I’m Fecking Sick of Driving in Ireland

The Beach DogIreland wants you to die. That’s one possible explanation for the roads here. I’d heard people talk about the infamous one-and-a-half lane roads, but those people were likely being paid by the tourist board to upsell it. One and a half lanes would be luxurious. I’d french Bertie Ahern for one and a half lanes. Hell, I’d French Bernie Ahern for a lane and a quarter. Because the roads are three quarters of a lane wide. Three quarters of a lane with traffic going in both directions. On serpentine switchback roads filled with blind curves with walls on either side and maniacal Irish people driving Audi A6’s at 120 kph straight toward you while weaving in and out of the sheep and elderly women that’ve wandered into the middle of the road. Oh, and the street signs are all Post-It notes stuck to the side of goats. Four days of driving here have tensed up my neck muscles so much that I look like a tortoise.

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