From massive cliffs, miles of ancient limestone beaches to portal tombs and disappearing lakes, welcome to Ireland’s Neolithic west coast–bombarding all senses and redefining all preconceived notions of what it means to be “wild”.

Where do I begin? Let’s start with the drive into County Clare. It all seemed tame enough–maybe a bit unusual to see every home along every road with a cow or two reclining on the front doorstep–but nothing prepared me for the white-knuckle drive along the steep coastline with barely a pile of rocks separating what appeared to be an inch between the tire and the ocean below. Those piles of rocks, by the way, were placed by hand individually thousands of years ago intended as fencing.The same fence-building tradition continues to this day.

Adding to the tension are the roads themselves–barely the width of one lane here, yet expected to accommodate traffic in either direction–be it a bus, car or perambulating livestock–the latter permitted to roam free which would explain why they look so pleased. It’s one big free-for-all with no rules and no cares.

Which brings me to the Cliffs of Moher, located in the spectacularly rugged and ecologically unique Burren region of Ireland. Like a subliminal siren song, one is drawn to scale the cliffs in all conditions, despite all warnings, when a fall into the ocean is but a wind gust away. I snapped this photo during my climb of the couple ahead of me.

There was no use fighting the compulsion to keep going.

And so began the  journey from Stone Age to 2015 without having to leave County Clare, taking me through days of torrential rain and flooded areas that I had mistaken for lakes and rivers…to the discovery of Poulnabrone–a portal tomb from the Neolithic period where 14 human  remains were found recently……to grave stones from the 11th century …and eventually to my final destination–the Matchmaking Bar in the little rural village of Lisdoonvarna, where the living converge to find their mate, sealing in perpetuity the cycle from birth to death, which has managed to leave its indelible mark on this region for millions of years.

Lisdoonvarna–matchmaking capital of Ireland–is a rural village on the edge of the ecologically ancient and unique Burren region of Ireland. The “town” is about a meter long and wide, with no bank, ATM, petrol station or public transport. What it lacks in commercial convenience, it makes up for in music.

The fact that Ireland has more musical talent per capita than you can shake a stick at is not news to anyone. But when a microscopic village with commercial activity based largely on a handful of pubs offers outstanding musical talent of all genres within a one-kilometer radius, well, that’s newsworthy.

So here’s a snapshot. It takes about five minutes to “walk through town”. On your journey, you’ll encounter live “trad” music, country music, a bit of jazz and blues and a substantial handful of rock comprised of musicians of varying generations, stature and temperament. Not bad for a village with just enough residents to meet a minimum quota of requisite bass players and percussionists.

While old men belting out balads from their bar stools are common, less so are the likes of six musicians–all 21 years of age–who bring the house down in the tiniest bar of all, located in the basement of The Royal Spa. Their name is Purple Electric and watching them perform reminds me of the first time I saw  early performances of some now-iconic bands in modest venues in the U.K., when I was quite young.

Particularly noteworthy are the effortlessly creative and melodic vocal harmonies between lead singer Mairead Healy and rhythm guitarist Eoin Davies. The band’s charismatic stage presence only amplifies their sophisticated and highly addictive original material, bringing a charge to a growing fan base of every age.

While the likes of “Galway Girl” and “Red Rover” remain among the most crowd-pleasing songs at gigs here in Ireland, I predict that if Purple Electric’s band members can overcome their modesty long enough to start promoting themselves, we’ll be hearing a lot more of them well beyond the geographic confines of The Burren.

Watch out world. There’s a new band in town and they’re electrifying.

See that spanking new Renault Twingo occupying the far-right corner of that bank’s left-hand entrance next to the Tesco garbage bin? Notice anything unusual?

Look closely. What appear to be random slabs of relatively upright concrete leaning against the fence surrounding the exit of the automated doors where you just bought your laundry detergent are actually the knocked about grave stones of Catholic clergymen, political leaders and various upstarts who somehow managed to get the British military’s knickers in a knot at one point or another. Apparently, it’s been ongoing for centuries.

Case in point is Croppie’s Acre. Used as a football pitch during the better part of the 20th century, it’s actually a mass grave and final resting place of hundreds of rebels executed in the 1798 rebellion.

The examples throughout Dublin’s history are irrefutable and regardless of which rebellion we’re talking about, the fact that city planners, builders and tradesmen over the past century have gone about their business letting bygones be bygones when it comes to final resting places leads me to conclude one thing: the Irish–whether Catholic or Protestant–are fearless when it comes to the dead. They treat them with the same irreverence as the living.

One need only wander over to Saint Michan’s Church within walking distance of Dublin’s Temple Bar district and if you’re oblivious enough to where you’re going, you’ll accidentally notice the old church’s funky architecture, thoughtlessly wander down a few flights of steps looking for a public loo and find yourself inadvertently brushing against the leathery arm of a mummified corpse, perfectly preserved due to lack of humidity, whose casket lid has accidentally been knocked off kilter and no one has complained about it, not even the occupant.

I think back to my conversation the other night with the author and biblical expert who argued that when you’re dead, you’re dead and you’re oblivious to all and everything for eternity.

I was hoping he was wrong, but after today, his theory is rather appealing.

Welcome to Dublin–capital city of Guinness, poets, writers, world-class buskers and cathedrals with crypts for hire–catering to weddings, funerals and brawls of all denominations. If you love Samuel Beckett, Oscar Wilde, bullet-riddled buildings from the 1916 Easter Rising and general Craic, you’ll relocate to this city in a heartbeat. Highly recommended for insomniacs, Dublin districts 1 to 8 (and possibly beyond) are alive and kicking  from 6 a.m. to 6 a.m. with thousands of young and old spilling in and out of the most architecturally unique bars, pubs, clubs and civic buildings I have ever encountered. But don’t assume they are drunk. Dubliners are fueled by sheer energy, adventure and a desire to seize the day. To witness this whirlwind of creative energy is  humbling, intoxicating and compelling enough to make one want to relocate regardless of the economy.

Samuel Johnson once professed that “the full tide of human existence is at Charing Cross”. I say it’s on Grafton Street. Where else would one find fiddlers, DJs and mummified remains under the same roof?!

As wonderful as it all sounds, my first 48hrs were spent sipping therapeutic pints of Vitamin G while painfully negotiating local smart phone devices and the ubiquitously nonsensical traffic lights. I had little moments of victory once I acquired the coveted “Leap” card–a nifty little device that lets you hop on any tram, bus or train at the mere scan of a card on any old street you land on. The trick, of course, is to avoid getting hit by a car, bicycle or fellow pedestrian once disembarking.

Day 3 started badly as well, with all Dublin cell phones (including mine) receiving random aps, roaming charges from Belfast and text messages intended for an array of Liams, Siobhans and Sineads. Has the fighting between the Republic and the North not ended?

Miraculously, I finally managed to connect with my dinner companion, John, a chain-smoking Dublin author and dead ringer for actor Hugh Laurie, who claimed to be anti-religious, but is about to have his third book on biblical interpretations and prophesies published by a world class scholarly publishing house based in New York. Two hours of religious instruction over whiskey-infused chowder in a psychedelic cathedral-night club was fascinating, but I would be lying if I said it did not exacerbate my jet-lag.

What will tomorrow bring? One never knows in this city. But one thing’s for sure: I’ll be killing that smart phone and using the few remaining Telecom Eireann phone boxes from now on.

Apologies for the earlier and incomplete reference to a “mystical experience” involving a peach pie. Hyperbole may be my second name, but in this one instance, it was perfectly warranted. The story cannot go untold, for it sets the tone for the way my life unfolds whenever I step foot in Ireland–which happened again today. But I will get to that momentarily.

If my memory was jogged correctly, it was early August–well past the nadir of local strawberry season when thoughts like mine skip raspberries completely and fixate on the forthcoming plump and juicy peach. When it comes to cravings, fresh peaches are just the tip of the iceberg. Peach preserves on homemade bread become the jewel of the jelly kingdom, even while strawberries remain royal, yet seated in reverence next to that heavenly bowl of whipped cream.

By mid-August, thoughts turn from mere peach, to peach pie.

There is just one problem. I couldn’t make a peach pie if my life depended on it. So every year, I force myself to forgo the hankering and practice all forms of mental gymnastics just to purge the obsession.

This time, it didn’t work. In fact, it just got worse. For weeks, I thought about peach pie several times a day–roughly the same number of times most men think about Kate Upton–until one Sunday, I jumped in my car and took the Queensway Eastbound for no particular reason. No sooner did I note this when I witnessed my Versa taking a left turn exit onto Wellington St. and driving itself into a nearby parking lot. Stunned, I tried to find a quick escape out of GenX Yuppie Land only to drive into Parma Ravioli–a shop I have not set foot in for over a decade. I turned off the ignition, stared straight ahead and like a zombie, I proceeded to walk through the front door.

I noted absentmindedly the intimidatingly long line up of people purchasing pies. Instead, I averted my gaze to the savoury section. As I perused the pasta and the confusing array of tubed anchovy paste, my reverie was broken by a stranger handing me a pie. “This is for you”, he said.

I stared, uncharacteristically speechless at the baked dough sitting in the palms of my hands. “Why?”, I asked. “Because I have two and I only need one.” And just like that, he vanished.

The whole shop stared in silence. After several seconds, someone piped up and yelled: “What kind?”

“Peach”, replied the baker behind the counter.

No man is an island – John Donne

Most would have you believe that I created this page to compulsively channel my oversized lagomorph, Alastair, whose spirit I admire and aspire to emulate–if only I had one iota of his chutzpah.

Others will assume that I created this page to chronicle my forthcoming foray into the mystical matchmaking metropolis known as Lisdoonvarna, a coastal village on the left side of Ireland (population 822, according to the 2002 census–exceeding that figure by 40,000 every September).

I might have you believe that the cause of this came from a coveted peach pie–a mystical experience that catapulted me out of long-term lethargy, forcing me to advertise the incident as it played out two Sundays ago, hence, my “blog”.

All are true, but mainly the latter. The common denominator of all three, I believe, boils down to cause and effect.