Traded in the strappy YSLs and sparkling knuckle dusters for a pair of hiking boots and the Ring of Kerry, which actually isn't something you slip on a finger at all but a loop around Ireland's scenic south-western Iveragh Peninsula. This was a first for Andy and I, and we still can’t get over how magnificent this country is (or how gorgeous the cheese tastes!).
The kicks weren't bad either. Picked them up a few nights before the trip at REI, an ankle-protecting pair of Vasque-made Gore-Tex boots in light grey that fit the rest of my slate-colored hiking wardrobe. My new cork-handled walking stick also trumped any other necklace, belt or other accessory I stuffed in my case. Boots and stick made the tramp out our front door and up to the peak of Bolus Head a helluva less harsh for this townie, for sure.
Maybe it’s the rain in July or the lack of smog, but everything appears in Technicolor here. The hills are blanketed in Kelly green; the flowering thistles and foxgloves, both wildly growing weeds, a luxurious fuschia. I can’t get either color out of my head, and want stockings and patent shoes in either hue, and lipstick in the latter. I found the blues and purples of the fishermen’s nets and the beached jelly fish similarly irresistible.

We started our adventure in Cork, spending the better part of the early gray day at the English Market, a 200-year-old foodie paradise, where we stocked up on leek and rosemary sausages and plum and calf’s liver pate, brown soda bread and a bag full of locally made, mouth-itching cheeses. We also lunched on a stinky selection, as well as a plate of colossal oysters and chunky hot stew in the upstairs atrium café, Farmgate, which sources much of its menu from the various vendors downstairs.



Did make the requisite stop to kiss the Blarney Stone. And we did share space along some of the narrower roads with more than a few tourist buses. I did mention this was a scenic route, right? So this means plenty of picture-perfect villages that, despite their lack of Disneyfied commercialism, still appear on the postcards sold at shops filled with shamrock-printed golf balls and thick fisherman sweaters. But we also managed to spend much of our driving time in relative isolation. And our very humble cottage, which belonged to a titled lady with whom my spirited sister-in-law Nikki has known forever (horses, of courses), was a serene piece of Eden in what felt like the middle of nowhere.
It felt like we were on the road to nowhere in particular a few days later, as Andy, acting like a lead-foot Steve McQueen, navigated some of the twistiest, single-lane roads in order to get us to a seafood bistro he’d read about and still make our flight to Liverpool. We arrived at the Fishy Fishy Café in Kinsale at 6:45 p.m. Our flight was leaving Cork International Airport, a good 45 minutes away our waiter warned, at 9:20.Every last, slowly savored bite—the oysters, the smoked trout salad, my crispy-baked crab bowl and Andy’s hake—were well worth the white-knuckle whip alongside the roadside hedges, any potential scratches on the rental car just part of the ride, I tried to reason. Proof, I guess, we’ll push to the ends of the earth, or at least a far-off hamlet in Ireland and really off our scheduled itinerary, for a good meal.