The first time we noticed things were a little different in Ireland may have been the second day, our marathon drive from Dublin to Portmagee, half way around the Ring of Kerry. We stopped at our first ring fort, called Staigue. The guidebook mentioned a two euro donation, but we arrived, two miles up a hill of the main road, to find a gate next to which sat a crudely lettered sign indicating that 2 euros should be paid to the landowner who was allowing access through his land. In this case, the landowner did not seem to own the land on which the fort sat, but just wanted something in return for tourists traipsing across his land all summer. Maybe the tourists didn't bother the owner at all; maybe he or she was just looking to make a quick buck. I wouldn't begrudge it; I often wonder still how people make a living in rural Ireland. We of course dropped our euros in the little tupperware and enjoyed spending time climbing on a lovingly preserved and restored ring fort with fabulous views of the sea and the mountains. Not to mention a few very cute lambs.
Of course in the US we have access problems for recreational features. Landowners would have an entire national forest closed to public access rather than allow some hikers to use a right-of-way through their land. Popular trails and climbing routes have been shut down because angry (greedy?) landowners, usally with giant mansions at the top of a hill, lock the gates. Long and protracted battles follow. In Ireland, having land with or near historical sites seems to be just a lovely opportunity to make some income.
At the bottom of the hill was an enterprise presumably developed explicitly for tourists who stop by the ring fort. A pub, restaurant, gift shop, WC, and exhibit hall. The guest book said it closed at 6, but when we pushed open the door sometime after that, we walked into a brightly lit room. Shortly the lady of the house appeared and told us, no problem, I'd be happy to make you a couple of sandwiches, and if you want to see the video go right ahead. No angry tirade about it being after hours and to get out of the house, can't you see we're closed? Just give me a second, and I'll fix you right up. And that was the tastiest tomato and cheese sandwich I had in all of Ireland.
Later that day there were the signs advertising "The most beautiful cliffs in all of Ireland." They looked official - white lettering on brown signs, just like all the other tourist sites. After we settled into our lodging for the night, we headed back in the falling sunshine, hoping to view the cliffs in the light of twilight. We pulled into the parking lot of a B&B and headed toward the path to the sea - "a ten minute walk," the sign had promised. How nice of them to let us park here, I was thinking, as a man with a little boy emerged and asked us if we needed anything. "We were just going to see the cliffs," I said. "Ah," he said, "come in. It will be 3.50 each, and I will give you binoculars." Aha. Another private enterprise. I have no idea how he swung those signs, but we handed him the 7 and added a local chocolate bar to make it 10. An easy buck, I guess, although he was still dealing with tourists after 8 o'clock at night.
The next real dose of landowner enterprise did not come until we explored the Slea Head Drive, at the end of the Dingle Peninsula. Rick Steves devoted multiple pages with precise distances and detailed descriptions to this short 47k loop. He mentioned forts that cost 2 euros, famine huts that cost 3, and so on and so forth. At the Gallarus Oratory, toward the end of the drive, both our guidebooks advised avoiding the visitor center (and hence entrance fee) built by the landowner to make some money,and driving on past to a closer parking lot. Amazingly, even Rick Steves failed to mention that almost every fee on this drive was really just a payment to an enterprising landowner. I have yet to figure out why the Gallarus owner was singled out, when they offered a fancy cafe, video, and WC, for no more payment than the much simpler operations we were about to reserve.
Stop 1: Dunbeg Promontory Fort. As we parked in the lot and I double-checked the guidebook, I discovered that both the fort and the nearby famine huts did not open until 9:30. Luckily we had been a bit slow in the morning and it was just now about 9:25. As we ventured over to the fort, one couple ahead of us, a local man stepped out of a cottage across the street, followed by his dog, and headed over to a small booth at the path to the fort. He called out to the couple in front of us to stop and pay and pick up an information brochure. He was clearly not with the OPW (government agency that ran many historical sites) - likely he was the landowner and realized he could make money by sitting in a booth, watching TV, and charging tourists to marvel at his property.
While the other couple rummaged for money, we managed to get in front of them, first down the path to the fort that day, the sea sparkling in front of us. As we entered the outer rows of the fort, two tiny donkeys lifted their heads up to check us out. True, I had seen sheep at the ring fort, but for some reason I was surprised to see donkeys grazing in the middle of a historical feature. As I was cooing over them, as is my want to do with animals, one of the donkeys walked straight towards me, evidently ready to be my friend. I loved it! I reached out to pet his forehead. Matt insisted that I was supposed to feed him; apparently the donkey preferred to be handfed rather than undertake the effort of tearing the grass of himself. And the noise those two made with their teeth!
While Matt explored the ruins, I mostly marveled at the exquisite scenery (does it ever end?) and fawned over my favorite donkey, feeding him clumps of grass. Towards the end I realized that he had in fact been after my purse the whole time;apparently the fabric ties looked might tasty to him. No mind; I can be bought.
We ventured across the road to the famine huts, where another local with his dog were just scurrying into the entrance booth. A sign on the booth proclaimed, "Free food for animals." What kind of animals, I wondered? No need to wonder - on the back of the informational sheet was a map of the famine huts and fields, noting which animals were in which.
Ponies, goats, sheep, deer. I'm sure I'm forgetting something. I popped my head into the famine huts for as short a time as possible to keep Matt somewhat happy, and then turned my attention to finding animals that would like to eat out of my hand. Some glanced at me disdainfully, while others came tromping over through the fields. Some ate daintilly, while others tried to gnaw my hand off as well. It took quite some time to get rid of all the food, after which Matt informed me that the man had told us to "bring back the change." Ah well. Boy did my hand smell, and not a sink to be found.
Still more private enterprise - a group of behive huts down the road where a WC that looked like a port-a-john from the outside actually featured a toilet, sink, soap, and running water. And the views!
What if out your front door was an endless expanse of sea, sun shining, clouds rolling in, grass advancing endlessly up the mountain? What if you spent your day inside a little booth, out of the fresh air, staring at a TV instead of your backyard. What is is like to be Irish now?
Maybe the local man lets you feed his animals to entice you to pay the entrance fee - after all, in Ireland there are many choices of things to see. Maybe he'd rather you do it and save him the trouble. Maybe he knows that American tourists love domesticated animals. Maybe enterprises like this exist in the US and I just haven't run into one.
But maybe it's just that in a land so rich with viewable history, the government does not have the time or the need to acquire all of the sites. Maybe the landowners just get to capitalize on the wealth of the country's saga. It's about time.
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