leaving Ireland

Up early. It takes a long time to go through photos, compose an Ocean text. On days like this – when time is so precious, I want to fly through it and of course, those are the times when the mind freezes and words go nowhere.

But by 10, we are showered and packed and putting away the last of the great Cairbre House breakfasts.





And by 11, we’re on the road. We haven’t much time – maybe an hour of Ireland gazing. After that – well, there’s the long drive back to Dublin.

I suggest we visit Lismore. I've been curious about this village (some two dozen kilometers inland) and not, as Ed claims, because I read that it holds the honor of being Ireland’s “tidiest.” It seems, at least on paper, that it has a bit of everything: it's older, atmospheric, many a famous person has passed through it -- possibly because it has a magnificent castle and gardens, against the backdrop of dramatic hills.


And as we drive up, I have to acknowledge, the castle is pretty enough – the home of Dukes and Duchesses, it itself is not open to visitors, but the gardens are. The entrance fee is substantial. The family must be trying to raise money to support the place. (Let me suggest downsizing.)





Okay, the gardens are more than just pretty. The English perennial borders that I first saw some thirty years back, had inspired me to get started on my own perennial gardening. Lismore Castle now is the Irish home of the Duke of Devonshire and his family. The gardens certainly give you the impression that you’ve crossed the Irish sea and stepped onto English soil.











The family also has lovely orchards and vegetable plots – heavy on the potatoes. We speak to the person who was working in the garden. Ed asks if the grounds keepers live inside the castle – given the vastness of the place, or outside of it; he is shocked to learn that they live in other housing. The man does not understand the ways of nobility.












We stroll and admire, even as it all seems slightly preposterous. All those potatoes, for example. Maybe they sell them at a farmers market – I suggest. After all, English nobility is hugely into organics. It wouldn't bring much, Ed comments. Maybe they experiment with special varieties, with high yield and disease resistance, for instance. (We are always taking note of Ireland's potato blight of the 1840s; there's much to remind you of it – for example, one hike we could have taken is called the Famine Walk: it ends at the mass grave of the many who died then.)





On balance, you have to feel grateful that the property is being tended by someone. Abundance of potatoes and extra rooms notwithstanding.

Two rooms of the castle are open to an art exhibition. One room has a video running. Incomprehensible actually. A stream of words and some items – with no explanation. (Our fault – we could have inquired before entering.) We move on.

The other room has a display of photos. Nothing extraordinary. You almost wonder if the artist turned to black and white prints so as to make the photos look more interesting than they really are (and you have to remember that I am typically quite impressed by photographic exhibitions).

We leave the castle grounds. And I feel content. Surely this was a good way to end our Ireland visit.






We stop at The Rustic Café, where I order a cappuccino and rhubarb cake. Ed offers to pay. He reaches for the wallet and takes out instead the set of old keys to our room at the b&b.









And now I panic. What if they only have one extra set? Their four rooms were all taken last night, what if they need this for their guests? But driving back puts some risk into our plan of a timely arrival at the Dublin airport.

These days, if you don’t carry a cell phone, you have a tough time calling anyone. We do have a phone packed somewhere in the gallows of Ed’s pack, but we don’t bother buying cards on trips when we are fully connected every day through email and Skype.

We’re lucky. At the post office, we locate the address of the b&b, stick the keys inside an envelope and mail it off. Ed borrows a phone of a helpful sort and calls the owner with appropriate apologies.

We’re off.

The loveliest part of the day is perhaps this part – the drive through the hills north of Lismore.

It’s an empty mountain road and I am not surprised to come across this scene:





...and this:





But what did surprise me were the fields of wild oleander. Up high on the mountain pass, on the slopes of the otherwise barren hills, working their way into forests, lining the roads.















I pause so often to admire this mass of purple flowers that Ed suggested we may miss our flight. I’m okay with that, but you pay the rebooking fees.

I hurried then, even as it becomes exceptionally difficult to find the superhighway that cuts across Ireland and permits us to drive at 120 kilometers per hour to Dublin.

We arrive in plenty of time, boarding our evening flight on Aer Lingus (a price and service competitor to Ryanair), away from Ireland...





...and onto Barcelona. We’ll spend the night at a hotel near the airport and drive north tomorrow.

Later:

Barcelona: what can you say about a place that runs on its own speed and time?

Dinner at midnight? In some remote area just a step beyond the airport? Barcelona. The hair is ten shades darker, the conversation somewhat louder.





Hey, excuse me? (this to the table of ten young adults next to us at the pizzeria), could you remind me – what’s the tipping policy in Spain?
Tipping?
Tipping. Extra money.
Huh?
Service charge: is it included? I just cannot remember. Service charge?
Service charge?
Ed chimes in, using better Spanish: do we leave a little extra after the meal?
Oh! Only if you want to. Only if you want to...

Propina, Ed tells me later. The word is propina.

notes from southern Ireland

Anyone returning from a trip to Ireland says, as if on automatic – the people are so friendly!

Today, I heard these words from Ed. They are beyond just friendly. Just friendly could be annoying. They are so friendly that they win you over.

For example, at the market.





We stumble upon it this morning as we look around for a local bakery. It isn’t a big market, but surely it has the nicest vendors anywhere. Within a minute they’re your best friend.

And of course, we, therefore, buy supplies for lunch. (Even though Brian’s breakfast at our b&b is really a brunch and we should take it easy in the eating department for the rest of the afternoon.)

We buy herbed cheese breads and currant scones...





...cheese from happy cows’ milk (I feel solidarity with the cheesemaker – we are both card-carrying members of the Slow Food movement, but upon sampling, I decide on one of the cow’s milk rather than his own sheep’s milk cheese -- we've seen so many cows! I need to admire their contributions!)...





...and apple juice: a plain one and then one with blueberry juice mixed in.


So now we have supplies that will pair well with a major hike. Perhaps one can’t say that a climb up Cruachan Summit would be classified as a major hike, but it’s a good, steady uphill climb of maybe two hours to the top.

You can see the summit from the bridge in Dungarvan. On one side of the bridge, we have the receding tidal waters, on the other – Cruachan Summit.










And of course, we cannot find the trail head.

I make some wild guesses, accompanied by wild turns, on country lanes that are ostensibly closed for repair, turn again, count the roads to your left and in desparation, I stop the car and proclaim – this must be it – pointing to a path vaguely leading in an uphill direction.

You have made so many odd turns and have made so many guesses along the way – it cannot be.

Okay, I’ll ask.

I go up to the door of a house at the side of the road. The person who lives there peers out with a trace of suspicion.

Excuse me, I’m really sorry, but we’re lost. Is this the path up Cruachan?

Oh! That’s fine then. So long as you’re not selling tickets for anything. Yes, indeed that’s it.

I turn to Ed with a smug grin.
It cannot be.

And maybe it isn’t the trail, but it is a trail and right now we’re desparate for any trail up to the summit.

It starts off as a dirt road (with a steady bloom of foxglove along the borders)...





...and eventually turns into a logging road and then a meandering grassy path. The views are lovely, but I have to say, the skies are a little in reverse: typically we see clouds over mountains even in days of clear weather in the lowlands. On this day, the clear skies are over the hills and the clouds are staying close to the water’s edge, giving them a misty otherworldly look.





Above us, the skies alternate between bright blue and creamy white.





As we get closer to the top, the paths diverge and Ed starts building cairns to help us find the route back. You don’t want to end up on the side of the mountain opposite to where you left the car.





The wind now picks up and I am reminded of other hikes where I thought surely I would be blown away like a wisp of tissue paper.

We spot a trio of sheep,remarkably indifferent to the ferocious wind.





And the views! On a clear day, the mountains look magnificent in a desolate sort of way.






Ed takes the “I reached the summit picture,” but I have no interest in staying at the top for long. The wind is piercing.





A few yards down, we find a protected spot offering the view that you need for a lunch of breads, scones and cheese, with apple juice from the market.










It’s late afternoon. We’re back in Durgavan, happy with the weather, with the success of the hike. 

You remember that strip of sand we saw from the summit?

Yes...

Is that a beach nearby? I’m wondering if we could go for a swim.

I no longer am surprised that Ed should suggest swimming even as I am pulling up the zipper of my sweatshirt against the wind.

We inquire about the beach. Not too far. Maybe half a dozen miles due east from Dungarvan.

There are a few cars on the lot by the water's edge and a few hardy souls are walking the sands below. A family is unpacking from a car next to ours. The little girls (six and nine maybe?) are in wet suits. They want to swim – the dad says. They’re nuts!

Another dad has already braved the chill and taken his boy and girl in for a bit of wave jumping. The boy is in a sweat shirt, the girl, too, has most of her clothing on. The father is jubilant. He’s the one jumping the highest.





Others are more realistic about their tolerance for cold water.









Me, I stay on the shore, finding warmth in moments when clouds (less hazy now) roll back to reveal a bit of sunlight. Ed is undecided.





Maybe it’s watching the two girls in the wetsuits that finally convinces him (even as one of them refuses to take off her cap against the cold).





In any case, a few paces later, he takes off his shirt and plunges in.


Not cold at all – he later tells me. There is no good response to this. I’m certain he felt entirely comfortable.

We drive up along this coast now, admiring the cliffs, the rural landscape. It’s referred to as the Copper Coast (copper was once mined here) and now, in the evening light of the low northern sun, it does look golden.

We leave the car in the village of Annestown, where a house roof is being repaired with new thatch...





...we walk down to the water and then up along the cliffs.

Ireland in the sunlight. Even more beautiful than I had imagined.





Ed’s at the cliff’s edge, encouraging me to come over and take a look.





No, there are some things from which I’ll retreat – crumbling edges of cliffs and the cold waters of the Atlantic.


At 9, it's still fairly light outside. The waters are at high tide, the colors are lovely.





We eat dinner at Merry’s Merchants Bar. The waitress nudges me to try the Clonakilty chicken (stuffed with "black pudding") and I do. At least it’s not cow’s blood sausage. (It's pork.) Here, we eat it almost as baby food, the waitress tells me.





I look outside at the small group exchanging stories from the day and I think that I have seen more red-haired people in the last two days than I have in my lifetime.







It’s late, but they’re playing traditional Irish music at the Local Pub. I cannot pass this by.





We order half pints and Ed dozes contently while I tap my foot to the jig-like rhythms of the three man band.

Walking home, I note that the water is low again. It comes, it retreats, every half dozen hours, all year long.

running with cows

What’s the population of Ireland? Ed asks.

I don’t know... less than that of Poland.

Which is?

Poland is at 38 million.

The Internet tells me Ireland’s at 4.5 million.

Yes, it feels much much less crowded here. Cities are few and far between. Dublin, the largest, is half the size of Warsaw and mind you, at 2 million, Warsaw could be considered rather small. Sort of like six Madisons, side by side.


Breakfast at the Cairbre House. Brian fusses and the results are exceptional: locally smoked salmon on brown bread, scrambled free range eggs with a salad and herbs from the Cairbre garden, fruits, yogurts, a local cheese.





I ask about the weather for the day.
It looks like we'll be getting more stable air.
I'm guessing we’re safe from the big rains, even as an occasional sprinkle may still surprise us (and it does, late in the afternoon, as we scramble for shelter under a bush).

Of course, it is the mild and rainy temperament of this country that allows for such beautiful gardens. Filled with moisture loving roses.





We have several suggestions of trails for hiking. Ireland, like Great Britain, is at home with this sport. Detailed maps show you how to put together a decent trek, with information on elevations, paths, and roads.

But it’s always a challenge to find a trailhead and we drive in circles for a good hour looking for the one we pick for the day.

Where’s the Two Mile bridge? – I ask.
Can’t say that I know. There’s a region called Two Miles – might you mean that?
No, we need the bridge. One of many here, all seemingly nameless.

The lovely thing about this part of Waterford County is that you can pause in your search for one hike and pick up another.

So long as we’re near the coastal village of Ardomore, we may as well do the Cliff Walk. An hour and a half along the coast of this pretty little town.

Ed tells me – take a photo of that house, with the painted windows.
I stop the car and get out.





A local gentleman ambles over and suggests that he take a picture of me by the gate. He’s holding tight to a brown bottle that looks to me well sampled and I have the idea that he’s probably not the best candidate to keep a camera focused.

No, thank you, I just want the house.

It’s for sale now. A republican owns it, you know.
I ponder the meaning of this comment: is the former presence of Great Britain here still on the minds of some? Ireland is a young republic (becoming formally an independent republic after World War II). An older man may still have feelings about the division between the north and south.





The Cliff Walk is on a well-marked path along a rugged coastline. The sign warns of precipitous drops, but I quickly (and blissfully) realize that the dangers are exaggerated. It's a gentle walk among ferns and rock formations. The danger is to those out on the sea.






We pass an older man who looks  like he's done this stroll a good many times – what is that rusted rig that rests by the cliff up ahead? (There is a massive multi-story iron structure that leans against one of the rocky shores.)
Aye, that was washed ashore from the seas twenty years ago. The story goes that a local chap set up camp on it for several months and now claims it’s his.
The story goes...

Do you know what it was used for originally?

No, I’m not from these parts. I’m from Cork. (Note: Cork can't be more than 50 miles from here.) And where are you from?
Oh, such a familiar question for us. We’re always asked and we muster up the same answer -- the United States, hoping it will suffice. It never does.
Lovely! Where in the U.S.?
Wisconsin...(and then, quickly, before the look of puzzlement settles in...) just north of Chicago.

We pass a stone structure shielding a natural spring. Ed reads that it has curative powers. Go ahead, drink it! He says. It’s artesian water.

I’m sure it’s polluted.

With what? You’ll be fine. You’ll be cured of all disease!
He’s laughing at me, but I do dab a finger in it and wet my lips. We were totally negligent in bringing water for the hike and a drop of curative waters is a delicious little decadence.

We are now back at the old tower and cemetery at the edge of the village.

What is it for?

Monks hid their works there, protecting themselves from invaders - Ed reads.
Always that. Where there is a tower, there is a threat.






In the village we pause for a cup of tea and a slice of carrot cake. Ed tells me that we need to try a local bakery before we leave. He's right: much can be learned about a population from its bakeries. Tomorrow.





The tea moment softens me a bit. Not in a hurry now, I walk along the town beach, watching a family take their stroll on the wet sand.





Three sons, one hovering mom, one proud dad. The picture could have been taken decades earlier. You don't even have to change the clothing much.


In the late afternoon, we at last find the Two Mile bridge. This is our big hike for the day – along the River Brickey and then up to the peak of Kilnafarna Hill (rising to a mere 1000 feet, but still a presence here by the coast).

The meadows at the side of the river are enchanting – fields of buttercups, bordered by stone walls overgrown now with nettle and bramble.

We climb over one gate to find ourselves in a meadow of wild iris.





Gold on gold. It could not be more beautiful





Up the hill now, along a rarely used road. Except in one spot were tractors are digging ditches and putting in pipes.
Why? I ask a local farmer.
We’re draining the field. Too wet.

For building?

Noooo... for pasture. It’ll be planted with grass.

The cows of Ireland. There are so many in this region and they all are happy cows – pasture fed, in fields of buttercups and tall grasses.

The views here are lovely – of the hills and mountains to the north, of the estuary and sea to the south.









And still, my eyes follow the pasturelands and the animals that graze there.

As I approach one fence, I see maybe some thirty cows staring at me. I get closer. They all take a step in my direction. As I near a gate, they trot over, the whole herd of them.





I look at their lovely lashed eyes.





They’re bulls, and they hold my gaze.

I move away. Sorry guys, I’m not your keeper.
She’ll eat you – Ed tells them. He never misses an opportunity to tell a cow I am a fan of a good piece of beef every few months.

I move on. They move on with me. I break out into a trot. So do they.





You got yourself a herd of cows to play with!

I’ve seen sheep act in packs, but I’ve not seen cows do this and especially not in this Simon Says way. I stop. They stop and come over closer. No, I have nothing for you! I’m sorry!

And finally they turn away. Up the hill, to the top, where they take on a leisurely pace in their fields of green and gold.





We walk down the hill, past the ubiquitous shrubs of fuchsia...





...on quiet roads and lanes, where a man will walk his dog...





...and sounds of a tractor and the warble of one bird after another will disturb the quiet around us.

It’s evening. We drive down to the coast one last time, to the village of An Rinn, the smallest Gaeltacht coastal area where children still study the old Irish language and all directions, ads, postings are completely devoid of English. I watch three girls stroll along the coastal road. Tradition for them will have a real daily meaning. I am reminded of the family that rented us a room last year on the Isle of Skye in Scotland. The dad taught at a traditional language school there. I still regard the CD we took home, of traditional Scottish music, as one of my top five favorites to listen to on a Sunday morning. I am a borrower of other people's traditions.





It is late now, though here, in June, it hardly gets dark before 11. We’re back at Dungarvan and Ed suggests we take in a pint at a waterfront pub. He reads the local paper, I people watch.

But I’m hungry and the bag of peanuts we buy is hardly food. We walk over to the nearby Quealy's  – another pub-like eatery, where I order the local hake (cod-like and delicious, it was transplanted to the American waters; but it’s from this region – indeed, Hake Head is a coastal village just east of Cork), with the now available on every roadside stand -- Irish new potatoes.





Brian, our host at the b&b greets us as we toddle in late.
Been a bit worried about you. People go out on long hikes, you never know...
I smile. A protective people. Looking after the strangers who walk their paths and run with their cows.