By David Yeadon
In fresh years, eire has loved a newfound prosperity as Europe's so much prosperous country. yet tucked away in a much nook of the so-called "Celtic Tiger," that different enduring and genuine country—that small, hidden position of straightforward 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 staggering coastal surroundings, a ways faraway from the touristic hullabaloo of Dublin, Killarney, and the hoop of Kerry. here's the fabled "Old Ireland," alive and good with track seisuins, hooley dances, and seanachai storytellers—a haven for searchers, healers, artists, and poets hardy sufficient to have braved an analogous slender and winding mountain roads that hold 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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Extra resources for At the Edge of Ireland: Seasons on the Beara Peninsula
And then, while running pell-mell, they tossed the ball off the tip of the stick and whacked it with all the force of a top-flight tennis player to another team player fi fty yards or more down the field or, if they could, over the posts at the far end of the field to score points. In minutes I was hooked. The constant frantic pace and ability of the players to avoid regular decapitation by swirling sticks and supersonic-speed sliotars amazed me and left me utterly exhausted by the end of the fi rst half.
Not bad . ” I mumbled while half turning toward the door. It was only ten or so broad steps away, I gauged, and there was no one blocking the exit. Maybe I could make it because I certainly had no intention of hanging around this malevolent place—an obvious bastion of blow-in bashing if ever I’d seen one. “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 .
Don’t you remember . ”). Anyway— next thing I knew, this little man had slid into position beside me and was offering me something that looked like a once-white peppermint now coated in thick pocket-dust. “Er . . no thanks. I’m fi ne . ” “Oh, I can see that. You’re lookin’ very fi ne indeed, sir. ” “No, no. We’re driving down to the Beara Peninsula. I’m just about to go and buy a couple of books. ” 28 + At t h e E d g e o f I r e l a n d That was my fi rst mistake. “Ah—the Beara Peninsula, is it now?