I’ve decided to grow old disgracefully. I’m going to die my hair purple, wear leather and live in a campervan that travels the length and breadth of every country in the world. I’m going to explore and marvel at everything the world has, until no stone is left undiscovered.
Every morning will start with a delicious helping of eggs benedict, each sunset will be greeted with a something fruity, naughty and delicious. We will roll our bus wherever our delight takes us, stopping at every archaic delectation that hearkens through roadside signs, and every dive-looking motorcycle café that offers greasy coffee so thick you can tar a road with it. We’ll play metal music with the windows down as we drift down highways, searching for the next place to take our fancy.
Our goal will simply be breath stealing views, delicious nibbles and soul changing experiences. Rain, hail or shine we’ll be in search of the next wonderful thing, and somewhere where we can stop off and stretch our (and our travelling cat’s) legs.
Winters will be spent in gourmet foodie havens, researching fair weather trips and demystifying old age. It’s not something to accept, but something to treasure and delight in.
Charles Fort is an awe inspiring set of ruins. To the untrained eye, it’s a pile of carefully mouldering stone buildings overlooking a beautiful natural port. We’ll know that actually it was the scene of sieges to rival Braveheart, family legacies steeped in controversial Irish history, and the site of British occupation of a fierce celtic people.
The walls conjure ghost-like after images of family life in the midst of battlefield warfare, threats of pirates and anti-Treaty burning during the Irish Civil wall.
Or of course, it could just be a beige set piece that once was a thriving star shaped fort, designed to resist cannon fire. As ever, the choice of view is a personal one.
Being young whippersnappers still, starting out from our base in Cork, after a few hours of walls climbing and field-gazing we chose to celebrate our morning with a peaceful cuppa overlooking harbour, stone edifices and plans to venture into Kinsale, Ireland’s self-made foodie capital.
Home to retired rock stars, Hollywood golfing addicts, yachting addicts and Irish ‘royalty’ who all own houses perched on the winding cliffsides, this medieval fishing port was too cute to pass up.
We’ll be back, campervans in convoy, mark my words.