A visit to ye olde Ireland

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Melissa Kite has narrated this article for you to listen to.

The £80 million super-yacht with a helicopter on the upper deck sat in the harbour, and we sat outside the ice-cream parlour in an old banger that had broken down.

Our dear next-door neighbour in Ireland had taken us to chi-chi Glengarriff in the Beara peninsula and had insisted on driving us, because she has her car crammed full of essential clobber, like her walking sticks and a shopping basket nicked from the local supermarket in which she stashes her supply of duty-free cigarettes.

We made a motley crew, the builder boyfriend and me and this doughty Irish lady who drove her old banger along while shouting out the open window at anyone who annoyed her, such as a driver in front indicating to turn right then slowing down to make the turn. ‘What the feck are ye doing? Ye eejit!’ she yelled.

Hurtling along, as the BB and I clung to our seats for dear life, she swerved and shouted her way to a little restaurant in the bay of Ballylickey, where lunch was delicious.

But then the good lady decided she would like to show us Glengarriff, another few miles along the coast.

As we approached, we caught sight of a yacht so big that the BB, a keen yachtsman, recognised it from an article he had read. He was telling us all about the billionaire who owned it as we swung into the main street, veering from side to side as our septuagenarian friend let rip at all the tourists daring to try to cross the street in front of her. ‘Get out of the way, ye feckin’…’

Glengarriff reminded me of nothing so much as a themed village at Disney World.