling wind.

And is it Killarney? Nope, see the first photo below.

My plan had been to walk from inn to inn, but the weather has bested me: biting wind, horizontal rain and mud may deter me, but not others more intrepid than myself. However, they hail from Germany, Norway, and Colorado, so infinitely more prepared than I.

The clear photos below were taken during moments of respite.

The wind memorialized.

Live all you can. It’s a mistake not to.

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