DOOLIN, County Clare, Ireland, Wednesday, July 31, 2013 – With a light rain falling, and three curious onlookers lining the stone wall along the fairway, Mitchell addressed his ball at the fourth tee of the Doolin Pitch and Putt. The hole, protected by two bunkers the size of ancient graves, was fifty-one meters away. Using a wedge, Mitchell blasted a shot high into the iron-gray Irish sky – and landed the ball only about a foot from the hole, earning a thumbs up from one of the watching tourists.

Today was a story of fortunate near misses. There was lazy talk at the morning breakfast table about riding out the anticipated rainy day by lounging around the cozy Moy House, which overlooks beautiful LaHinch Bay, with O’Brien Tower and the Cliffs of Moher far in the distance. However, we decided instead to at least venture out to Doolin and Lisdoonvarna, two tiny villages that play big roles in County Clare. (Note from Courtenay: I’ll have everyone know I was the one – yes ME, known as the instigator of Thompson Torture Tours – to suggest we take it easy. The weather reports threatening severe rains and flooding helped prompt my well-informed opinion. But back to Tour Guide Rick…)

Doolin is a launch point for the ferries to the Aran Island and a center of traditional Irish pub music. In the late morning when we arrived (after a near-miss when I pulled right in front of a car I didn’t see in the oncoming lane), a heavily loaded ferry was pulling away while beer trucks were lined up restocking the pubs. Two deliverymen accidentally turned over a pallet loaded with empty bottles, filling the street with broken glass. And not just any street: The one-lane street we were going to have to travel over to escape the town.

A motley foursome—Alex, Mitchell, Will and I—teed off at the Doolin Pitch and Putt, a rolling course with holes averaging about 50 meters and tiny, postage-stamp greens. We got in eight holes—the last of them providing an awesome view of the Cliffs of Moher and an unidentified castle—before the rain came pounding down and chased us off the course.

Soaked for the second day in a row, we made our way to Doolin Cave, which seemed to hold the promise of shelter. Everyone except claustrophobic Courtenay followed the chatty guide and descended the slippery 125 steps into the cave, where we put on hard-hats and followed a gushing underground stream through a low tunnel about 100 yards. The tunnel opened up into a large cavern, where Europe’s largest stalactite, which look like a dirty-white curtain pulled open, hung more than 20 feet from the ceiling. It was actually pretty cool.

We were hurried out by the guide, who kept warning about the gushing water and said we’d be safe unless it got more than knee high. We thought he was kidding, but when we came back the underground stream was only inches from a grated bridge and water was everywhere in the tunnel. After we climbed out, they closed access to the cave, canceling all further tours for the day. (Note from Courtenay: I sat in the lovely café sipping tea on a sofa, read a book and watched the waters rise. By the time the spelunkers returned, the water had pooled around the rental car so bad I had to get in through the back car door and crawl over the seats.)

We made our way to Lisdoonvarna, my favorite name for a town so far. We had a great pub lunch of inch-thick hamburgers, fish and chips and beef stew. As I write, the kids and Grandma are playing dominoes, the blue sky is edging back in over Lahinch Bay and O’Brien Tower is a dark bump on the horizon. Sun is streaming in through the windows, and it’s almost uncomfortably warm and extremely muggy. Summer has returned for a moment, and dinner calls.

Postscript: Dinner at the noted seafood restaurant, Barrtra, was quite good, but extraodinarily slow-paced. We were there for several hours, much of it looking into a bright setting sun. Afterwards, as we stumbled out nearly three hours after we arrived, Mitchell commented that it was the first meal that he ever had that left him with jet lag.