Clare and eastwards

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XClare
The next few days I stay on the Burren, in Kilfenora and Coisceam, near Caron with two different friends The Burren is a huge limestone pavement covering a chunk of Country Clare. I visit the Cliffs of Moher, where crowds of tourists pour out of buses from as far afield as Dublin and wander round the exhibition, or peer over the cliffs at the stacks, and strata, and height. Apparently it's the most visited tourist site in Ireland. It's impressive how the cliffs were formed, from deposits at a river delta from when Ireland was in tropical climes. Bernie took me for a drive to see a local portal stone dalmen, a burial cairn called Poulnabrone, and for a walk along a beach covered in fabulous interesting stones. I have a collection to take home of different coloured mostly smooth rocks.

That night the cow who had been thrashing her tail for two days gave birth to a calf. Tom, Bernie's farmer husband and I walk up to see it, and the cow lets Tom scratch the calf’s back.
I don't go to close; I don't want to upset the mother and I've heard stories of cows trampling people they suspect of threatening their young.

I drive around the Burren, enjoying the drive and views of Corkscrew Hill between Ballyvaughn and Lisdanvarna. The van loves it and so do I.
Bernie is urgent with me to come to Lisdanvarna in September for the matchmaking festival and I'm tempted. A lot of dancing goes on and it could be a laugh. I drive to Doolin, north of the cliffs of Moher, and watch the waves splash up into plumes of spray.

Everyone I've stayed with so far has at least two cute animals, and Sian and Tom have only one cute animal, but two cute kids, who love the van, and want to explore it, have a picnic in it, and pretend-drive to foreign climes to see make believe animals. I'm exhausted, but charmed.

I intended to go north and see the Giant's Causeway but I don't have enough time. I shall come again and see the north west as well as the six counties another time.
Thursday I drive east and as the weather is not good, I don't stop anywhere. So far there has been little rain, and when it does rain it passes quickly. Today I have a thick grey blanket of sky with frequent rain, and i reckon the best thing to do is keep driving. The roads are good and pretty empty and i enjoy the novelty of driving on a clear motorway.
I stop for lunch at Clonard Monastery Inn, and read about the battle of 1698 when warmongering Wexford men came up to Roscommon to fight.
I catch up with Ozbus news in Navan, in County Meath, staying with Barney and Tracy, who have a cute baby and dog and find out that the beer I have decided I quite like, Smithwicks, is actually an old man's drink.
Friday I drive to Newgrange, a Neolithic Passage tomb, older than the Pyramids and Stonehenge, built 5,000 years ago. There's a visitor centre then a guided tour inside the mound. It's fantastic; creeping in to the place where the winter solstice sunrise shines into a roof light and lights up the passage and the end alcove where cremated remains were left. The whole mound is about 80 metres across, and is one of the built on a ridge on an inner curve of the Boyne. There is art work on the stones, as well as 18th century graffiti from the 200 years between when the mound was discovered, and its importance realised, and subsequently protected.
The visitors’ centre was informative and well designed with exhibits, models, a film and a good cafe, followed by a bus ride to the mound. It was all very slick and well organised, with buses and guided tours run on time, and all for 5 euros. (According to my 1998 copy of Rough Guide to Ireland it is Ireland’s most visited site, though I was told earlier in the trip that this honour was held by the cliffs of Moher.) In the UK it would all be a lot more expensive and without the chance of banging one’s head on some Neolithic art. I always feel blessed when I can walk in the footsteps of a historical event or touch where ancient people passed.

On the way there I crossed the Boyne and there was a sign for a Rampart walk, so I stopped and took it. I have no idea what the rampart was part of; there was no sign of a castle but it was a 3 mile walk to the end of the public right of way and return. It ran close to the Boyne, and part of it was a towpath by a disused canal. The old lock gates were cemented over and the lock keeper’s cottage was roofless with trees growing inside. I was lucky with the weather; I ran the last 100 yards and got back to the van before the heavens opened. Usually the rain here is very fine; you don't feel as if you are being rained on, but suddenly realise you're drenched.

There don't seem to be many camosites in ireland, and my decision to stop and have a night in a hotel was thwarted when I was directed to a hotel, which was full. They let me stay in the carpark and fed me on steak and Guinness pie and a full Irish the next morning.
This all makes a change; mostly I've been having chowder which has been uniformly good.

The Battle of the Boyne is commemorated in a nearby manor house, with life-size replicas, models of the terrain, and two short films. It all happened on 1st July 1690 and I visited it on the 2nd July. In nearby Drogheda the next day a shopkeeper who came from the North told me that each year when the Orangemen marched through Catholic areas to commemorate the battle, his dad took the whole family south to get away from it. We further discussed the implications of Brexit. There is a concern that a border between the north and south could reignite feelings from the Troubles.
Apart from this conversation and reading the paper over a coffee (it is Saturday after all), I leave the history of Drogheda for another time and head for the coast. I saw so much of the western side, that I want to compare it.

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