Driving over the mountains at Moll's Gap, not too far from the Cork-Kerry border, my phone went out of coverage in mid-call. The weekend had definitely begun: a rare chance to have my sister Caitriona's company all to myself. We'd chosen West Cork for our few days away and were heading for the shelter of Fortview House in Toormore near Goleen.
Sustained by great big bowls of mussels and chips we'd feasted on in the Bantry Bay Hotel, we kept on trucking without another stop until Fortview finally hove into view. Violet Connell's Farmhouse B&B won the National Agri-Tourism Award in 1996, and is recommended in several guidebooks.
We were so flaked out by our respective long journeys that the only exploring done on the evening of arrival was of our room, which was a characterful pretty eyrie tucked under the eaves, all brass beds and wooden floors, with a white bathroom attached.
Saturday was a West Cork special: drizzly and foggy, so we dug out the map and looked at it over breakfast. The breakfast menu at Fortview is one of the things which has made the guesthouse's name. Apart from fresh juices such as carrot and orange, excellent porridge, muesli, scones, brown bread and jams, all home-made, there are no fewer than 12 choices on the main bit of the menu.
These include Hot Potato Cakes, Creme Fraiche, and Smoked Salmon; Kippers; and Homemade Pancakes and Maple Syrup. Eggs are laid by Violet's "happy, lazy hens" and, after one of those big breakfasts, we felt pretty happy and lazy ourselves.
That day, we went wandering off around the nearby hamlets of Schull, Ballydehob, and Skibbereen. The eclectic population resident in West Cork was evident simply by reading the notices stuck up in the window of Shepherd's Supermarket in Ballydehob.
There were notices from folk offering reiki, reflexology, aromatherapy and aerobics; an ad for a talk in Goleen Community Hall on the lives of Muslim women in the Middle East and Indian Subcontinent; a lost guitar plectrum; and an ad for a tack and rug cleaning service - with 10 per cent discount for all those racehorse owning folk in the area.
The facades of houses in Schull, Ballydehob, and Skibb are still painted those famous bright colours, still looking like some sort of fantastic washing strung out along the streets. Skibbereen is the Lotto Capital of Ireland, with nine jackpot wins under its belt to date. Sadly, I can't report that either of our two tickets made history as Skibb's tenth jackpot.
We spent a few happy hours wandering up and down the streets, looking at the shops. Caitriona came away with an old cup, saucer, and plate from Bric a Brac, and a mere £2 bought me a wonderfully kitsch pink fluffy purse in the shape of a heart.
On the way back to Fortview, we stopped to look at the beautifully-kept and peaceful Famine graveyard outside Skibbereen. Three thousand people are buried here in mass graves: the repercussions of the Famine went on for decades. Almost half the local population had emigrated by the first half of this century.
The next day was another West Cork special: an unseasonably bright sunny day with high wind. Violet unearthed a pair of bikes from a shed and we set off along the coastal byways for Mizen Head, famous from the gale-force warnings, and the most south-westerly point in Ireland.
It was tough enough going with the wind against us all the time, no matter what direction we were cycling in, in that sly way wind has of changing at whim. But the scenery was too good to be hurrying through anyway; hunks of gorse-bright mountains, inviting little side-roads that twisted down to pebbly beaches, swimming-pool blue water and stumps of ruined castles.
We went miles out of our way by mistake, but it was all downhill, so we hardly noticed. A woman out with her dog gave Caitriona directions, while I threw pebbles for the marvel dog, who could find them even when I threw dreadful shots deep into tangled ditches.
At Barleycove, we got off and walked up the hill that overlooks the neck of this glorious beach. The spectacular 13th century castle atop Three Castle Head seen from here looks like a ruined sandcastle. It's set beside a lake that's supposed to be haunted, and there is a sheer cliff drop down to Barleycove on one side.
By the time we got to Mizen Head, we were literally winded. We sat on a path overlooking the sea, looking across to the Fastnet Rock, and wolfed down the entire supply of sandwiches supposed to last the day.
The Mizen Head Fog Signal Station was completed in 1910. It was built on Cloghane Island; a lump of rock, separated from the mainland by a deep gully. In 1910, a suspension bridge was built to link the island with the mainland. At a height of 150 feet above the sea, the long bridge still makes for a very impressive and slightly scary journey. Keepers crossed this bridge with their belongings in wheelbarrows.
IN TIME, a wireless beacon and a light were added to the Mizen. And in time, they were replaced by sonar and satellite navigation. It was Mizen keepers who rescued Charlie Haughey in the late 80s, when his boat ran aground close by. In 1993, the station was automated and the last keepers left.
A local community group, the Mizen Tourism Co-op Society got the go-ahead to create a visitor's centre at the old fog station. The result is a rather shambolic, but fascinating and somewhat eerie museum. Some of the keepers' bedrooms and living areas have been retained, to give an idea of how they lived in their remote location, where the wind threatens to decapitate you once you step outside the door.
There is also a map and archive room, a room which tells the story of the Fastnet Lighthouse, an engine room and a room which evokes life underwater. The place itself feels as if it has been uninhabited far longer than six years. The atmosphere is potent; a special place, where we lingered for a long time, and which we both agreed afterwards had been the most memorable part of the weekend - not counting Violet's breakfasts.
Well, we'd been unseasonably lucky with the weather. Our luck ran out in Kenmare, where we stopped for lunch before I headed for the train at Killarney. In a hurry, Caitriona parked on double yellow lines: "One line means never; two lines means never ever," she intoned with the knowledge of experience, to her non-driver sister. Kenmare in March, sure who would notice, we reasoned?
A mere 20 minutes later, we returned after a bowl of soup to find a traffic warden waiting across the road. He had visited the windscreen, and left his calling card. However, he waved happily at us as we drove out of town, so that makes it the friendliest parking ticket Caitriona's ever got.
