A Walker in the Suburbs

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!