“Come to me, darling. Lean back… let your body drift. And kiss, kiss now,” Denis Cronan coos, gently cradling my body as he lowers me into an abyss (writes Amy Laughinghouse). I’ve just climbed 115 steps to do a backbend in this stranger’s arms, staring two stories down through a gaping hole in one of Blarney Castle’s ancient walls, all for the privilege of pressing my lips against a nearly inaccessible grey rock smeared with the saliva of countless tourists.

As Cronan gingerly hoists me back up, I feel a rush of blood to my head—although whether that’s from the gift of gab that has supposedly been imparted upon me by bussing the Blarney Stone, or from Cronan’s strong arms and lilting Irish brogue, it’s impossible to tell.

When you visit Ireland, you simply can’t separate the experience from the people - a congenitally cheerful lot on the whole, always up for a bit of fun, or “craic” (pronounced “crack”) as they say here. Sure, come for the peaceful beauty of the island, but go with the flow, succumb to the charm of the Irish, and strangers quickly become friends, if only for the time it takes to pucker up, dance a reel, or down a pint.

Resistance is futile, as Mary Beirne of New Jersey discovers at Blarney Castle, which still looks much as it may have 600 years ago—except for the lack of a roof and the addition of security cameras, which have long since replaced guards armed with bows and arrows and boiling oil. Despite her mother’s encouragement, Mary is reluctant to kiss the rock, but Cronan soon talks her down from - or rather, onto - the ledge. “Anything your mother feels it’s okay for you to do, there can be very little wrong with it,” he assures her, and a moment later, Beirne is on her back, slithering towards the stone.

Leaving the hulking heap of Blarney Castle and our lip prints behind in County Cork, my husband and I head towards County Clare in search of a pint of Guinness. “I hope it has antiseptic properties,” Scott grimaces, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I don’t know if that rock gave me the gift of gab - or the flu.”

But his mood lifts when we pull up outside Egan’s, a tiny pub with a bright green façade in the town of Liscanoor. The strains of a fiddle are wafting through the door, and as our eyes adjust to the darkened interior, with its flagstone floor, exposed brick walls and wood-beamed ceiling, we make out a musical trio seated at a table nearest the bar. Ordering two pints of Guinness (drawn from a keg just outside the window), we plant ourselves on a pair of stools, but I’m soon tugged onto the dance floor by a lean, wiry man with piercing blue eyes.



“The music gets everybody together, like,” says Peter O’Leary, as I struggle not to step on his polished shoes. In the space of a high-stepping jig, I learn that O’Leary’s father and mother were dancers, all his brothers and sisters played instruments, and he favours the tin whistle. “Sure, I’m a grand singer, too,” he notes matter-of-factly, as the song ends and we stump over to join the other musicians, all our toes thankfully still intact.

With the afternoon rapidly waning, we say our goodbyes and make our way towards the Cliffs of Moher, a brooding escarpment that towers 700 feet over the frothing Atlantic. Here, shrieking seagulls ride the wind and tourists pose for photos in front of O’Brien’s Tower, a 19th century crenellated folly that beckons walkers towards the tallest point on the cliffs.

Further inland lies a vast outcropping of limestone called the Burren. Once a seabed, it’s now a barren moonscape, erupting unexpectedly from the green Eden of this otherwise lush isle. We pause to ponder this alluring anomaly from an overlook above Ballyvaughan, which sits in a verdant valley cupped by striated stone, before descending into the seaside settlement via a twisting corkscrew road.

Emerging on the other side of town, a hand-painted sign reads “Best of Luck” as we circle back to the south. It seems a strange benediction until I see how the road narrows to a wobbly ribbon, sandwiched between the imposing Burren on the left and the ocean on the right. It’s a journey made more harrowing still by the number of cars parked haphazardly on the side of the road, presumably left there by fisherman, climbers and hikers. “Here, we don’t so much park our cars as abandon them,” someone told me the first time I ever visited Ireland. I laughed when I heard that nine years ago. I’m not laughing now.

But to fully appreciate the irrepressible spirit of the Irish, you have to see this rugged western landscape, the crumbling ruins of abandoned farmhouses, the endless miles of walls made from rocks gathered over the centuries - walls stacked without mortar, which might come tumbling down like dominos should the wrong stone be removed. You have to recall the Great Famine of the 19th century, when one million died and one million more migrated overseas, many without a hope of ever again seeing the families they left behind.

Sometimes, that sadness erupts in ballads like those sung by a hoarse-voiced chanteuse who holds court one night in the bar of Dromoland Castle, a 16th century castle hotel, complete with glinting suits of armour and woven tapestries. With “Danny Boy,” about a woman imagining her lover visiting her grave, she leaves many a moistened eye gazing into a round of dry martinis.



Yet you won’t find the Irish crying into their drinks for long, and the nostalgic mood is leavened by the appearance of two young men attending a wedding reception at the castle. “We’re looking for heiresses,” jests once, scanning the room. When his searchlight gaze fails to locate any comely offspring of Texan oil tycoons, he and his buddy cheerfully settle for us. They invite Scott and I to crash the reception, buying us a round and advising us, “Don’t be shy. Get stuck in!”

So for the second time today, I find myself on a dance floor with strangers, laughing, stepping on toes, and gabbing with everyone I meet. Maybe there’s something to smooching that stone after all.

IF YOU GO

Getting there: Fly into Shannon or Cork.

Where to stay: Castlemartyr Resort, Castlemartyr, County Cork, tel: +353 (0)21 4219000, www.castlemartyrresort.ie. This 103-room five-star property encompasses a 17th century Irish manor and a modern new wing on a 220 acre wooded estate featuring the ruins of an 800-year-old castle. Amenities and activities include a luxurious 24,000-square-foot spa with an indoor swimming pool, par 72 links-style golf course, laser clay shooting, archery, fishing and pony-and-trap rides. From €195 per room, including breakfast.

Dromoland Castle, Newmarket- On-Fergus, County Clare, 1-800-346-7007, www.dromoland.ie. This glamorous 16th century, 99-room Irish castle presides over 410 acres, including a championship golf course, lake and a wooded park. Additional amenities and activities include pony and trap rides, fishing, tennis, clay shooting, archery, and falconry. The castle has hosted a who’s-who of famous guests, including Presidents George W. Bush and Bill Clinton, the Beatles, Russell Crowe, Jack Nicholson, Robert Redford and Bruce Willis. €98 per person sharing, including breakfast.

Where to go: Blarney Castle, County Cork, tel: +353 (0)21 4385252, www.blarneycastle.ie.

Cliffs of Moher, County Clare, www.cliffsofmoher.ie, tel: +353 (0)65 7086141

Egan’s Bar, Main Street, Liscannor, County Clare, tel: +353 (0)65 7081430.

Gus O’Connor’s Pub, Fisher Street, Doolin, County Clare, +353 (0)65 7074168, www.gusoconnorsdoolin.com. One of the most famous pubs in Ireland for live music.