We began traversing Ireland’s Wild Atlantic Way, the Celtic version of the wild, wild west, in Kinsale after being brushed by Lorenzo, a rare hurricane that felt more like a familiar Nor’easter to two Massachusetts coastal residents. The Wild Atlantic Way felt magnificently large and bold, while also vaguely familiar. Wild waves splashed on enormous rock formations against a canvas of rugged mountains and placid pastures dotted with sheep and cows. With no agenda, my husband drove us into a maze of quiet contentment. We stayed in Dingle and Doolin, sailed to the Aran Islands, drank Guinness and ate fish ‘n chips. We discovered sticky pudding and vowed to test it wherever it appeared on a menu.
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