Inch by Inch
Down Dingle way there’s a beach where the sun never sets. Or so it seems. DONAL O’DONOGHUE pays homage to Inch
On the eve of the new millennium I watched the century go down on Inch beach on the Dingle peninsula. I was not alone. Hundreds of revellers, romantics, rascals and runaways dotted the vast expanse of strand, ve kilometres from end to end (if indeed it has an end). The next day the world didn’t end, as some had prophesied, but on the journey back to Dublin, it felt like the closing of yet another chapter. But I knew that I would be back, just as the touristy verse (with no apologies to Robert Frost or grammar) on the side of Dingle’s Sammy’s Store suggested: “Dear Inch must I leave you, I have promises to keep …”
Over the years I’ve walked the Dingle Way, hiked Brandon mountain in sunshine and in storm, sank afternoon pints in Dick Mack’s pub, seen Fungi (or was it?) ducking and diving in Dingle bay, run the local half marathon, celebrated New Year’s Eve in An Daingean and survived the gang gatherings of the Wren Boys on St Stephen’s Day. More often than not, the
base would be Inch, a short schlep from the strand and not far from the charming village of Annascaul, one time home of the great Antarctic explorer, Tom Crean, whose hostelry, The South Pole Inn, still thrives. In August, all going well, the family will journey once more into the deep south. I will strain for that first glimpse of the wild Atlantic on the road beyond Boolteens, walk the strand at Inch from end to end, pop into that great old watering hole, John Foley’s Bar Inch (or FBI as it is known hereabouts) and climb a hill or two. Doubtless the beach will have its surfers, its day-trippers, its sunny families and its dog walkers, all dotted along the enchanted way. And as the two weeks draw to a close, we’ll be already planning our return: I know this as surely as I know that the sun will set on Inch beach this evening and every evening.