diamonds on the emerald isle

You've heard certain stereotypes about Ireland and the Irish. The Irish hospitality, old guys in pubs with white beards, rolling green hills, fantastic landscapes, small fishing towns and wooly Aran jumpers. With chatty pub owners, shop staff calling my hostel for me when I was locked out, and happy, comical voices everywhere, the stereotypes seem to be holding true.

My first three days on the isle have been spent driving around with my two new friends Miki and Beatrice. Miki is my mini, a free upgrade courtesy of the guy at Thrifty. Miki is bright red, has six gears and a lot of grunt. In spite of Beatrice's best efforts to take us along Ireland's boggiest roads, Miki hasn't failed to get me home safely. Beatrice is my GPS navigator, I've named her after the woman who guides Dante through Paradiso. She has no sense of humour, a tendency to sound disparaging and likes to take us on some very unusual routes, exasperatedly announcing "recalculating" every time I pass her 'turn off' having decided that a thirty centimetre wide country road isn't the best way to get to a major city. She even suggested that I drive off a cliff into the ocean from where I would allegedly be able to see the Cliffs of Moher ‑ poor Miki had to reverse half a kilometre along a boggy country road when I got suspicious and checked my final destination. Still, Beatrice gets us there in the end and has treated me to some truly beautiful roads that I would never have attempted if I'd been relying on a map.

Each day in Ireland has become steadily more beautiful. On the first day I drove along the Dingle peninsula and then crossed through Connor Pass, arriving at the Ring of Kerry. Dingle is Europe's westernmost town and it's a charming place on the bank of the Shannon River. From Dingle, the drive towards Connor Pass was life‑threateningly beautiful. The water on my right was so smooth that the reflection of the clouds made me wonder if the world had turned upside down. The shapes of hills chasing each other across the horizon unfolded in endless, perfect pale blue and Miki steadfastly held to the road while I haphazadly twisted the steering wheel around the river's curves. The Connor Pass followed, a zigzagging road through mountains that brought me out at the start (or end) of the Ring of Kerry.

I only did half of the Ring; frankly I got bored. It was over populated, over developed and over rated, so somewhere around Valentia Island I turned back and made my way home through the rain. My expectations had been low so it wasn't a disappointment, the rest of the day was so full of verdant beauty that I didn't feel let down.

I could go on to describe the impressive limestone of The Burren, melted into the shape of a cowpat over green hills shimmering in the sun, or the this‑reminds‑me‑of‑Victoria angles of the Cliffs of Moher, or the spiralling heights of the Connor Pass, or last night's frost as thick as snow that lasted all throughout the day and lined the roads like a pathway of tiny diamonds; but you'll either get jealous or bored. Each day has brought amazing sights and my only complaint is that the Irish don't build verges on their roads so it's rare that I can stop to enjoy the view properly. They're pretty matter‑of‑fact about the beauty they live amongst, as I suppose many of us are in Australia.

I've seen some amazing places on the trip, but Ireland is the only country I've visited that strikes wonder across my gaze the way Australia does. It glows with an undeniable radiance ‑ it's no wonder her people can't even complain about the cold without sounding cheerful.