Sep 2025
From the Riviera to the Wild Atlantic
A Journey Through Ireland and Beyond
The journey began on Ireland’s southwest coast, where the calm of Kenmare Bay met a rhythm that felt both local and timeless. The town was small and welcoming, and the Park Hotel Kenmare made for a soft landing quiet, elegant, and full of small kindnesses.
Ireland revealed itself through contrasts. In Knock, people seemed to take care of one another as naturally as breathing. A car rental agent drove us to our hotel simply because he could a gesture that summed up the town’s easy warmth.
Further north, Donegal showed the other side of the country rugged, unfiltered, and shaped by weather. At Slieve League, the wind was so strong we could lean into it without falling. A waterfall blew upwards, a trick of nature that felt both absurd and unforgettable.
The ferry to Tory Island was rough, the sea tossing us between grey and green. On the island, supplies were scarce, but people made do. In the evening, a boy sang a song written by his great-grandfather, a fisherman. It filled the room in a way words rarely do.
The Faroe Islands were the trip’s center not just geographically, but emotionally.
Their beauty was sharp and unpredictable. Every turn revealed another cliff, another drop, another shift in light. The landscape felt alive, but so did its weight. Locals spoke openly about the realities of island life including the controversial dolphin hunts, a practice that sits uneasily with outsiders but remains part of their heritage.
One fisherman invited us to taste fresh sea urchins in his work hall. The flavor was raw and immediate, the kind of experience that resists tidy description. A dinner later that week felt stranger a home-restaurant hybrid, hosted by a German chef who served Gugelhupf for dessert. It was good, but oddly placed, a reminder that travel sometimes surprises in quieter ways.
The hike to Lake Sørvágsvatn, known as “the lake above the ocean,” was extraordinary, though shadowed by the guide’s note that tourists die there regularly while taking photos. It added a kind of perspective that stayed with us.
After long days of rain and wind, the hotel spa felt less like luxury and more like recovery.
In Scotland, the trip settled into a different rhythm. On the Orkney Islands, the past felt tangible Skara Brae, the Ring of Brodgar, and the Italian Chapel all part of a landscape shaped by patience and memory. Our guide spoke of ancient settlements and wartime bunkers as though they were part of the same ongoing story.
Then came Islay, where the tone turned practical and grounded. We cycled from Laphroaig to nearby distilleries, sharing the road with the wind and the smell of peat fires. The whisky was good, of course, but the ride itself mattered more the quiet movement through a place that lives by its craft.
We had planned to end in Wales, but a storm cut the trip short. We turned back toward Kirkwall, the weather closing in around us. It wasn’t the ending we expected, but it fit the pattern of the trip nothing neat, nothing wasted.
Looking back, what stands out isn’t a single view or destination, but the mix of it all:
the kindness of strangers in Knock, the wild air of Donegal, the difficult honesty of the Faroes, and the steady pride of Islay.
Each place offered something different, but together they built a kind of understanding that travel isn’t about collecting perfect moments. It’s about noticing what’s real, even when it’s uncomfortable, and letting those details change the way you see things afterward.
Carved in White, Drowned in Blue – follow us to …
April 2025
