An Ever-Changing Landscape

That would probably be the best way to describe this country.  And the dynamic nature of this Irish Jig: ever-changing.  New places, new friendships, new memories.  This past week—Sunday 4 April through Sunday 11 April—has been full of these things.

Sunday.  This was Kathy and my final day on Sherkin Island.  And it turned into quite a memorable one.  We took the ferry to the mainland to spend the afternoon exploring Baltimore.  Exploring might be a bit of an exaggeration given the size of the town, but if Sherkin Island taught us anything, it’s that no matter how small a place may be, there are all kinds of nooks and crannies awaiting—and worth—discovery.  The main attraction of the exploration was the walk to Baltimore’s Beacon. 

It is a fifty foot structure that serves as a marker for the entrance to Baltimore Harbor during the day; the lighthouse takes over this duty at night.  Our first attempt at finding it failed.  But not completely because we formally met the farm animals of Baltimore: mother sheep with their lambs,

a horse,

a ram, 

 

and this fellow:

We were particularly fond of one another.

Kathy and I turned around and headed back towards town to have a bite of lunch before setting out on the correct path.  The sign with the word “BEACON” plastered across it might have had something to do with our success.  Before making the final ascent up to the Beacon, we encountered another helpful sign:

That was not an exaggeration. 

Remember when I said the Beacon is fifty feet tall?

Those cliffs are easily three times that height.  But there is a sense of freedom that comes with the ability to sit out on the edge, without the hindrance of a fence, and have an unobstructed view of the sparkling ocean waters below and beyond.  It was a lovely finale to our experience on Sherkin.         

Monday.  The Island gave way to the mainland.  Kathy and I arrived in Galway via a lift from Jean Paul and a bus ride.  Jean Paul, the chef on the island, was driving two visiting friends of his from, surprise!, France back to Shannon Airport for their return flight.  From there, we took a bus the rest of the way.  Never mind the fact that Ireland and Indiana are the same size.  It took us eight hours to travel the same distance as the journey between Indianapolis and Chicago.  Needless to say, a nap was necessary upon our arrival in Galway.  After a rest and dinner,

we were feeling much better.  We were feeling much better still after popping in, on a whim, to the pub near our hostel for an after-dinner drink.  A whim that re-routed the subsequent events of the evening.  The atmosphere of the pub was unlike any we have encountered so far.  Between the low lighting and the wooden interior, the live traditional music and the soft murmurs of conversation, a sort of hazy warmth was created. 

And then we met Damien and Kel.  An Irish lad and an Aussie.  Two dear friends traveling together.  Sound familiar?  We struck up a conversation.  About our travels.  About where life was taking each of us, where we hoped to go.  About Irish history and Irish culture—and Irish whiskey.  That bit of the discussion encouraged Damien to treat all of us to a round of Green Spot, a renowned whiskey and one that is sipped “in the company of friends,” as he put it.  Slainte.  Say “Slaaaaan-cha.“  The Irish way to say “Cheers,” Gaelic for health.  It was an unforgettable evening. 

Tuesday.  The city.  Kathy and I explored Galway properly, strolling down the River Walk, through the university grounds, under the Spanish Arch, down by the bay and up and down the streets to pop in and out of the shops.

Wednesday.  The city gave way to the Burren and the Cliffs of Moher.  We boarded the tour bus (I know, I know—but it’s the only way to see it all) and took off for the countryside.  The Burren was beautiful despite its starkness.  Gigantic, bare limestone rocks with plants sprouting through the cracks and crags.  A testament to their strength—to root down, and perseverance—to thrive, in spite of the conditions.

  

And then there were the Cliffs.  The Cliffs.  As in, these cliffs would laugh at the ones by the Baltimore Beacon if they could.   They rise up out of the Angry Atlantic, crashing away below, four hundred feet. 

But staring at them from the cement look-outs wasn’t good enough.  We opted for the other option.  Option B.  B as in Bold.  Brave.  Brainless?  Maybe.  But we did it anyways.  What was Option B?

  

The path along the edge.   

Sitting on the fringe of one sliver of the world, enveloped by the sounds of battering waves and cries of swooping birds underneath, surrounded by blue and green. 

Pure Bliss. 

Thursday.  The city gave way to the Connemara, a beautiful mountainous landscape. 

The features of the day included the river from which the Guinness water is sourced,

the ruins of the property used in The Quiet Man, especially exciting to Kathy,

the bridge used in the same film, upon which John Wayne sat

and Kylemore Abbey.

Friday.  The city gave way to the small town.  Kathy and I stowed ourselves away on the Galway University bus (not stowed away in the proper sense—we paid the fare, but the bus is reserved for students) and were dropped off in Castlebar.  Susie Fry, the niece of my neighbors, was our host for the weekend.  But she was so much more than that.  After a walk around her beautiful gardens and the lake nearby, we sat down to a lovely meal together before turning in for the night.    

Saturday.  The small town gave way to the mountain.  And not just any mountain. Croagh Patrick.  The mountain from which St. Patrick drove all the snakes of Ireland into the sea.  And we climbed it.  Susie, Kathy and I.  Did I mention Croagh means mountain in Gaelic?  It is called a mountain for a reason.  It stands proudly at over 2500 feet.

Susie brought walking sticks along for us to use.   And given that she’s climbed the Reek, as the Irish call it, over a dozen times, we weren’t going to make the ascent without them.  The first three-quarters of the climb wasn’t too bad.  Steep?  Yes.  But the footing was pretty solid: think really chunky gravel. 

But three-quarters of the way doesn’t get one to the summit.  That last bit was a bear.  Think big, loose, sliding rocks.

You can’t see the peak?  Neither could we.  That part of the climb was so steep we lost sight of the top.  But we leaned on those walking sticks and made our way, one small step at a time.  Summiting Croagh Patrick: mission accomplished.  And the view from the top was spectacular: the tiny islands in Clew Bay, the Atlantic, the surrounding land forms.

After an apple, orange and Kit-Kat break, we started thinking about coming down.  The descent down the mountain was especially terrorizing.  Ideally, I would have transformed into a mountain goat for just a couple of hours.  The first bit (that last quarter on the ascent) was by far the worst.  Susie and Kathy seemed to blitz, while I half side-stepped, half crab-walked my way down.  They patiently waited every ten minutes or so for me to catch up, which resulted in me dissolving into fits of laughter at how ridiculous I must have looked from their perspective.  But we all made it off the mountain, sans scrapes, bruises or broken bones.  Success. 

But I think our evening at Elaine’s was my favorite part of the day.  Elaine is Susie’s across-the-street neighbor and they are dear friends.  Dear as in “I-know-my-way-around-your-kitchen-and-you-know-your-way-around-mine.”  And I can’t think of a better way to define deep friendship.  Maybe that’s because I grew up watching my mother cook in the kitchens of her closest friends.  There’s something about the conversation, laughter and merriment while preparing food with those you love, for those you love.  The kitchen is a place where I feel most at home.  And I felt very much so standing in Elaine’s, simultaneously slicing zucchini, sipping wine, hovering over steaming pots and sizzling pans, all while laughing during the story telling of the day’s events.  Even though I realized how special these two women were before the meal started, it was after getting up from the dinner table six filets of salmon, umpteen potatoes, two bottles of wine, one rhubarb pie with ice cream, two pots of coffee, an entire box of mint creams…

This is the Irish way.  Seconds and thirds are not highly encouraged—they are mandatory.  Elaine: “You’ll have some more, will you?  You will.”  No isn’t an acceptable answer.     

…and three hours later that I felt especially bonded.  Relationships with people start around the table.  Some of my fondest memories from growing up and my years at DePauw revolve around long meals shared with friends, teammates and sorority sisters.  The story telling and subsequent laughter that takes place around a table, food and friends within reach, is especially wonderful.  And unrivaled anywhere else.    

And that takes us back to: Sunday.  The small town gave way to the small, small town.  Elaine and Susie drove us to Dromore West, County Sligo—but not before we all sat down to a traditional Irish fry at Susie’s. 

Yeah.  In case you’re having trouble breaking that down, I’ll provide a little assistance.  One fried egg, two sausages, two rashes of bacon, three slices of black pudding, fried potatoes, mushrooms and tomatoes, Elaine’s soda bread with butter and coffee.  Not pictured: Elaine’s raisin bread with butter and two very sick feeling Americans.  That I-feel-sick-because-I-couldn’t-stop-myself, sick.  It was delicious.  I don’t know how some people in this country eat that every day—but I would be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy every bite.    

Susie offered to take us to Sligo, but as we were sitting at the table discussing the route, Elaine looked at Kathy and me and said, “I’ll plan this now.  We’re taking the scenic route.”  Road trip, party of four?   Yes please. 

Elaine did the driving—and what a drive it was.  We went down beautiful country lanes.  There were sections of road when the car was surrounded on both sides by tall trees, the forest floor blanketed by wild flowers Susie identified for us: bright white wild sorrel and wood anemone, pale yellow cow’s lips and primrose.  Then there were the fluffy clouds overhead, the rivers, bridges and abbey ruins—the constant laughter resulting from Elaine’s ongoing commentary. 

When we arrived in Inishcrone, Elaine asked, “Would you girls like an ice cream?”  After that meal?  No.  But, remember?, no is not an acceptable answer.  I started laughing, and the next thing I knew, Susie and I were ordering four cones.  We drove down to the ocean, parked the car and sat inside to enjoy the view

and the people watching with our ice cream.  As we were eating (again), Elaine turned to Susie and asked if, upon arrival in Dromore West, they should pose as Irish advocates for Kathy and me—and question our WWOOF hosts profusely about their ability to care for us properly.  Kathy and I dissolved into an absolute fit of giggles; I was so touched that they were concerned because I was feeling a little anxious myself. 

Then we were on the road again.  We stopped one last time in Easkey to watch the surfers

before completing our journey.  And no one should have been worried after all; our hosts are wonderful.  But saying goodbye to Susie and Elaine was difficult.  I felt that sharp prick in my eyes, the sting before the tears—but managed to pull it together by convincing myself I would see them again.   

It’s as guaranteed as second and third helpings in Ireland.