Ruins and sheep and peat, oh my!

Leaving early, iconic Connamara lay ahead. Looking at the map made me car sick. A wiggle on the map line means trouble for our back seat cherubs. Off we went looking for sunshine and vistas that would please. On glance, Ireland is missing one thing that England seems to be full of… castles. Rather, the space here is filled with a far less ostentatious show of wealth. The wealth here is displayed by a scene so pure and unabated that it is worth more than gold. When one says there is gold in Ireland at the end of the rainbow, you can expect to find  riches in hues of color and gentle slopes that ooze tranquility.  So to capture this bit of gold, the family pushed towards the westernmost part Ireland in our little Hundai. With every curve, one would shout out "sheep". On the next, another spot, "ruins". Then like spotting sumac in the landscape at home, one of the intrepid travelers would shout out "Peat". It would parlay into a song, "Ruins and Sheep and Peat, Oh My". Miles would tick by with stops every 10 minutes to get out and appreciate taking the less route less traveled.  We would find white sand beaches beyond the fields of yellow and purple. Chris's desire to jump in the frigid water was quickly put to rest when he realized he had forgotten his swim suit. Peter, disappointed that his dad wouldn't go in his underwear, shook his head at his father and said, "Dad their are 7 billion people in this world and only six people other than us on this beach. If only six people think your a weirdo for swimming in your underwear, then most of the rest of the world will still think your cool." Peter was right. But after wading in, and feeling the entire lower extremities go numb, the inviting water had seemed to change it's tune.  We collected some shells and moved on. Every time we would near a marina with boats tilted on their side, the kids would scream for dad to keep driving despite my begs to stop for photo opportunities. Even the quaint small villages that would come every 15 minutes would blend into one another. We would taunt the kids by suggesting yet another stop into a store to look at Irish knits, despite the reality of how itchy a garment they tend to be. The massive candy counters in the news agent stores would continue to lure them despite their calls to get back to the cottage.  They kids would learn later, that we could have taken a route that would have taken us back to the cottage in 1 1/2  hours rather than 3. Peter rolled in fetal position after thousands of curves at 50 mph would just grunt. Kate would quietly accept the fate her parents have dealt. In reality, along the way, we had had countless laughs at the expense of cows, strange road signs and as usual, each other. Here is to today's road trip being tomorrow's story.