Emerald Isle

Let me start off by saying that I love Ireland -- it's one of the most delightful places I have ever visited. I mention this because whenever I talk or write about the Emerald Isle, I always seem to end up telling stories about amusing things that happened while I was there. Since I don't want people to think I am making fun of the Irish, I begin with this "disclaimer."

That said, the first few experiences I had in Ireland were fairly silly. To begin with, I arrived in Rosslare Harbor on the ferry from Wales, so I had grown accustomed to British efficiency, particularly in the area of rail travel. (As an American, I found myself astounded by how well the trains run in Britain. For you British out there who have never visited the States, we Americans really do well when it comes to travel by plane or auto, but our trains leave a bit to be desired.) Anyway, I passed through passport control in Rosslare, which, being unmanned, proved the most hassle-free of any I have ever encountered, and hopped on a train to Limerick. The train ride began innocently enough, and I sat back admiring the beautiful countryside as evening gradually became night. The trained paused in Waterford, and I remember how beautifully the lights of the town were reflected in the water. The lights had a remarkably orange color and seemed almost like torchlight. This gave the scene a mysterious, ancient feel. However, I am getting ahead of myself. Before dark, the train suddenly came to a halt in the middle of a field. "Odd," I thought, "nothing here but a few cows." My traveling companion, my good friend Tom Elliott (veteran traveller in many lands, including Ireland), looked at me knowingly. "Overshot," he said. Sure enough, the train began to back up, shortly reaching the station we had missed. Some time later, we pulled into a small crossing called Limerick Junction. This is where the lines from Dublin to Cork and Rosslare to Limerick cross. Travellers can change trains here to get, say, from Dublin to Limerick. Our trained arrived at the junction on time, and 20 minutes later, the train from Dublin pulled in. (I have to say that in my experience, Irish trains are like those of Amtrak in that they are seldom on time.) We took on transfering passengers, and prepared to continue on our way. A shudder came from forward, but no movement ensued. More shudders, along with voices raised in Celtic consternation. "She will nay move," I heard shouted from outside, and indeed, somehow our engine had broken down while sitting in the station. An hour wait produced a new engine, and eventually we arrived in Limerick, at midnight.

This presented a problem for us, as we had planned to spend the night in a youth hostel. Our train had been scheduled to arrive in Limerick at 11:00 pm, and we had called ahead to the hostel keeper, who had agreed to wait up for us. However, by midnight he was no longer answering the phone, and it looked like we would be facing a cheerless night in the Limerick station waiting room. Tired and hungry, we were in no mood to sleep on a bench, but there seemed to be nothing for it. However, luck was with us that night, as near the station were a Vietnamese restaurant and a hotel called simply The Railway Hotel. We grabbed some mighty good-tasting fried rice at the restaurant and then banged earnestly on the door of the hotel. Luckily, the proprietor was still up, and he kindly let us in, served us tea (after midnight, bless him!) and gave us a room at a most reasonable rate. And it was a fine room, too. I will always have fond memories of that hotel -- it was one of the most comfortable nights I ever spent.

We didn't spend much time in Limerick, but what I saw of the city made a good impression. The morning was bright and clear, and Limerick Castle's grey-white walls nearly glowed in the sunshine. The air was comfortably cool, and the town seemed clean and quiet. We visited a large church called St. Mary's (no, really!) and the stained glass glowed in brilliant reds, oranges, whites, and other warm shades. Through the center of everything, the River Shannon flowed in blue purity.

However, as I said, we didn't stay long. A half day of travel by bus landed us in the surfing capital of Ireland, Lahinch. Lahinch is a quiet little town on the Atlantic coast. It has a nice youth hostel, a beach, a surf shop (that bit about it being the surfing capital is not a joke, so far as I know), and some rugged sea cliffs south of town. We spent the evening atop one of those cliffs sharing a fresh loaf of bread, some butter and cheese (cut with a Swiss Army knife), and juice, watching the sun set into the mist and enjoying the salty scent of the sea breeze.

The next day took us from Lahinch to Lisdoonvarna, in the region of County Clare known as the Burren. The Burren has to be one of the strangest and most surprising places I have ever been. Unlike most of Ireland, which is lush and green, the Burren is stony. Indeed, it almost seems paved in places, so flat, complete, and perfect is the limestone that covers everything. In other areas, the stone is broken and tumbled, and plant life interrupts the rock. Even then, however, the Burren is rockier than the stoniest New England field. The Burren is also noteworthy for its thousands of archaeological treasures. In the region there are dozens of dry-stone ring forts, earthen ring forts (faerie rings), and other sites. One remarkable site is the town of Kilfenora, where an 11th century church stands among several high crosses, which are decorated with the image of St. Patrick.

However, before going further into the wonders of the Burren, I think I should digress a bit and mention the (perhaps) best place of all. I refer, of course, to the pub that joins the hostel in Lisdoonvarna. The pub is a great place, with a wooden floor and walls, and two large stone fireplaces, where warm and aromatic peat fires burn in the evenings. Of course, the Guinness (perhaps the most wonderful of Man's creations!) flows liberally from the taps, and the crowd is an interesting mix of Irish, Europeans, and Americans. I remember one particularly fine evening in this pub when, with one fire blazing away, the proprietor of the hostel (not the bartender) decided to light the other one as well. Unknown to him, swallows had nested in the other chimney, so when he lit the peat, the smoke had nowhere to go but into the pub. Soon, one could not see from one end of the room to the other. In a minor panic, the hostel owner cried "what should I do?" "Put the fire out, you fool!" said the bartender. "How?" asked the hostel owner. "Put the peat in a bucket," advised the bartender, still fairly calm. The owner did so. "Now what?" he asked, eyeing the bucket as if it were full of vipers. "Take the bucket outside," said the exasperated bartender. The crisis was soon ended, and since peat smoke has a wonderful scent, little harm was done. Anyway, a pint of Guinness puts everything in perspective....

Evenings in the pub in Lisdoonvarna never failed to provide entertainment. One night, two guitarists played there, singing various traditional songs. After a few hours of performence, they started leading the entire pub (by now, mostly Irish) in various songs. Everyone in the audience who sang received a pint of Guinness on the house. I was fortunate, because of course the Irish wanted to hear "an American song." I am no singer, but my friend Tom is (indeed, he could have been a professional, I believe, had he chosen to). He did the work, and since the Irish are far too polite to leave someone's friend out, I enjoyed the free pints along with him. Thanks, Tom!

Anyway, back to the Burren. It's a great place for cycling, and Tom and I rode many kilometers. Our first day took us to the Cliffs of Moher, which are the most awesome and terrifying sea cliffs I have ever seen. The tops of the cliffs are 600 feet or more above the sea. As a comparison, think of the Washington Monument in Washington, D.C. It stands 550 feet high. Standing atop the Cliffs of Moher, one can see tiny sea birds circling far below. At first, one imagines that they are down near the wavetops, but as one gets used to the perspective, one realizes that the "tiny" birds are, perhaps, one-third to one-half of the way down.... Watch that first step!

Other cycling trips took us to ruined ring forts, ancient churches, and the like. They also gave us many good views of the Burren's bizarre scenery. Some of the terraine there seems almost like the badlands in various parts of North America, except that the Burren is much more lush. Still, though not as severe as the badlands, the Burren does have small canyons (or at least canyon-like landforms) here and there, and other peculiarly shaped stones. There is also a very nice dolmen (a table-stone supported by uprigths), erected by ancient, pre-Celtic peoples as the opening of a burial mound. The mound itself has long since eroded away, but the stones remain as a monument to the builders. (There is a photo of a Welsh dolmen, called a "cromlech" in that country, on the Britain page.) I was content to examine this dolmen from a slight distance, as there was a large and ornery-looking bull in the field where the dolmen stood. Tom, however, wanted a closer look, so while he carefully made his way to the dolmen (wearing a red anorak, of all things!), I attempted to keep the bull's attention from outside the barbed wire. The situation was complicated by the fact that one cannot hope to run in a field in the Burren. The large number of stones and holes would make that a quick path to a broken ankle. All was well, however, and Tom is still with us, un-gored.

After our time in the Burren, we continued our journey until we reached Galway. Galway is a town of good seafood (crabs and shellfish), great pubs (with frequent live traditional music), and beautiful women. It also has an unusual cathedral, which evidently was built in imitation of Spanish architecture. We spent many evenings in Galway pubs listening to jam sessions in which fiddlers, guitarists, uillean pipers, and other musicians gathered to play for hours at a time. Also, as luck would have it, a Celtic music festival occurred while we were in town. We attended and enjoyed music from all of the Celtic nations. The Scottish section of the show was particularly enjoyable, but I have to say it would have been more enjoyable still if not for the formidable, aged MC who ran the proceedings with an iron hand. At one point in the evening, a really hot band took the stage. People began dancing in the aisles and generally having a great time. However, when the band had played its allotted number of tunes, the MC shooed them off the stage and brought up Mrs. So-and-so, a 60-odd-year-old woman who sang a capella, with a thin quavering tone. I'm sure she's a nice lady, but we really could have done without her singing. Ah, well, rules are rules, I guess....

After a few nights of Galway's pubs and music (and many rounds of Guinness, of course), we took the ferry from Galway to Inis Mor, the largest of the Aran Isles. Though the Isles guard Galway Bay from the fury of the North Atlantic, the bay nonetheless is a rough bit of water. We shared the boat with about 40 seasick French tourists, not a few of whom made partially-digested offerings to Neptune before we arrived at Cil Ronan. Luckily, I grew up on the water, so I was, for once, at an advantage. Landfall on Inis Mor was quite extraordinary, as it provided us with our first look at this seaborne extension of the limestone topography on the mainland. Tom's hat was blown into the sea, to be rescued by the crew of the ferry, and after that brief misadventure we hiked along the main road to the youth hostel. Inis Mor is much like the Burren, with an almost paved look to it, along with several dry-stone forts. The island is also subject to furious winds, and indeed during the three days we spent there, two gales blew through. Given this forbidding landscape and weather, the hostel seemed quite welcoming when we finally arrived. It was run by an eccentric Frenchman who had moved to the island some years before. The man is a master cook, and every day he prepares dinner for the hostel guests while listening to opera at ear-shattering volume (Cecilia Bartoli was featured the day we arrived). Meals are entirely vegetarian, and they are indeed masterpieces. This is a good thing because one never knows what will be served when evening arrives. If you ask the chef, he says, "I don't know, I just go in the kitchen and create."

Inis Mor is also the place where we had the best pints of Guinness of all that we enjoyed in Ireland. I should indulge in a brief digression at this point to tell those who have never been there that Ireland plays host to daily debates about where the best pint of Guinness is to be had. Any Irishman worth his salt will defend his own favorite pub, of course, and it would probably be just as well not to even bring the Murphy's or Beamish angles into the discussion. Nonetheless, I have to confess that there are minor differences from pub to pub, and the best that I know of is indeed on Inis Mor. The odd thing is that the bartender was a woman from New Jersey. How she ended up in the Aran Isles I have to say I have quite forgotten, if indeed I ever knew. The pub in which she tended bar provided good shelter, especially for travellers coming in out of the wind and rain that seemed an ever-present factor in life on the Isles.

As I mentioned before, there are several dry-stone forts on Inis Mor, most of which were built by pre-Celtic inhabitants of the island, if I am not mistaken. The largest is Dun Aengus, which is in fact larger than any other dry-stone fortress in western Europe. It stands on one of the highest points on the islands, on a cliff top a full 300 feet above the Atlantic. Another impressive fort is Dun Duchair, or the Black Fort, which is a promontory fortress also on the island's Atlantic side. (A promontory fort is created when people build one wall that in effect cuts off a peninsula, thus creating a fortress that uses the sea as part of its defense.) The Black Fort is a spooky place, as one has to brave a short walk along the edge of the cliff to pass the end of the fort's outer wall. Once inside, one can see the remains of small stone huts that provided shelter for the fort's defenders. It struck me that life on Inis Mor must have been truly wretched in the days when its people had to fight not only the elements but also invaders, or perhaps each other.

Inis Mor also boasts a few ancient churches and hermit huts. Evidently, in the earliest days of Christianity in Ireland, a handful of the faithful made their way to the island's remote wilds and built tiny stone huts. Tom and I visited one during one of our long hikes across the island. Here I am forced to digress yet again, in order to mention the difficulty there is in hiking about the place. Inis Mor is divided into an insane patchwork of small fields, which are bounded by dry-stone walls. However, unlike walls one might see in other parts of the world, Inis Mor's do not have gates. Apparently, when an islander has to get animals from one field to another, he simply tears down part of the wall and then rebuilds it behind him. Those who do not wish to engage in this sort of labor have no choice but to hop the walls every 50 paces or so, which, combined with the island's dearth of roads and lanes, makes for tough going indeed. Anyway, on one of our walks, Tom and I were joined by a small dog that evidently had nothing better to do than follow us around. We tried to shoo him home at first, but he would have none of it, so we accepted him as a companion. He dutifully followed us everywhere we went, with one exception, and this proved one of the stranger events of my life. As Tom, the dog, and I stood outside of one of the ancient (5th century) hermit huts, a squall blew in off the Atlantic. Tom and I at once took shelter in the hut, but the dog remained outside in the pouring rain, staring in at us with an expression of canine disquiet. We thought this odd at first, but soon we too began to sense whatever it was that was troubling the dog. I cannot explain it, but both Tom and I were struck with a vague sense of unease, as if we were in the presence of wrongness. I am not one to jump at shadows, normally, and we never did discover any cause for our discomfort, but both Tom and I quickly scrambled out of the hut and into the rain, preferring to get wet rather than remain in that place. (More to come....)

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