We stayed at a lovely little B&B called Cullinan’s while we toured the sights of the Burren. I had never visited the Burren before, and my only real sight of it was from the other side of Galway Bay, it appearing as nothing but a series of grey, rock hills on the edge of the water; terraced and barren. But upon closer inspection the crags of rock hide a million little flowers and green leaves sprouting in the cold and wet that plagued much of the Burren during our time there. Along the drive we took time to examine a number of ancient stone forts including Cather Conell and the Poulnabrone Dolmen, a prehistoric portal tomb whose rocky makeup blends it into the background of the Burren seamlessly, as if it has been there forever.
Poulnabrone Dolmen in the rain of the Burren.Evenings in Doolin consisted of dinner at a pub called O’Connel’s, where live music was in the plenty and I was persuaded to try a Smithwick’s, an Irish ale, and the first Irish beer I have had that wasn’t a stout (I am apparently not a stout-drinking gal). It was like most pubs in the way it catered to nooks and crannies, booths and side-tables, with paraphernalia on the walls and an atmosphere of talk and community. Actually, rather different from the scene I encounter in Cork pubs, but not at all bad.
Two nights in Doolin found us once again on the road around Co. Clare and across the Shannon to the town of Dingle in Co.Kerry. To the south of Doolin, whence we traveled, sit the famous Cliffs of Moher, a series of sheer and rocky precipices that jut out to the Atlantic at staggering heights. Our visit saw a foggy and grey day as we approached the walk along the tops, where sometimes the mist would lift for a bit and you could make out the shadow of rock before it disappeared again into wet and wind. It was as if the ever-changing clouds of Ireland had descended to make the already impressive sight even more intriguing, substantially more dynamic.
After awhile cliff-walking in the mist we headed back onto the road, stopping once again a bit down the road to see St. Bridget’s Well, St. Bridget being one of the three patron saints of Ireland (the other two are St. Columba and, of course, St. Patrick). It was little more than a ceramic statue and a small, underground passage to the cool, running well. The passage was littered with what appeared to be years of offerings and prayers, papers, pictures, plastic flowers and stuffed animals, ribbons, and rosaries all made the more foreboding by the light peaking into the passage from either end.
Offerings at St.Bridget's Well.It was here that, after watching a small girl follow her father’s instructions when visiting the well, that Aunt Barbara and I decided to also follow these instructions in genuflecting. Unfortunately my camera was not very securely pocketed and it managed to wriggle it’s way out and leap for the water, where it plummeted to the bottom and stayed as I tried to wriggle out of my coat and retrieve it.
So the camera is gone, but the pictures, stored safely on my card, remain intact, and with the purchase of a new camera all things seem to be amended. But I’m still a little baffled that St. Bridget didn’t think to bless me with a still functioning camera.
Eventually we made it to Dingle, where we stayed at another lovely little B&B that overlooked Dingle Bay, a sight of muted light in the fog and water and cow-pastured earth. it was as if a painting had come to life, to think the light never really looks like that. But it does. It does.
In Dingle we took time to tour the Dingle Peninsula thanks to some help from a Rick Steve’s travel guide found in the B&B. Our first major stop was Dunbeg Fort, a semi-circular Iron-age promontory fort latched onto the side of a cliff. Open completely to the public, we walked down between two sheep pastures, alongside a classic bubbling brook, and through the stone entrance, into the center when people lived before time was measured in years.
It was an intriguing site, matched only by the Beehive Forts we next saw. Just as they sound, the Beehive Forts were a jumble of fallen stone domes, resembling to all other things, a beehive. In and out, some stones were excavated, some were still visibly buried. Some gave cool shadows in the warm sun, and inside the beehive domes it was almost cold.
The tour took us winding along the coast, around Mt. Eagle and Mt. Brandon, to the very tip of Ireland, from which the Great Blasket Islands and the little lump of rock called Skelling Michael are visible. We would have surely visited one of these islands, most probably Skelling Michael, where the ruins of beehive huts that once housed a community of monks now sit deserted on the edge of the sea. But it was still before Easter and most boats don’t start running until after the holiday. Out of luck this time.
We ended the drive at the Gallarus Oratory, a piled stone building that looks like something out of an Andy Goldsworthy installation. Smooth rounded sides coming to a pointed roof, the stones perfectly fit, flat and cool. Dating from the 8th century, it’s one of the oldest churches in Ireland. A small, now quiet and chill building with a dirt floor and marks in the wall where a cover would have been a door, it was a beautifully intriguing thing.
Dinner was had back in Dingle, at a seafood place called “Out of the Blue” where the whole menu (written on a chalkboard at the start of the evening) is composed of whatever is brought into the harbor that day. Fresh as can be. It was a spectacularly delicious meal the likes of which I have not had in a long time, and which left me quite full for a long time as well.
The next morning I departed on the 10.15 bus back to Cork to prepare for the arrival not only of Aunt Barbara and Uncle David in Cork, but also my parents!
Mist at the Cliffs of Moher.
