Cliffs & Craic

It's rained every day since we arrived in Ireland, but only for a few short spurts that quickly turned to sunny skies. Wednesday was the first day that the grey clouds in the morning actually walked the walk and let loose with rain as we drove away from the Strand's End B&B in Cahirsiveen and completed the loop of the Ring of Kerry.

We've been staying exclusively at bed and breakfasts in Ireland, and so far it's worked out well. The meals have varied from continental (with generous helpings of fruit and yogurt) to full Irish breakfasts with sausage, bacon, blood puddings, and poached egg, and all of the rooms have been en suite with Wifi (even if the connections were sometimes sketchy at best). The personalities of the hosts have ranged from abrupt to friendly, with everyone giving you plenty of space and minding their business—this side of it hasn't bothered us a whole lot, since we've really only been using the bed and breakfasts for, well, a bed and a breakfast, spending the days out and about.

The town of Tarbert sits right on the southern edge of the River Shannon, right before it widens in the mouth and empties into the Atlantic Ocean. It was a dismal day as we raced the 12:30 ferry to the docks, opting to go this route rather than the long way via the highway through Limerick and Ennis. Thankfully the boat was a few minutes late, giving us a chance to get in the queue of vehicles waiting to take the 20 minute blip across the river, to Killimer. Once the line started moving and we were on board, the ferry, a simple bay for vehicles and two side decks for watching the passing waves, pulled out of the dock.

And, wouldn't you know it, but the sun came back out for a glimpse. More to the point, the water that carried us had an unmistakable greenish hue to it. This is Ireland, after all.

North of Killimer, the countryside slowly started to morph into something different—sparser, more rugged, a battered piece of land with more of a chill to the air (you smell the burning peat in every community, a bit of a change from wood smoke). Even the people up here were built of tougher stuff, with throngs dawning wetsuits and going right out into the pounding waves and rain and hanging ten.

The rain was torrential now, but we waited it out in a roadside shop for 15 minutes, and by that point other than wet pavement you'd never know this coast had seen anything but sun for ages. In Liscannor, we followed a sign for the coastal walk that leaves the small community and goes right to Doolin, 13 km along the coast. Along the way, the gravel path just so happens to go by the Cliffs of Moher at the start of the wild Burren region, what could be the single most spectacular thing to see in Ireland.

On paper, they're just some cliffs plunging into the Atlantic Ocean. Take a snapshot, and you could totally convince someone they're looking at the edge of Bell Island, on the Avalon Peninsula of Newfoundland. And, they're a major tourist hype (about a million people a year), but don't let either of those things deter you, because when it comes down to it, and you stand on the edge looking down a vertical plummet a couple hundred metres and etched with sea caves, with grassy knolls and horse pastures behind you, it's a pretty amazing sight that grabs hold of the pit of your stomach.

We parked at the end of a narrow farming road just outside of town, packing a light pack and setting out between the firm stone fences of flat rock arranged like a perfect Tetris board in all directions. Every farmer's field out here in the western part of the country is criss-crossed by these walls—there's reputedly some 400,000 km of stone fences throughout Ireland, and it's not just to draw in the tourists either, because the back of the back woods are just as littered than the main thoroughfares.

A crumbling watchtower, Moher Tower, on an outcrop of land called Hag's Head marks the point where the farmers field becomes the Cliffs of Moher, with the gale and a gaping drop billowing out to meet you.

This is Ireland, where you can go 100 km an hour down what should be a quad path to get to the cabin. Not surprisingly, there's no rail to keep you from the edge, so you better mind your step the whole time.

We walked for about an hour before we needed a break, opting for a little rocky ledge partially protected from the wind and as ideal a place as any for a Coke and sandwiches.

A little further on, some seabirds careening like drunkards put on a show for us, and about a bajillion stone cairns were testament to the crowds who walked along these edges against the pounding Atlantic.

We decided to turn back here, just before the visitor's centre—our car was parked back down a dirt road in Liscannor, and this trail wasn't a circuit, with our final destination still a little farther ahead. The setting sun illuminated the ocean below and the fields in the distance, creating a sheen that you sometimes see at the end of the day and wish you could duplicate. Too bad it's just a temporary thing.

Doolin was only a short drive away—almost a mistake on the map, what looks like a patchwork of houses on a field until you hold your breath and go down a rickety road into the valley and the community actually reveals itself. From what I understand, Doolin's physical appearance is a good metaphor, since it's still something of a secret to the broader outside world—a small village, but a mecca of traditional music. We checked into our hostel (that's right b'ys, bringing Mom and Dad to a hostel—cleaner than a bunch I've stayed in before, with free laundry and a private room with two bunk beds, so pretty deadly), the Aille River Hostel sitting on the banks of the Aille River.

Once the laundry was in the machine, enough clean clothes to last us for another week, it was off to Fitzpatrick's Bar, where a guy with a guitar was playing "Molly Malone" in the corner, the chowder was hot, and you could buy a sample board of Irish craft stout, ale, and lager.

Once the sun went down, the bar became a noisy pit of all demographics—older men with coffees at the bar to families with babies in tow. A session broke out before too long, with accordion, fiddle, and banjo.

It was McGann's, just down the road, that was the real treat though. As in most Irish pubs we've frequented (one or two over the past week and a half), there wasn't an obvious rhyme or reason to the building, just a weaving course of rooms strewn with tables, photographs, and memorabilia. There was, however, a group of musicians in the corner, playing over a stereo system. As the night went on, others came and joined in—a banjo player started accompanying the guitar and female vocals, and then a dude came up and asked to play his harmonica (he got nervous midway through, but the guitarist urged him to finish). The musician from Fitzpatrick's, Jimmy Mac, showed up to play Christy Moore's “Beeswing” and, when the place seemed ready to shut down and clear out, a woman sitting in another corner started an a cappella ballad than hushed the room.

The only downside was that the cozy village, pulsing with Irish music in the cool evening, was silenced by midnight. We tried another pub to no avail, and returned to the hostel bunkbeds.

For what it's worth, if you have one day in Ireland's west country, park your car at the end of a road you'd think you'd have no reason to be down, handy to Hag's Head in Liscannor, and put two Euros in the honesty box by the parking lot. Have your breath taken away by the Cliffs of Moher, and find it again to sing along to some tunes in Doolin. If you should get thirsty in the meantime, there are plenty of glistening taps to take care of that one, too.

Cheers,

rb