Dangling over a castle parapet isn’t usually my idea of a good time, but sometimes I’ve learned that you have to push the boundaries of normal life in order to experience the world properly.

When I left the shores of my homeland, there were a few goals I had in mind to complete. Visit the Eiffel Tower, drink wine on a sun dappled Italian river bank, explore every inch of London, espy Stonehenge, and a fair few more.

Since then, I’ve realised goals I never knew could be attainable; touch Big Ben, sashay around a Buckingham Palace Garden Party, pick up a Doctor Who addiction, visit the Giant’s Causeway, to name but a few. I still pinch myself at the opportunities I’ve been blessed with just by wishing to slake wanderlust and having a Twitter addiction.

There was one still lurking on that list. (Well actually there are a few, but more on that another day). Kiss the Blarney Stone in Ireland.

Escorted again by the kindly lads at Paddywagon tours on their ‘hop on, hop off tours’ we rocked up to Blarney Castle in a high state of excitement. Sadly, we hadn’t risen early enough to get their early morning bus – highly recommended by the driver in order to beat the cruise ship crowds which swell numbers – so we had a bit of a queue to overcome.

Thankfully, good things come to those that wait, and after nearly an hour shuffling through the castle ruins and up a twisty spiral staircase, we emerged upon the parapets. (One should always use upon when reminiscing about castles, right?)  

The view itself is rather lovely as you make your way up. Beautiful emerald green gardens border the 1454 construction (well worth taking a picnic to), and amusing facts dot the queue route to keep your spirits up. 

Then, boom, all of a sudden you’re up in the clouds, wishing you were a princess.

Quite simply, that’s how Mr Kiwi and I came to find ourselves being pushed (by some bloke) over a parapet, backwards, whilst holding on to a couple of sturdy steel supports. Kissing the Blarney Stone was once of those ‘pinch me’ moments that blew my tiny little mind, and it was well worth the journey.

Will I ever become vaguely eloquent? Probably not, and I’m ok with that.

Just remember chaps…

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And, breathe. Blessed with insanely good weather, our city-weary souls began recharging to the soft sound of the Atlantic ocean lapping, rhythmic cries of the birds carrying on the breeze and the hubbub of fellow cliff-venturers a soothing soundtrack to the sun soaked vista open before us.

Our morning started in Cork (our base for the next few days) a little groggy, both from lack of caffeine and sunshine, but we were promised sunshine from lunchtime. After a wee coffee pit stop in Limerick and brief admiration of their local castle…

…well, you could say things improved by the time we got to the west coast.

First conquering the affectionately known ‘baby cliffs’ of the Burren in County Clare (a protected area of outstanding natural beauty) we tumbled out to soak up the sunshine, and gasp at the ridiculously clear waters. 

Ahoy, Craggy Island from Father Ted, ahead! Sadly we missed out on the annual TedFest, mostly because we weren’t aware of it – the loss of Sheep Tea, multiple Father Jack’s chorusing ‘Feck Off’ and renditions of My Lovely Horse had quite a sobering effect on the holiday. We will be back, perhaps using Cork as a base again.

Twelve Bens, O’Briens Tower and a Harry Potter reference all crowd in when talking about the Cliffs of Moher, but I think they need no real introduction.

The cliffs are simply astonishing. We spent the longest time simply awestruck by the view both to the left and right of the main entry to the visitor centre.

In the ancient Gaelic language, the word Mothar means “ruined fort” and a 1st century BC fort stood where Moher tower now stands. Therefore the Cliffs of Moher means the cliffs of the ruined fort and although there is no trace remaining of this two thousand year old fort it has given name to the cliffs which are visited annually by almost one million visitors.

Beach feet selfies, eat your heart out.

The path shimmies along the cliff top. You have two choices though, the crazy close route (I wandered along it about halfway before coming to a slice far too close for comfort) or behind a stonewall that hugs the pathway, a much more sensible option. It is after all a 214m sheer drop.

They’re really not joking.

Quite simply breathtaking, isn’t it?

* Enlarge me!*

And best of all? Throughout the day our steed awaited, ready to whisk us to the next fascinating destination. Every single person who has been to Ireland recommended we hop in a car, and explore the southern half of the island, nipping from wee village to wee village enjoying the lush green countryside as we went. Now, call me a chicken, but as the driving would be up to me, I didn’t want the stress of navigating, parking, hill starts, motorways, wrong turns, road rage or remembering to not lose the keys (something I almost managed to do in Disney last year).

Sadly, as Ireland doesn’t quite have a London level of public transport we had two options: stick around the cities and miss out on the glorious countryside, or jump on one of the many guided tours. They can be rather hit & miss at times, but our PaddyWagon tour guides were pretty blimmin awesome. Funny, knowledgeable and so very friendly. Upon striking up a conversation with their social media team, we were lucky enough to be invited on board as guests – but we can’t recommend them highly enough. They run days trips from all over Ireland, and stop off in some of the cutest little spots. More to come on these soon!

*Warning: cliff top exploring may cause drowsiness and the driver to giggle at all of the snoring…

What a day!

Got a sunburn today. In Ireland.
— Emma (@LondonKiwiEmma) June 23, 2014

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