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The trip between Dublin and Dingle starts out flying down the motorway toward Limerick, and slowly down-paces from there on out. Dingle, an Daingean in Irish, was a recommendation of several locals before leaving the capital, and caught our attention when described as a quaint fishing town on one of the furthest southwestern points of the island. We were sold.

We hit the road – driving on the left side of the road for the first time soon became second nature – and were met with picturesque rural lanscapes and fresh perspective.

At each pitstop, we encountered the same utterances of financial instability and hardship, yet never came across a dimmed sense of hospitality or unfriendliness. When we mentioned living in Vienna, there were expressions of awe, which sparked reflection over and appreciation of the standard of living that we enjoy from day to day in the city we call home.

The closer we grew to the peninsula, the narrower our path became. Hills started to become small mountains and the lines dividing traffic all but disappeared. We rolled into town as the sun set, found a friendly innkeeper with reasonable prices, and went out for the freshest fish and chips either of us had tasted.

As dawn broke, we rose to the little town we’d been promised. It was sunny. Being March – clearly the off season – the town’s folk were hibernating, but we welcomed the silence as a cue to take it easy.

After our third full Irish breakfast, we went out to discover the beauty of the Slea Head, the rest of the Dingle Peninsula, and eventually head north toward Galway.