Wednesday morning at oh-my-god-thirty we climbed on a big tour bus which took us to the Cliffs of Moher, on the Western coast of Ireland. It's gorgeous (google for pictures), even in the rain and wind. With the wind whipping my black hooded raincoat I felt just like the French Lieutenant's Woman, except for being older and fatter and on a different island. Except for that. And my man was right by my side. But still. . . . .
Our bus driver was full of stories of Irish lore, history, and songs. He might have talked for 10 of the 13 hours that we spent with him, but we learned so much. It was a beautiful drive across the Emerald Island and included Galway Bay, which Al really was longing to see because his dad used to sing a song about it, even though he can't remember any of the words or the tune. We even saw an Irish rainbow, but no leprechauns or pots of gold.
Thursday we flew to the Isle of Man. I'm positive that the ride to the airport was longer than the flight. You can see the entire island from the air. It has been a vacation destination forever, including for the Celts and the Vikings. Well, maybe vacation isn't the correct word for what they did here, but you get my drift. Turns out that the Vikings weren't all bad guys. They established cities where there were none, here, in Ireland and elsewhere. The Tynwald is the oldest Parliament in the world and has been is existence for over 1000 years. Apparently when they realized that there was nothing left to loot or plunder they became successful traders, settled down and married local woman, leaving blonde blue-eyed kids everywhere.
Tomorrow we move on to Berlin. Auf Wiedersehen.