From Dublin, a city that miraculously combines both energy and easy living, the traveler in Ireland can go either north or south on generally excellent roads. In our 1,700-mile odyssey of the whole of the Emerald Isle in May, my friends and I trekked south from Dublin to Wexford and Waterford.

We found that the East Coast generally enjoys finer weather than its western counterpart, where mists from the Atlantic have a churlish way of obscuring some of the most dramatic scenery in Europe. The gentle mountains and undulating farmlands between Dublin and Cork have a sweetness, placidity and charm all their own. And if you cleave to the coastal route, you’re always within sight of the sea, a cooling agent.

A side trip definitely worth the effort is the Arboretum dedicated to the memory of President John F. Kennedy, whose ancestors came from the “auld sod.” The Arboretum stretches toward Wexford with vast acreage on which 4,500 types of trees and shrubs grow lustily. In the spring the blossoms, cherry and apple, are stupendous — not to mention the clusters of multihued azaleas, rhododendrons, heather and gorse. Unlike a museum, it is a living memorial, a place that affords immense pleasure to all its visitors.

At Cork we turned north to Kilkenny, a thriving 1,000-year-old city dominated by a castle (much of it dating from the 19th century) and the splendid St. Canice’s Cathedral (Church of Ireland) in Gothic style.

The principal feature of the castle (its oldest sections stem from the 13th century) is an impressive long gallery in which are hung portraits of the Irish nobility, including those of its owners, the powerful Butler family, the Dukes of Ormond, and of some English royal personages, such as William III of Orange and his wife, Queen Mary. It is surrounded by handsome landscaped parks. This medieval city is a real bonus in anyone’s itinerary.

Barreling along over the countryside on a road leading west, you’ll eventually comes to Cashel, the chief feature of which is the Rock, a fortress castle (now under renovation) where St. Patrick preached and converted many. Every so often the traveler will stumble on the ruin of a castle, an ancient Celtic cross or a Stone Age burial mound, all of which attest to the layers of civilization that make this land what it is. And everywhere there are legions of sheep munching their way over the lush fields, the ewes followed in the spring by one or two lambs. Cows are numerous as well. On the craggy mountains in Kerry and Dingle, one occasionally will see a dead sheep lying at the side of the road, the victim of a motorist who hit the animal in the dense fog.

Backtracking a bit toward Cork, one comes upon the legendary Blarney Castle, another fortress set off beautifully by manicured gardens, gigantic rocks and a meandering stream. The visitor must, of course, submit to the rite of planting a kiss on the stone lying on the topmost rampart. Two guards grab the feet of the suppliant as he or she grasps two steel rods and lowers his or her torso to the level of the stone, a procedure not recommended for those with severe spinal problems or with acrophobia.

Through the majestic Boggeragh Mountains we trundled along to the Ring of Kerry, whose scenery, as has been sadly noted, was largely shrouded by thick fog. But at one lovely town — Sneem — along our route, we discovered a tastefully furnished tea room in a bed and breakfast establishment that looked absolutely beguiling. The young owner, who could have sold the proverbial refrigerator to an Eskimo, also operated a shop crammed with woolen items: sweaters, gloves, scarves, tams, capes and skirts. The sweaters still gave off a pungent odor of sheep.

From there it was on to Adare, one of the cleanest, most sparkling and most beautifully appointed towns in Ireland. Limerick, just beyond, was in the throes of excitement over a sports event — hurling — that had brought scads of police from all over the area. Along the swift-flowing Shannon River on which the city lies is yet the remains of another castle called Drumolden erected during the reign of King John of England to keep the Irish from rebellion.

From there to Galway, you can see little of the reputedly grand scenery, but occasionally there’s a hazy glimpse now and then to know that the claims were justified.

Continuing north, we came to the Holy Hill near Ballina where St. Patrick, whose statue (a poor thing) graces the spot, preached. Those who make a pilgrimage there are bound by many restrictions if they are to receive the ultimate spiritual consolation they desire.

From here it is a hop, skip and a jump to the border of Ulster. Both Londonderry (usually referred to as simply Derry by the militant Irish) and Belfast are rather homely industrial cities, both hotbeds of IRA activity. In the former the Protestants live in neighborhoods shut off by stone walls and barbed wire, their homes protected by iron grates. The Catholics are generally found in lower-middle class or lower-class ghettos. Bitterness between the two religious factions is palpable.

The countryside, especially that along the Glens on Antrim, is spectacular. A magnet for tourists is the Giants’ Causeway, where stones in oblong shapes form a kind of finger inching into the sea.

From Belfast turn south to Newcastle in the shadow of the mystical Mourne Mountains and to Newry close to the border. From there it’s a short drive back to Dublin.

Such an itineray seemed wonderfully comprehensive at the time; yet, after studying the map of the island, I suddenly realized — remorsefully — that there is so much more to this Emerald Isle, the land of a Celtic people of wit and friendliness. Thus it still beckons tantalizingly.

Robert H. Newall of Hampden is a free-lance writer.