Highmoon's Ponderings

Wednesday, Nov 27, 2002

We set out from Portrush in the early morning, enjoying the Antrim countryside on our way to Belfast. It was hard to remember we were in Ireland; we were familiar with the road signs since we had been to England the year before (in the summer of 2001, see the Transfiguration Tour part for more) and they kept confusing us as to where we were, not to mention the people’s accent is a bit different in the north: a mixture of Irish and British that tells you you’re not quite in either place.

We made it into Belfast by mid-morning, and after about an hour in the car trying to navigate the many one-way roads of central Belfast, we managed to find a place with a vacant room, the Camera House, a converted Victorian townhouse with tons of charm and a great location, just south of the city and steps away from Queen’s University and the Ulster Museum. In fact, after settling in, that’s exactly where we decided to go.

Because of the heavy rain we stayed all afternoon inside the Ulster Museum. While our books rate the museum as an okay site, we decided to do the most of our situation, and fortune smiled on us: the museum was hosting a special exhibition of ten drawings by Leonardo DaVinci, part of the Queen’s Jubilee celebrations. Free entry, almost empty museum and 10 DaVinci drawings all for our tireless perusal turned the afternoon into an incredible time. To this add the exhibition on the treasures recovered from the Girona, a Spanish Armada ship that shipwrecked off the Antrim Coast in 1588, and we were two very happy travelers.

Later that night we went to town, to try to at least see something of the city. We went to the Crown Liquor Saloon, an Victorian bar with great atmosphere (though with one rude bartender) and these little booths–snugs, as they are called–where in Victorian times women could drink in peace and unafraid of being seen in a place such as this. We took a snug, ordered some pints, and just sat there, enjoying a (relatively) quiet drink while reflecting on our up-to-now wonderful honeymoon in magical Ireland. Afterwards we walked the streets, passing by the City Hall and going into the pedestrian shopping zone in search of Kellys Cellar, a 300-year old pub featuring live music, but it was already closed.

We headed back to our room, and decided to simply stay in that night: after all, this was our honeymoon…

NOTE: The weather in Belfast was horrible; the strong rain hardly let down at all, which explains why there are no pictures of Belfast here: we actually took none. Even later at night, when we went out on the town, we forgot the camera at the room. We owe Belfast an apology, and promise when we go back we’ll take enough pictures to make it up to the city.

Tuesday, Nov 26, 2002

Behold the guardian of Sligo, Ben Bulben.
Nov. 26, 2002

In the morning when we woke up, we opened the window only to finally see how good of a view of Ben Bulben our B&B had: it was right in front of us, looming large and serene, a crown of clouds on its head. It is said that you cannot go anywhere in Sligo without seeing Ben Bulben, and I believe it. It is a cyclopean sentinel watching over its kingdom, and over its beloved poet.

At breakfast we met another couple from Boston and dined on “little soldiers”, hard-boiled eggs served with a strip of toasted bread for a rifle, and some home-made orange marmalade. It was absolutely delicious. After packing all our stuff, we headed just some few hundred feet up the road to Drumcliff Churchyard, the site of Yeats’ grave.

Amid ancient relics–a Norman round tower across the street, and St. Columbkille’s (or St. Columba) Cross–and overlooked by Ben Bulben, Drumcliff is a solemn place. In winter, the trees reach skeletal branches to the sky, and the clouds descend quite low, shrouding the area in mist. In the middle of this otherworldly setting, we sat to pay our respects to a man who was as much a patriot of Ireland as any of the martyrs of the Easter Rebellion (more in Dublin), a man who sought to better his country by his words, a man who gave us a legacy in writing that will live for centuries to come. His true monument, however, is not in Drumcliff, but rather in our bookshelves, all the bookshelves of the world that still hold Yeats’ words and hope of a new Ireland, a new world.

Yeats himself put it best in his poem, “Under Ben Bulben”:

Under bare Ben Bulben’s head
In Drumcliff churchyard Yeats is laid.
An ancestor was rector there
Long years ago, a church stands near,
By the road an ancient cross.

No marble, no conventional phrase;
On limestone quarried near the spot
By his command these words are cut:

Cast a cold eye
On life, on death
Horseman pass by!

The grave of the great Irish poet William Butler Yeats.
Nov. 26, 2002

From Drumcliff we decided to check out another Yeatsian location, so we set back into Sligo in search of Lough Gill and the Lake Isle of Innisfree. By now it had kind-of become a private joke between us: you see, Yeats had a very particular way of reading poetry, where rhythm was heavily marked, and Lake Isle was the poem Danny had heard a recording of Yeats reading in one of his classes. So whenever we spoke of Yeats, we would recite Lake Isle in a mock rendition of Yeats’ accent. Yes, we realize its one of those things you had to be there, but if you can ever hear a recording of Yeats reading poetry, do so and you’ll understand us perfectly.

“I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.”
– The Lake Isle of Innisfree

Yvette & Danny in front of the Lake Isle of Innisfree (back and left).
Nov. 26, 2002

We made our way back to the main road, and with Ben Bulben watching over our departure, we headed north, way north, headed towards our next destination: Northern Ireland.

Our drive north took us through County Donegal, and we could see first-hand the difference in the landscape of this side of Ireland. The mountains are not quite as lush as the southwestern part had been; in fact, it had more in common with Connemara in its starkness than with Dingle and its verdant scapes. Eventually we took a roundabout that took us into Northern Ireland. We were expecting to have to show our passports, but the only way we knew we had crossed was because the signs changed and there was barbwire around various buildings, including a school. This was our introduction to Derry/Londonderry (depending on which side of the issue, and river, you stood).

Our destination was still far away: we were heading towards the northern coast of Ireland, to the Giant’s Causeway. It took a few hours but we finally made it, stopping first at Dunluce Castle. Not a huge tourist attraction, we nonetheless decided to stop and take a look, mainly because it was empty and we had the ruins pretty much to ourselves. Dunluce’s claim to fame is rather bizarre: in 1639, on a stormy night the Count of Antrim was hosting a party at his castle when all of a sudden half the kitchen just fell off into the sea. The guide told us that one could still see the ruins down in the water, though we could not reach the area since it was roped off.

“None shall pass!” Danny at Dunluce Castle.
Nov. 26, 2002

Our quick stop at Dunluce done, we headed towards the main course of Antrim, the Giant’s Causeway.

Formed by the Celtic warrior Finn McCool in order to reach his lover in the Scottish island of Staffa, the causeway is a natural wonder. Geologists say that it was actually created by cooling basalt lava some 60 million years ago, but we all know that scientists must have their own silly explanations. Finn was actually quite thorough, making his causeway all the way to Staffa (off the coast of Scotland), though only the foundations can be seen in Ireland and Staffa today, since the rest lies underwater, after Finn’s lover’s brother tore it up escaping from Finn’s wrath as he fled back to Scotland.

We decided to take the scenic path: it was 4:00 pm when we began our walk (remember that). The view of the coast is amazing, though we glossed it over as we wanted to reach the causeway before dark. The scenic path was longer than we expected and then involved going down the side of the mountain via a very narrow path. Remember we mentioned it had been raining a lot in Ireland before we arrived? The path was okay, though it could have been better at parts. Suffice it to say that we were very, very foolish to have taken this path and we made it down alive thanks to the grace of God.

Via this approach, we had to pass by The Organ first, so we stopped to take a few pictures. The basalt pillars that make up the causeway are actually all over the mountains in the area, and in this particular place, the top layer of the mountain had fallen, revealing the infrastructure of hexagonal pillars, making it look like a bunch of organ pipes, hence the name. It was quite impressive, especially when you stood at the bottom and looked straight up (major case of vertigo), but time was running short and we wanted to see the causeway.

Yvette in front of “The Organ”, one of the basalt formations at the causeway.
Nov. 26, 2002

By the time we reached the actual causeway the sun had set but there was still plenty of light to see the formations. Immediately we regretted having stopped at Dunluce, but we had made our choice and now we had to make the most of it. The formations at the causeway are incredible; no photograph can ever do them justice. The photographs make it seem darker than it really was, though not by much.

It is simply amazing to witness these strange shapes conjured by nature, so many perfectly fitted steps trailing off to the sea. Finn surely did a great job.

The hexagonal stones of the Giant’s Causeway,
another proof of how whimsical and fickle nature can be.
Nov. 26, 2002

Yvette wanders as close as possible to the edge of the
causeway. The marker shows where the tide normally comes up to.
Nov. 26, 2002

With the light fading very fast, we had to make our way off from the rocks and onto the road. We realized we were alone–completely alone–and no one knew we were down here. To make things more interesting, a big storm was rolling in from the north, and its windy herald was already upon us. With only the hint of moonlight to guide us, we set out against the wind and up the steep road. As we rounded a small corner, the wind buffeted us, throwing Danny three steps back. The climb up was a feat of endurance, with only a far-away light from the visitor’s center providing us a destination. Eventually we made it all the way up; the place was deserted, night had completely fallen and the storm had arrived. We got into our car and sat there for a few moments catching our breath, giving thanks that we had made it out of what could have been a really bad spot. It was then we looked at our watch: it was 5:00 pm on the dot. Our whole odyssey, worthy of its own epic poem, had taken only one hour.

We went back to Portrush and found a room at the Belvedere Town House, a place recommended by our Rick Steves’ guide. After getting some food we hit the town to check out the Portrush nightlife, meaning the arcades. Portrush is a holiday spot, and that’s exactly what it caters to; it’s full of bars, restaurants, amusement centers and arcades. The arcades are actually very cool, a mixture of oldand new games: video games stand next to 2p-slot machines and air hockey tables. We had a blast for a couple of hours, eventually heading back to the Belvedere to a very well-deserved night of sleep.

Monday, Nov 25, 2002

We left Galway early and headed up to Connemara, the wild western area of Co. Galway. In the early winter, Connemara sported a yellow-orange color scheme that made everything seem stark and lonely. Actually, Connemara was pretty lonely; we hardly saw any cars or people as we drove around. The peat bogs are amazing, and as you drive around you can see the peat “quarries” and the piles of peat logs or bricks left to dry.

The Connemara landscape is beautiful in its starkness.
Nov. 25, 2002

We wanted to see two things in Connemara. The first one was the village of Roundstone. We are both fans of the movie “The Matchmaker” (rent it if you haven’t seen it), and it was filmed in Roundstone, so we wanted to see this town. It took us a while to find it, mainly because it is all the way in the southwestern tip of Connemara. Roundstone is a one-street town, literally, right on the water. We walked around for about a half-hour, identifying all the locations from the movie, and drawing glances from the locals who for sure don’t see tourists in their little town in the middle of November (in the summer Roundstone hosts a big folk art festival).

Main (and only) street of the village of Roundstone.
Nov. 25, 2002

We bid goodbye to Roundstone and headed back into the main road to see Kylemore Abbey.

Kylemore Abbey, star of so many Ireland calendars.
Nov. 25, 2002

Built in the mid-1800′s as a neo-Gothic country mansion, it was taken over by refugee Belgian nuns during World War I, and today it serves as an exclusive girl’s boarding school. Every single book we had read told us that it was a waste of time to take the tour, not to mention it was pricey, so we decided to heed the overwhelming advice and skip it. Besides, the true beauty of Kylemore is the incredible setting. The house was built on the idyllic site of a fairy tale, a lush spot in front of a clear lake, surrounded by the wilderness of Connemara; there’s a reason why Kylemore Abbey is included in pretty much every Ireland calendar ever printed.

Yvette & Danny at Kylemore Abbey. Perhaps this photo
could one day read “Welcome to our new home!” (We wish!)
Nov. 25, 2002

About noon we hit the road north again, passing by Croagh Patrick, the fabled mountain from which St. Patrick drove all the snakes out of Ireland (there have never been snakes in Ireland, by the way) and which the faithful climb every July, and the haunting Coffin Ship, a memorial to the victims of the great famine who died by the hundreds in coffin ships–so called because they were rickety and because so many died in them–on their way to the promise of a better life in America.

It was the early afternoon when we pulled into the town of Westport to rest, eat and find accommodations in Sligo. What better place to do all this than at Matt Molloy’s Pub, owned by the flutist for the world-renowned Irish music band, The Chieftains. Westport was cute, a large town almost pretending to be a small city. At the pub we just people-watched; the Irish are great subjects for this good-traveler sport. Everything they do, they do with gusto, with passion. There was a group of three old men at the bar, all having a pint of Guinness, agitatedly discussing something. By the time we figured out what it was, we laughed: they were arguing about the proper way to drink a pint, and that one of them had seen someone else actually remove all the foam from his Guinness before drinking, at which point they all groaned out loud their incredulity. We will always remember this scene.

Our bladders empty, our stomachs full, and our reservation in Sligo made, we set out for Yeats’ Country.

We arrived in Sligo after dark, and it took us a moment to finally find our B&B, the Mountain View B&B, a charming farm house in a secluded corner with views of Ben Bulben. Of course, when we arrived it was dark and we couldn’t find the mountain. Once settled, we decided to go down for a pint at the nearby pub. We knew we were in Yeats’ Country–the poet grew up in this area, and some of his most evocative early poetry has Sligo for a theme and protagonist–so we expected the area of be Yeats-centric. The pub was a surprise. The walls were full of Yeats memorabilia: old photos, newspaper and magazine clippings, artwork based on his poetry and even some manuscripts in his own handwriting (it is unmistakable once you get to know it). Yeats permeated the room like a vapor, infusing even the beer in your hand with literary greatness.

Sunday, Nov 24, 2002

Our hosts at Ballymore House, Maurice and Theresa,
with Yvette as we were getting ready to leave.
Nov. 24, 2002

We left Sunday morning, but not without feeling that we had left part of ourselves in Dingle, and that we would have to come back to claim it. Thing is, for the rest of our lives, Dingle will be the place where we spent the most peaceful days of our honeymoon.

Yvette & Danny at the Connor Pass observation point.
Nov. 24, 2002

Since Galway was our next destination, we decided to head north via the Connor Pass; seemed like a good excuse to drive up to one of the highest points in the peninsula and enjoy the scenery. Once you reach the summit, you can pull over to see the peninsula from an incredible vantage point. The fields seem to undulate with the wind, and the various lakes, ponds and streams sparkle like quicksilver. In the distance we could see all of Dingle town, waving us good-bye, and reminding us to return one day. But for now, the road called, and our next destination promised to be simply amazing.

Danny on the side of a mountain on our way out of Dingle. Note the clouds not that far away.
Nov. 24, 2002

Our drive from Dingle took us north, where we had to take a ferry to cross the River Shannon, on our way to the Cliffs. It was early afternoon when we arrived, and we were not prepared for what we saw. The Cliffs of Moher are about as simply a natural sight can come, and yet they take your breath away even from afar. Extending for about five miles from the mainland, they soar up to 650 feet above the raging waters of the Atlantic below. A fine mist hangs permanently in the air, though it is almost impossible to hear the waves crashing (unless you ignore the warning sign and go to the platform and brave the strong winds for a chance to peek over the edge, which Danny thought about doing, except Yvette had no desire to become a widow on their honeymoon). You can see, however, the hundreds and hundreds of birds that make their homes on the crags of the cliffs, playing in the updrafts, well aware human onlookers envy them.

There are a few places on Earth where it is hard to
deny the hand of God in the world; this is one of those places.
Nov. 24, 2002

We wandered the area of the Cliffs up and down, even going to the little tower built by a local lord with money to spare, trying to see the Cliffs from every possible angle. These pictures do not even begin to do justice to the Cliffs of Moher, so be sure to visit them one day.

Yvette & Danny at the Cliffs of Moher.
Nov. 24, 2002

As much as we liked this place, we had to get on the road in order to make it to Galway not too late. There was, however, yet one more ancient stop on our map before getting to the city…

We took a detour on our way to Galway because we wanted to see the Burren, an area unique in Ireland. Once a glacier-covered tundra, it today offers an ecosystem found nowhere else in Ireland, with glacier-gashed limestone peeking from the ground, a network of tunnels that once housed bears, and various archeological sites, including the one we really wanted to see, the Poulnabrone Dolmen. Believed to be a “druid’s altar” a couple hundred years ago, today we know it is a stone-age portal-style grave, possibly a chieftain’s though no one knows for sure. While a center is promised for the future, today the dolmen stands alone in the middle of a field, and it takes a 200-meter hike to reach it. As you can see in the picture, we got there just before dusk (meaning at around 4:00 pm), but we had enough light and time to really marvel at this ancient artifact still standing after four thousand years. The Burren is supposed to be incredible in the summer, with flowers bursting out of the limestone all over; I guess we’ll just have to come back and see. Very carefully we picked our way back to the car and then drove for another two hours to reach Galway.

Poulnabrone Dolmen, a 4000 year-old grave, still captures the imagination.
Nov. 24, 2002

In Galway, we stayed at the Cill Cuana B&B, a place we reserved that morning before leaving Dingle (had it only been one day?). In fact, from here on, all our accommodations would be booked on-the-go, one of the perks of traveling in winter. Cill Cuana was decent, but not a place I would go back to; it was just good enough for the night. In fact, Galway felt pretty much like that.

Galway is a university town, and you can’t miss it. This would have been great if we had been with our friends, but on our honeymoon, and especially after the quiet solitude of Dingle, Galway simply grated on us. We walked the pedestrian part of town, dipping into the King’s Head Pub, there since the 16th century, for a pint and some music (rock covers, not bad). Galway is full of street artists, buskers, and on our way back to the car, we passed by a young woman with her guitar, strumming along in the chilling wind. She started to sing after we were about 10 feet past her, and her voice made us turn around simply because we had to know who it was that was singing. She was amazing, and we purchased her CD right there. Her name was Orlagh De Bhaldraithe (see the Links). After this it was back to the B&B and to sleep.

Saturday, Nov 23, 2002

Saturday was Shabbat, so we stayed in our B&B up until midday, then went out on a walk all the way to Ventry, some two miles away. The day looked gorgeous, so we thought it would be OK… About halfway to Ventry we could see the storm clouds rolling in from the sea. We managed to get to Ventry, and decided to hike back before the rain really started, only to have the rain really start once we had past the last place we could have taken shelter in. The rain was falling sideways, the wind driving it like thousands of tiny wet daggers. On the plus side, the left side of our bodies was pretty much dry, compared to the utter soaking on the right side. By the time we got back to the B&B, our host, Maurice, asked us incredulously, “What happened!” We told him the day had looked great so we had decided to walk to Ventry; he merely looked at us with a smile that said “silly tourists”. He did dry our clothes and light up a peat fire. We will forever associate the smell of peat with warmth.

Yvette with a pint of Bullmer’s cider at An Conair Pub. It was the first pub of five that night.
Nov. 23, 2002

Given this was our last night in Dingle, we decided to go for the Pub Crawl. Pubs are everywhere in Dingle, including some that do double-duty as stores during the day and pubs at night. Our crawl started at An Conair Pub (nice place, but the music would be in two hours), and from there we hit the Small Bridge Bar (packed, very atmospheric), Lord Bakers for a little food, then Dick Mack’s (one of those double-duty, a leather shop by day and pub by night), O’Flaherty’s (where they had great music, and the man on the banjo turned out to be the owner), and Murphy’s (with great rebel songs!).

Friday, Nov 22, 2002

Friday we decided to spend it in town. We slept late, then drove down to Dingle and walked pretty much every single one of its streets up and down. The tide was low, and following Rick Steves’ suggestion, we decided to walk all the way to the mouth of the harbor. However, we had arrived in Ireland just a few days after the south had been experiencing a week-long period of heavy rains, and the mud was unbearable, more than once almost succeeding in stealing our shoes and socks! So we simply walked around Dingle, checking out the local art, and buying a few things: a traditional Irish wool hat for Danny; natural Irish soaps by Gallunac; a stoneware mug from Louis Mulcahy Pottery; “Twenty Years a-Growing”, a collection of stories by Blasket Islander Maurice O’Sullivan; and “Time to Sail”, a CD by local artist/teacher/musician at John Benny Moriarty’s Pub Eilis Kennedy.