What Happens in Ireland Stays in Ireland

From Dunmanway to Dingle, summer vacation with Prudence and family is as unpredictable as the weather.

What on my Streetwise Dublin map looked like a ten minute stroll from the Grafton House B&B on Great George Street to the car rental agency across the Liffey River turned out to be a bit longer—45 minutes longer, to be exact. This wouldn’t have been a bad thing if the rain hadn’t blown in, turning a blue sky dotted with cotton ball clouds into a grey, oppressive canopy pushing pinprick rain into our faces.

“How cheap is this umbrella?” my husband asked as the mini-brella I bought back in the States turned inside out in front of Christ Church Cathedral and the medieval ruins of a Norman chapel built in 1230 A.D.

“Mom, how could you?” protested Casey, whose raincoat zipper went off track on a busy street corner and had to be fixed while being jostled by groups of tourists and umbrella-wielding Irish businessmen.

Ah, family vacations, where everything that goes wrong—including the weather—is mom’s fault, and everything that goes right goes unremarked.

What made the walk insurmountably worse for me, however, was that the pot of Irish breakfast tea I had polished off earlier was now demanding an exit strategy. I eyed some ancient tombstones just off the quay where cars whizzed by. But the iron gate was padlocked, so I gritted my teeth and put my head down against the rain.

Just in time, the car agency popped up and we dashed inside. The ginger-haired woman behind the counter smiled patiently at me, “No, dear, we don’t have a public toilet for customers.”

“What do you use, then?” I demanded querulously.

From her pinched face, I expect that she had no bodily functions at all, but she sweetly intoned that—if she ever had to go during business hours— she walked to the pub two blocks down the street.

“Doubt it,” I said loudly under my breath.

Pinch Face glanced at her watch. “It opens in an hour,” she smirked. “But you’ll be happy to know that I’ve upgraded you to an SUV. It’s the only automatic we have on the lot,” she beamed at us.

Great, just what we need, a giant, gas-guzzling monster car in a land of one-lane roads winding through hedgerows and ancient fishing villages.

“But, you’re Americans! I thought you’d be pleased!” she remonstrated when we voiced our protests.

If my bladder hadn’t been about to explode out of my nostrils, I would have told her that—because of our commitment to the environment—we experimented with being a one-car family for eight months. With two teens, one of whom just got his license, however, we finally threw in the towel and bought car #2.

“Oh, and one more thing. Your American insurance is no good here,” she said with obvious pleasure. “You’ll be wanting the collision damage waiver for eleven ninety-nine a day or the comprehensive for 20 euro a day.”

A full-bladder makes for curious choices and, after a modicum of arguing on my part, we drove a black Opel Antara—a cross between a GMC Yukon and a Jeep Grand Cherokee—off the lot, the seatbelt warning dinging loudly because I dare not put any pressure on my swollen abdomen. In the glove box was the hateful 200 euro comprehensive insurance policy that protected us against everything but a flat tire, “Which would be your fault, of course,” Pinch Face sneered.

Of course.

Not one who easily lets go of a good reason to stay angry, I finally let Pinch Face off the hook—but not because I forgave her, or had some kind of Eat, Pray, Love epiphany.

It happened in the little village of Dunmanway, halfway between Clonakilty and Macroom in the County Cork, while Tim was steering our six-foot wide behemoth between cars parked on both sides of a main street meant to accommodate a horse-and-cart.

“Honey, you’re a little close on this side.” The words were barely out of my mouth when ka-boom! Not only had we smashed the passenger-side mirror to smithereens, we’d taken out a parked car’s mirror, too. (Yes, we did leave a note.)

A brawny man in full crimson beard watched as I taped up the mirror with bright blue painters’ tape found in an ancient hardware store off the Macroom town square. Feeling somewhat victorious over Pinch Face, whose company would now have to pay for both mirrors, I smiled at the man, who nodded at the mirror, “Americans?”

I answered in the affirmative and told him the story of our 200 euro policy and how resentful I’d been—at first. He whistled softly through his teeth. “Two hundred euro?” he looked skeptically at the mirror. “Hell, I’d take a hammer to the damned car.”

Turns out, the hammer was unnecessary. In Dingle, we further took advantage of our insurance investment by taking the paint off the entire length of the driver’s side and smashing the rear tail-light and bumper on a low concrete wall that abutted Mrs. Mary Russell’s Guest House. None of this was done on purpose, mind you. But I sure am glad I didn’t have to buy that hammer.

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