For me in particular, it was incredibly important to go to the Dingle Peninsula where Inch Beach is located. Why, you ask? I’m absentminded as get-all, and when I’m hunting for something, or babbling on, the words come out faster than my brain likes to process (mostly because other tabs are open and taking up memory space if you catch my drift). So I have a habit of replacing terms with dingle or doodle. Like, ‘get me that doodle,’ or ‘I want the dingle.’ Funny enough, anyone who’s spent enough time around me usually can interpret and catch the drift. I’ve had my husband and a couple besties pick it up.
So when we heard that there was a Dingle Peninsula in Ireland, naturally we had to go. Alas, we didn’t make it all the way in. Let me explain. We were driving along the roads on the opposite side of our comfort zone in a teensy car and even teensier lanes. And as the cliffs grew higher, what separated us from that breathtaking ledge? Shrubbery. Fucking shrubbery. So we reached a point of white-knuckled steering that grew too much and turned back around. Yes, we’re wusses.
Regardless, Inch Beach rocked. Literally. All sorts of rocks along the beach and I absolutely loved it.