Damp in Dingle (with dolphins)

Runners! Accessorise with THESE!

The Grump team are pretty pumped at the prospect of schlepping over from Dublin to Dingle for a beer-soaked birthday bash. Ireland! Practically neighbours! First visit! Why have we never been?

Because it's at the end of the freaking universe, is why. Having taken forever to rent a tiny car at astronomical cost (we're just washing it for you, sorr) we then drove for about a week until we hit the fearsome Conor Pass into Dingle. Think Mordor in a rented Renault, with sheep.

Descending at last, out of clouds into torrential rain, we found the place full of an army of sodden runners limping along the seafront. Hundreds of them. WTF?

Urgent research was needed. Pausing only to check into Craggy Island (more of this anon) we hit one of the thousands of pubs. The briefest of inquiries revealed the answer: we had arrived at the tail-end of the Dingle marathon.

Now, in UberGrumpy's book, the only good time to turn up for a marathon is after it's just finished. But the whole place smelt of sweat, and trainers. We had to hold our nose to appreciate Guinness Pint #1¹; pretty good though. By Guinness Pint #4, with a band turning up, we stopped minding the malodorous fitness fanatics hogging the bar. Pint #7, and we were positively hugging them. Ew.

But all good things come to an end, and so did the band (ahem). Bidding a fond farewell to our new pungent pals, we lurched off to our AirBnB. The Father Ted house itself. You've seen Father Ted, right? OK, maybe not THE house, but oh so close. The rank runners had raced into all the best spots, leaving us Craggy Island. It had a woodburner ('do not use for your safety') and an open fire, with an aloe vera plant in it to prevent it being used. Luckily we had real glass windows, and fascinating religious paraphernalia to distract you from the frostbite. Even the blankets were holey (geddit?)²

August in Ireland eh? Brrrr. Snuggle up Mrs G.

Day 2, and the ole' spirits were a little down, what with the hangover, the hypothermia, the hurricane, and the lingering scent of athlete. So lured by the promise of dolphins, we ventured onto the water. This being a windy day on the merciless Atlantic, we obviously chose a flat-bottomed boat with a reckless captain, for extra fun on the way.

Choppy? I'll say. Oh how we laughed. But on the bright side, it turns out that fish love fresh Guinness-flavoured puke, and dolphins chase fish! Yes! We saw vast shoals of them³, and a minke whale, so by the time we turned for home, we felt pretty good, until the skipper generously handed out bags of cheese and onion crisps.

Back in Dingle at last, the Lycra-clad lunatic fringe had mostly headed off for the next Iron Man, or Himalayan pentathlon, or whatever, so the pubs were a bit less crowded. We celebrated with Guinness, for the next three days. Then Dublin, and home!

What a mad, mad place. Will we be back? Oh yeah. But next year I sign up for the marathon. Sometimes you have to experience the whole thing.

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1 - Contrary to urban myth, Guinness in Ireland tastes exactly like it does anywhere else, e.g. on Waterloo station.
2 – Sorry. I'm a bit out of practice here
3 – All right, seven

UberGrumpy Rides Again

Oops! Ink on the sheets?

Whooooooffffff...

What was that? Why, the sound of dust being blown off the ole’ blog! Seven whole years since my last post. Seven years. And here’s the good news; the whole point of the thing was to keep my most excellent brother, BalancedPaul, amused while he kept the NHS busy. He has been in remission for all that time, and long may that continue, my bro.

Anyway. This time is all for me. Why? Here’s why:

1. I like writing. Love it actually. I’ve written two novels, top-notch bestsellers, I expect, if someone would publish them (ahem), and a book of poetry, which I published myself (and, shameless plug, you can buy it on Amazon).
2. I hate Faecebook. I keep writing witty gems¹, and then another seven billion people post a shit picture of their lunch, and it all scrolls off to oblivion. Stuff that.
3. I’m lazy. I’ll be buggered if I write another novel that nobody reads except my long-suffering family. It’s so much better to write brief posts that hardly anyone reads, not confined by the strictures of bloody Faecebook, where you can only write about cats, cupcakes, Corbyn, and the Caribbean (or wherever else you’re taking pictures of yourself in a bikini).
4. I get paid pretty serious money.²

One point of clarification. Do I continue with the pictures of scantily clad ladies? Oh yeah. Why:

1. One of my good friends accused me of being a misogynistic sexist pig the last time round. I liked that.
2. The research is fun.
3. It keeps the politically correct at bay. Off you go then.
4. I don’t put up any picture that wouldn’t make it into Good Housekeeping. And we all love Good Housekeeping, right?

So. Onwards. Unlike my hero Douglas Adams, I will post something else before another seven years goes by. Promise.

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1 – Well I think they're witty.
2 – This is actually a lie.