Return to the Mill

That sounds like it could be the title of a Nancy Drew mystery novel, doesn’t it?

The bad news is—this isn’t a Nancy Drew mystery novel. 

The good news is—this isn’t a Nancy Drew mystery novel. 

Kathy and I departed from the farm, and Northern Ireland, last Thursday and traveled to County Donegal.  And more specifically, Malin Head—the most northern point in Ireland.  We stayed at a lovely bed and breakfast for two nights and spent most of our time hiking around the peninsula.    

Thursday evening we actually walked around the peninsula, following the lane up, down and around.  We had beautiful vistas of countryside and the ocean beyond. 

And along the way we made several stops—at Ireland’s most northernly shop, Ireland’s most northernly restaurant and Ireland’s most northernly pub, as stated prominently, and proudly, on the signage for the shop, the restaurant and the pub. 

Friday we hiked for several hours in various parts of Malin Head.  We walked down to Five-Finger Strand, a beach named because of the five rocks that jut out from the main cliff.

We walked down the beach along the water

and back through the sand dunes, some of the tallest in Europe. 

On the way back, we took a bit of a detour to find the passage grave marked on the map.  Passage graves date back to the Pagan era in Ireland and they are commonly found on the crests of hills.  This particular tribe of pagans found a really steep hill.  And although the pile of stones that looked more like a pile of rubble than a grave was a bit disappointing,

the view from the top was not in the least. 

We tramped down the other side of the hill and picked up the main road again after squelching through boggy heather and returned to the B&B. 

After a cup of tea and a bit of a rest, we had a bite to eat at Ireland’s most northernly restaurant before walking to Banba’s Crown.  The most northernly point of the most northernly part of Ireland. 

It was a lovely place to watch the sun go down. 

We sat in the grass and became enveloped by the whole experience.  The colors of the clouds and sky, transforming as the sun sank lower.  The deafening combination of the forceful whoosh of the wind off the water and the crash of the waves below.  The invisible flight trails of seabirds dipping, diving, gliding.  The wild, remote nature of the setting coupled with the vastness of the ocean extending beyond evoked that feeling of being small.  But in a good type of way and one that results from being filled with awe and wonder.  I find it incredibly refreshing.

 

Saturday, a day that proved to be quite the memorable one, we left Malin Head and headed to the southern end of Donegal.  The original plan was to stay at a hostel in Malin Beg, a town near Slieve League—the two-thousand-foot seaside cliffs we planned to hike the next day. 

I’ll go ahead and come out with it now.  There will be no pictures of Malin Beg. 

The bus was only able to take us within twenty miles of our hostel.  Looking back, this should have registered as the first Red Flag.  Hindsight is twenty-twenty, isn’t it? 

You should try hitching, said the proprietor of the hostel in an e-mail response after I inquired about a suggestion as to how we might complete the journey. 

At this point, before anyone suffers from a panic attack, let me point out a couple of things.  This is being written after the fact.  And hitching is a common practice in Ireland.  And why not?  Well, I know why not, but we decided that with there being two of us, it was safe(r). 

We went to a café, had a cup of tea to settle our nerves, made a sign that read MALIN BEG and then set off to stake out a spot along the road that is suitable for this type of thing.  The following being what we deemed necessary characteristics: the side of the road with traffic flowing in the direction of desired destination, high visibility for drivers and, most importantly, a pull-over area. 

We found a perfect spot.  Wouldn’t it be funny if the very first car stopped?, I said. 

The very first car stopped.  Before Kathy fully showed the piece of paper. 

We were in absolute stitches of laughter.  Too easy, we said. 

Our first driver took us about half way, asked why we were staying in Malin Beg (Red Flag) and then left us along side the main road.  You’ll have a better chance at getting a ride from here, he said.    

This was taken right after we were dropped off.  We were still riding that this-is-too-easy wave. 

Forty-five minutes and two rain showers and too many “Why isn’t anyone stopping?-s” (Red Flag) and the-novelty-of-this-is-really-starting-to-wear-off later, someone finally did. 

I’ll tell you why no one stopped. 

Malin Beg is actually at the end of the earth.  When I said it was a town earlier, that was a lie.  Town would imply there was a place to eat, maybe a shop or two, a pub, people.  The reason why the couple that picked us up even did so was because they didn’t know where Malin Beg was.  If they had known, they wouldn’t have stopped.  Kathy and I would still be standing with our sign on the roadside. 

But it was when we turned off the main road and drove for five miles through some of the most desolate, barren, bleak landscape I have ever seen—and I really dislike superlatives—that I started to get a bad feeling.

And then we arrived at the hostel.  It was cold.  And dark.  And eerie.  That bad feeling worsened.  The surrounding ocean only heightened that desperate isolation feeling that was sinking in. 

Then we met the proprietor.  Suddenly the hostel became colder, darker and more eerie.  That bad feeling worsened still.  He showed us to our room, we dropped our backpacks and agreed to meet him downstairs.  I should mention that the couple that dropped us off was still with us and had gotten into a bit of a discussion about something or another with the owner.  Kathy and I quietly went upstairs and confirmed with one another that something was not quite right and what were we going to do? and there is nothing here and how are we ever going to get out of here tomorrow to hike the cliffs?

Kathy went across the street to investigate the shop labeled, with two sheets of computer paper (Red Flag), “Food Store.”  Standing from the steps of the hostel, I watched her come out not a minute later shaking her head and laughing nervously.  Get your stuff.  We’re leaving, she said.  Now. 

A rush of adrenaline ensued from that hurry-hurry feeling.  We wanted to skedaddle out of there without having an awkward confrontation with the proprietor.  Too much to ask?  

Of course.  We walked down the steps, backpacks on, only to find the owner and the couple that had dropped us off, finishing their conversation.  We thanked the couple, the woman of which, in the middle of the handshake, after realizing what was going on asked, You’re leaving?

Yes.  Yes, we are, we answered.  Kathy even threw in the phrase Bad Juju somewhere in the explanation.  An explanation that was never given directly to the proprietor, but one that I’m sure he overheard as he stood lurking in the doorway.

And then we started walking down that rural road surrounded by all the barren-, desolate-, bleak-ness.  We were mentally prepared to walk the five miles to the nearest town.  About one mile into our trek, a car pulled up beside us and asked if we would like a lift.  A car with four people and two dogs. 

It was a five-seater car.  But never mind that.    

Yes.  Yes, we would.  We crammed ourselves—and our backpacks—in and left Malin Beg more quickly that we would have on foot.  The quicker, the better as far as we were concerned.  They asked us where we wanted to go and we said Carrick, the town—a proper one with somewhere to eat, a couple of shops, a pub and people—mentioned by our first driver from which most Slieve League-bound hikers set out.

Fifteen minutes later, we were there.  Ten minutes after arriving, we were settled into a room in the guesthouse above the pub.  Chinese take-away for dinner helped bring us back.  So did the pints.  Yes, plural—we had had a day.

There will also be no pictures of Slieve League.  Between the rain, wind and low visibility due to fog and mist, hiking the cliffs was not feasible.  We emerged from our room that day only two times.  Both times we merely walked across the street to the grocery store for provisions. 

We needed a day to recover from the previous one, anyways. 

And on Monday we returned to the Mill.  Maybe I should say we came home.  Because that is exactly what it felt like.  Coming home.  The light, weightless steps of the journey, a manifestation of the excitement surrounding the return to a much-loved place.  And much-loved people.  Upon arrival—the  warm embraces, genuine laughter and deep sense that everything is how it should be.  An absolutely wonderful feeling.  One of comfort and contentedness.  And I have found it here, in Ireland, with Robin and Sarah—and Clovis—at the Mill. 

And for so many reasons, I am so glad we returned.  Since Monday, we have helped with a few things.  We planted trees, did a bit of weeding—and moved a gear box.  Actually, that last job—the moving-a-gear-box bit—was a four-person-sized job.  We laid boards across the race (where the water that eventually tumbles onto the wheel runs) and lifted, dragged, pulled it down the hill on the opposite side.  Then the gear box went into its permanent home—a big metal box near the spoke of the water wheel—which involved a bit more heaving and hoing.  It will eventually be rigged through a system of belts and pulleys (I think) to ensure the water wheel doesn’t move too quickly, as it would without the gear box, or too slowly, as it did with the previous one. 

And another reason to be grateful for the opportunity to return?  The garden.  During our absence, it came to life. 

The shallots and onions we sewed almost a month ago are thriving. 

As are the Fox Gloves we transplanted.  (Insert sigh of relief here.)

But having the opportunity to see the beds in bloom has perhaps been the most spectacular. 

Roses are budding, poppies popping. 

The colors are absolutely fantastic; it would have been a shame to have never seen this element of the garden's character.

Time certainly is a gift and I am very grateful to have had more of it in this special place and with these people that have become so dear to me. 

Return to the Mill Again, Part Deux, The Sequel?  Absolutely.