A Walker in the Suburbs

We arrived here last night, driving through the Connor Pass. It was not for the faint of heart and definitely not for the faint of heart during a driving rain — although one advantage of the driving rain was that we couldn’t see the extent to which we were hanging off the side of a mountain.

All was forgiven when we reached John Benny’s Pub, with its Guinness beef stew, Irish cider and traditional music (guitar and concertina played by a young woman who closed her eyes in rapture as her fingers slid across the keys).

Today dawned bright and clear, an Irish rarity, so we could see the Blasket Islands and even Skellig Michael off the Kerry Coast as we drove around Slea Head.

Beehive huts, ancient monasteries, baby lambs and so many facts from our tour guide Michael Collins that my fingers were flying just to take it all down.

Afterwards, lunch in the Strand upstairs tea room with a local vibe that felt like we’d gone back in time at least 50 years.

Dingle Town: Sign me up.

There are a few cars on the Aran island of Inishmore, but biking seems to be the preferred mode of transportation, that and the occasional pony cart.

Whichever you choose, the best way to travel the lanes of this rocky island are the slowest ways, ones that let you stop often to snap photos of rock-fenced fields and empty beaches.

The sea is everywhere here, visible from both sides at once. The cold, gray Atlantic crashing on cold shores.

Could this be what people have in mind when they say “the ends of the earth”? For two days in a row now I’ve stood on clifftops and washed the sea churn and crash below.  Next stop, North America.

Yesterday it was the Cliffs of Moher in County Clare, home to my Long relatives. (I saw the old road to the house of the bachelor uncles Mom and I met so long ago.) The Cliffs of Moher were being buffeted by what felt like 50-mile-an-hour winds when we arrived. I was afraid they’d blow my phone out of my hands or me into the drink.

Today it was Dun Aengus on the Aran Island of Inishmore, a fort that’s perched atop 200-foot cliffs and loses a bit of its real estate to the sea every year. This place was inhabited in 800 B.C., and has been a fort for at least 2,000 years.  That’s two thousand.

Everywhere you look here the earth looks both new and old at the same time: rock walls, lambent air, sky a mottled combination of clouds and sun.

Cattle munch grass between the stones. Cyclists (including us) zoom from town to the far reaches of the island, searching for ruined churches and other ancient sites.

It’s a companionable mix, and a magical place. And it feels like the ends of the earth.

Yesterday we visited an 800-hundred-year-old fort where the wind howled and the heather bloomed and the views stretched out forever.

Inside the simple stone structure — made with no mortar — steps worked into the sides of the walls took you to the top, where you could walk along around the perfect circle (as long as the wind didn’t knock you over).

At one point, a rainbow shimmered, not so much in the sky as in the air below the fort. It was like we had come to the end of the rainbow and found not a pot of gold — but a spot of beauty so rare as to make us not care we had been cheated out of a fortune.

The leprechauns always have the last word, of course. In this case, they’ve made it darn near impossible to upload the correct picture onto this blog. So the more classic rainbow photograph at the top (shot the evening before in Portrush) will have to do, and some imagination is required to see the view from the fort (immediately above) shimmering with color. Believe me, it did.

Is there any institution anywhere as civilized as the British (or Irish) B&B? The creaky, carpeted stairs. The prim bedrooms with small matching lamps and crisp linens. The parlors with bookshelves and game table. The cheerful proprietress, who “shows you the room.” The keys are metal and the dimensions are small.

And then there are the breakfasts: Fried eggs, fried tomatoes, fried bread. Orange juice and cornflakes. Toast and marmalade and pots of hot tea.  China teacups with small spoons. Other guests who tell you that they’re off to the Titanic Museum in Belfast today, that he’s originally from Portrush but lives in Lancashire now. She that it’s colder here than in England and she brought only t-shirts. The exclamations: And you’re doing the whole country in two weeks? (Opposite from the States: You’re spending two weeks just in Ireland?)

Actually, almost two weeks. We’re spending a night and a day in Northern Ireland, part of the United Kingdom. Which means that we’ve been the recipient, once again, of the unique hospitality of the (almost) British B&B.

Giant’s Causeway is scenery on a large scale. If it was an opera, it would be “Aida,” something with elephants and processions.

The rocks themselves were made from lava flows that quickly crystallized. But what captured my attention wasn’t just the geology of the place; it was the beauty. The blue-gray churn of the Atlantic, the green of the low hills and the colorful jackets and parkas of humans clambering over rocks.

We walked in and out of rain, but in between, the sun sparkled on damp heather and a rainbow shimmered. We walked a while on a high coastal path that took us by cows grazing with a million-dollar view. Didn’t matter to them. They just chewed their cud and swished their tales.

Scotland is less than 30 miles from the slice of the Antrim coast we saw today. It feels like we’re at the far northern tip of the world.

(Photos to come when wi-fi is more alert!)

To get ready for the trip I began reading How the Irish Saved Civilization, which describes how Irish monks sitting in beehive huts painstakingly and lovingly copied the great classical manuscripts.

When the rest of Europe was overrun with barbarian hordes, this rainy, out-of-the-way island was quietly making all the difference.

It’s exciting that we’re actually going to see some of these beehive huts on the Dingle Peninsula and on the island of Inishmore, two of the stops we’re making.

But first … there’s more packing to be done.

Next stop, Dublin!

Tomorrow we leave for Ireland. The routes are planned, the car is reserved. It will be a stick shift (left -hand drive), which means an adventure from the get-go.

It’s been decades since I visited the “auld sod” with Mom. We had more than two weeks on the road with plenty of time to look up Concannons, Longs and other relatives. We found a road in Barna, outside Galway, and a man who was the spitting image of my grandfather. He told us that the Concannons on one side of the road didn’t speak with the Concannons on the other side of the road. We knew then that we had found the right family.

We also located two old bachelor second cousins once removed. Gerard and John Long lived down a long lane in County Clare. Their simple cottage had a tin roof and no plumbing. They took out their finest linens and china and served us a cup of tea with toasted brown bread. It was a moment I’ll never forget.

It’s a different Ireland now — but one I can’t wait to explore!