Days 27-29

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Day 27: Ballindine – Connemara outing

The day dawned cold, with a blustery wind. First south, to Galway city. The outlook over the famous bay was grey and bleak, which didn’t deter three or four mad swimmers in a seaside suburb from jumping into it, sans wetsuits, for a swim. As we continued around the coast road we suffered our regular fate and got lost, this time impressively reaching the extremity of a coastal island when we thought we were still on the mainland. The local who gave us directions back said it was a regular occurrence. In addition to the road signage being inconsistent and frequently absent, in Connemara it goes from being bilingual to only in Irish Gaelic (or simply Irish, as it is known). Often the Irish bears only a faint resemblance to the English, so that we missed the turn-off to Costelloe because it was rendered as Casla.

In this region, for the first time, we commonly hear street conversations in Irish. It is an attractive, soft-sounding language. (Later, we watch a hurling match on TV with the commentary in Irish, which is of course incomprehensible yet somehow seems to fit the game well.) Physically, Connemara has everything – peaceful bays and loughs decorated with picturesque islands, green wooded glades, and stark, looming hills overshadowing valleys dotted with farmhouses and criss-crossed by the omnipresent dry stone walls. And we saw some ponies!


Day 28: Ballindine – Inishmore outing

A day trip by ferry to the largest of the Aran Islands began in the traditional manner with us missing a carefully concealed turn-off. When we were sure we’d gone past the road to the ferry, we stopped and asked – “it’s ten minutes back the way you came”, said the nice young man, nine minutes before the ferry was due to leave. Fortunately, they always run a bit late, it seems, presumably to cater for our type of situation.

On the island, we opted for the horse-and-trap tour, pulled by Molly, who seemed to do it all on autopilot, and hosted by Paddy, who gave Molly an occasional desultory flick with a soft rope “whip” and grumbled at her in Irish from time to time. He was informative and friendly enough, but hardly the extroverted fount of history and anecdote one might have expected. We also only understood about half of what he said, a problem that appeared to go both ways. The experience was well worth it, though. The locals appear to converse among themselves entirely in Irish – the western islands, much as in Scotland, seem to be the stronghold of the language. The prevalence of stone walls, too, seems even greater than elsewhere, partly due to the number of very small fields and pens on the farms. As Paddy explained it, there were simply so many rocks it was easier to build more fences with them than to move them away.

The highlight of the day was a visit to Dun Aengus, a superbly-preserved Neolithic fort built in an arc on the edge of a sheer 100m cliff. Though it’s not as high as the Cliffs of Moher (see next day), for the visitor – or at least some visitors – the beauty of it is that, amazingly, there is no barrier at the edge. Not even a warning sign. This surely can’t last, but for the present it adds immeasurably to the experience. I imagine that with an easterly blowing, one might be a bit circumspect, but with a reassuring howling gale blowing in off the sea there were plenty of people venturing very near the rim. Some (such as me) felt slightly safer by keeping in contact with the fort wall where it met the edge; others had no need even of that reassurance. Others again, of course, stayed ten metres away from the drop.

We bought some knitwear and local jewellery, and returned home via a different route without once veering off-course, thus finishing off a great day nicely.


Day 29: Ballindine-Doolin

Tossing the remains of our bread to the foal’s mother as we left, we headed south past Galway. First destination was Coole Park, the property where once stood the home of Lady Gregory, patron of the arts and theatre in the first part of last century and a particular friend of (that man again) W. B. Yeats. No wild swans were to be seen – they had decamped to Iceland for the summer – but the extensive gardens and woods were a joy to walk in and rest our eyes in countless shades of green. A visitors’ centre presented a delightful picture of life at the house (unforgivably demolished by 1940s bureaucrats) as seen by Lady Gregory’s two daughters, who grew up mixing casually with the likes of Yeats, Shaw, Synge, O’Casey and Augustus John. A gem of a tourist place, and very lightly attended when we were there.

Coole Park is just on the fringe of the Burren region, a mysterious and spectacular landscape of rock laid out in oddly geometric ways and hosting in its green fissures wildflowers and small creatures galore. A Megalithic tomb was worth a visit, then we contented ourselves with slowly driving the coastline and stopping occasionally to gaze at yet another variation on the Burren landscape.

We ended up at a B&B in Doolin and headed out to McGann’s pub for a huge and hearty dinner followed by a couple of hours of local music in the bar, featuring a brilliant concertina player and two singers, one playing bouzouki and the other, the publican’s wife, on bodhran. Oh, and some bloke from Cork in a green tracksuit who was staying in town doing outdoor education exams and had his guitar with him, so he joined in for a few songs. A hugely enjoyable night, and the following morning we discovered that Guinness hardly gives you a hangover at all.

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