The population is sparser, the traffic is less dense, the pace of life is  slower and the scenery is just as stunning as anywhere in the country. Indeed, you never know what you'll encounter around the next bend. Certainly, on the early morning when I turned onto the road leading to Enniscrone, I had little idea I was about to come face to face with an elephant.

But there he was, all alone on the misty linksland, trunk swaying as he shifted lazily from side to side, staring at me as if I were the one who didn't belong. I stopped the car and beheld him for a moment, sipping my take-out coffee and wondering whether he was an Indian elephant or an African elephant. I can only say with confidence that he wasn't Irish. Like your correspondent, he was merely a visitor, taking part in the annual Enniscrone summer carnival.

But the elephant incident wasn't my biggest surprise as a motorist. That distinction belongs to the day prior, on the rain-slicked road from Belmullet. I don't know whether I looked away from the road at the map or spent too much time ogling the cliffs of Downpatrick Head. But the next thing I knew, I was skidding through a hairpin right turn, plowing through a wire fence and launching my Focus airborne.

There was just enough time for "Ohmygod, is this it?" to flash through my mind, then I was face-first into an airbag. The car had sailed 20 feet, dropped another 20 and landed nose-down in a pasture of vaguely amused sheep. Smoke was spewing through the dashboard,
the car's headlights were about a foot from my chest and my only escape was by smashing through the passenger-side window. Miraculously, however, I was unhurt—all but my pride.

A dazed 15 minutes later, my belongings and I were crammed into the car of a Good Samaritan named Michael and a short while later delivered into the welcoming arms of the Stella Maris Hotel in Ballycastle, where, also miraculously, the proprietor turned out to be an old friend and colleague, Terry McSweeney, former publications director for the PGA of America.

The rascal had married an Irish girl, Frances Kelley, and the two of them had bought an old convent in Frances' hometown and converted it into a stunning seaside hotel. Thanks to the nurturing of Terry and Frances—and a 50-mile lift from Terry to the Knock Airport, the closest car-rental location, I was on my way again the next day.

The forbearing if foolish folks at Murray's Europcar even entrusted me with another set of wheels. I'm not sure I'll ever be as cautious a driver as my wife wants me to be, but I do know this: Henceforth I will pay heed to all signs that read "Slippery When Wet."

My over-aggressive driving aside, I must say the Irish road system still has far to go. You have to know it's not an ideal situation when:

• The guy at the Dublin Airport car rental counter, asked whether he has any cars available with satellite navigation systems, replies, " No, we're not set up for that in this country yet. Besides, getting lost is all part of the Irish experience, isn't it?"

• At intersections, the signposts (which look like a kindergarten kid made them out of popsicle sticks) direct you to the nearest 10 or 12 towns and point in at least that many directions on the compass, despite the fact that your only options are left and right.

• Signs in about half the country—including Dublin—are printed in two languages, English and something only Darby O'Gill and the Little People understand. For example: "Dublin City Centre 4 miles/Dufna Slaegh Tiramisu 6 km."

•Someone tells you, " It's a 50-mile drive, but you better allow three hours."

I'm convinced it's all been perpetrated by a sect of demented leprechauns who lurk behind those stone walls, giggling at the sight of each steering-wheel-banging motorist.