AROUND THE UK AND IRELAND: Part Three

The Burren, the Cliffs of Moher, and on to Dingle

This morning I visited a little castle in Kinvarra, really a fortified town house that became fashionable in the Middle Ages, built for looks rather than protection. Next, I headed into the interior for an isolated ride through the Burren, a treeless, wild land filled with rocks and, at this season of the year, wildflowers. In the middle of nowhere, I came across a portal tomb, huge slabs of upright limestone, with one balanced on top. Next, I drove to the small town of Kilfenora and visited the partial ruins of a 12th century church with several high crosses; then it was back to the coast and the Cliffs of Moher, dramatic and wild, about seven hundred feet high, and more accessible than those of the Orkneys; and finally, on to the Dingle Peninsula, of which I will have much to say—later.

(Later: time flies when you’re having fun) I first heard of the Dingle Peninsula when visiting Bath in the spring. At the library there was a photo exhibit by a local who had been there several times. Most of his pictures were just snapshots—but, ah, the place itself. I knew then that it was one Irish destination I had to see.

As I drove down into the peninsula, the landscape turned from merely splendid to phenomenal. The road started up the north side of a range and curled over a high pass heading south. There spread out before me was a green valley against a backdrop of dramatic mountains, and fog rolling in on the far southern shore. I came to Dingle, the main town, bustling, but too touristy for my taste. I checked the guidebook and picked a promising sounding BB out near a little village called Ballyferriter.

Driving out of Dingle, I immediately got lost in a maze of hills. Small villages, really just clumps of houses, appeared out of nowhere, Gaelic names only, no road signs, and the fog getting thicker. I stopped at a pub and asked directions: “Aye, Ballyferriter, about five miles down the road; can’t miss it.” Could, too! I was still looking ten miles later when it suddenly appeared on its own. I tried to call the BB, but the telephone box kept spitting back my money; so taking my chances, I went looking but couldn’t find it. I saw a lady out walking in the lingering twilight and asked directions: “Oh, that place, they closed it down; went on the auction block today…Yes, there’s another bed and breakfast somewhere down this road; you could give it a try.” I did, there was, and they had quite a room at that, furnished with a queen and two doubles. I could Goldilocks it to my heart’s content.

I settled in and then headed back to Dingle for a late supper. Afterward, the drive back to my BB was surreal. It was after ten and any lingering twilight had disappeared in a thick fog. I got lost (do I repeat myself?) and ended up on a one-lane road, a cliff falling into the sea on my left and rising out of sight on my right. A light rain was mizzling down, and small streams were flowing out of ravines and washing across the road. I rounded a corner, and there in the headlights against the stark cliff was a life-sized statue of a crucified Christ, painted red blood seeming to flow. I stopped and stared. Eventually, the turn off to Ballyferriter appeared (on the wrong side of the road); I found my BB and tumbled into bed.

A Dingle Day at the Blaskets

It was nearly Christmas, 1946. A storm was raging late at night. A young man lay sick with a pounding headache that had lasted for days. His sister and some older women applied cool compresses to his head, but they hardly helped. He finally fell into a restless sleep, and in the flickering candlelight the women gave each other troubled glances. Finally, the older women left, and the sister tried to sleep. When she next checked on her brother, he was dead.

Off the tip of the Dingle Peninsula lie a group of small islands called the Blaskets, the farthest west that Europe goes. The largest, the Great Blasket, is only three miles from the mainland; but in 1946, in a storm, it might as well have been on another planet. It was there that the young man Seainin O’Cearna, Sean Kearny, died without benefit of doctor or priest. His death was the straw that finally broke the will of the few remaining islanders and led to their final evacuation in 1953. For centuries, between two and three hundred islanders had been eking out a living from soil and sea. The island produced some of Ireland’s finest writers, but after WWI the population gradually declined. Most of the younger people left, looking for jobs; that was why Sean’s death was such a blow to the community. When the final evacuation took place, only twenty islanders remained to be resettled on the mainland.

A small ferry took me to the Great Blasket today. It is without doubt one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever been—but I haven’t lived there in a howling storm. After only fifty to a hundred years of neglect, most of the stone houses are roofless and starting to crumble. Some have been kept up, and a few people stay in the summer. A cafe and hostel have been built, but there is still no electricity; the workers have cell phones.

After landing I wandered awhile among the ruins, and then started straight up the slope toward a distant track that curled around the mountain. My foot slipped sideways, and I felt a nasty pop that I knew meant one thing, a muscle pull. I limped back down and took stock: I could wait around for another five or six hours until the ferry came back, or I could hobble somewhere. I decided to hobble and found I could get along reasonably well on slight inclines and the level—two commodities in short supply on the Great Blasket. Stubbornly, I kept going, and while there was no spontaneous healing, I managed a nice four-mile limp.

I wish I had words to describe this island: it’s just a treeless, grassy, mountainous lump rising straight out of the sea; but it is truly beautiful. Coming back from my circular jaunt around half the island, I rounded a corner, and there, spread out before me, was the ruined village, a sandy beach, another beautiful grassy island, the sea, and the mainland.

I felt an inexplicable joy: so much beauty in this imperfect, old world. And with the joy, a touch of sadness—that beauty and grace like this are always only for a moment. I have had this feeling only rarely; and, perhaps it’s just as well that it does not last: I’m not sure I could stand it in more than the dribs and drabs with which it gets doled out. Maybe it’s a taste of that constant joy we’ll feel in the hereafter, minus the pulled muscles and the pangs of brevity.

On the way back on the ferry, we were heading toward a dark shore and rain clouds above the mainland: I looked back: the Great Blasket was in sunshine—a final benison.

A Crash in Killarney

I’m in Killarney—for the second time today and wishing this was one story I didn’t have to tell—sometimes nightmares do come true. I left Dingle early, came to Killarney, and walked awhile in the national park—more of a city park, really, than the wild ones we’re used to in America. I ate lunch and about 2:30 p.m. left for the Rock of Cashel, another fortress. I got off on another of those roads to nowhere (surprise!) and finally decided to turn around. I have no excuses or rationalizations for what happened next; I was tired and simply lost concentration. I started back the way I had come, trying to remember where I had made a wrong turn. Suddenly, a feeling of something not quite right hit me; but before I could react, a small lorry came charging around the bend on my side of the road (actually, his side). All I had time to do was shut my eyes (I have a horror of glass getting into them)--and no, your life doesn’t flash before your eyes, just the thought, “Crappola!” I guess T.S. Eliot was both right and wrong: the way the world ends is not with a bang or a whimper, but both.

Time and motion were suspended for an indeterminate while, but I finally noticed what appeared to be smoke pouring from the dashboard (it turned out to be steam); and I thought it might be a good idea to vacate the premises. The doors were jammed, so I kicked one open. I crawled out, leaned on the top of the car, and looked at my fellow impactees; they seemed a trifle disconcerted but otherwise okay. As it turned out the truck had relatively minor damage, but my car was totaled. When we hit, I was still in third gear, and the other driver had slowed somewhat for the corner, so our combined speeds were only seventy or eighty miles an hour. Our bumpers were locked, and my car had apparently been shoved back a ways; it could have been worse.

Eventually, the Garda came, took a report, and the lorry drove off. No one made me feel like an idiot—no one had to. One of the Garda even explained that these wrong-side-of-the-road accidents almost always happened like mine: a turn onto a road without lines and the person at fault driving alone. They took me back to Killarney and the car rental office. The people there didn’t make me feel stupid either; but since this was on a Saturday and the insurance office didn’t open until Monday, there was no way to get another car—which I doubt they would have given me anyway.

Tomorrow there’s a bus heading for Rosslare, my ferry point to Wales; and I was planning to turn in the car anyway. So, I’m back to public transportation. Would I drive again in the UK or Ireland? Maybe foolishly, the answer right now is “yes.” But that could be bravado; in a day or two I might not be so sure. By the way, my daughter talked me into full coverage; I didn’t have to pay a penny.

How am I? Thanks for asking: I’m grateful, depressed, and angry (at myself) in no special order and at various times to varying degrees. I got a BB in Killarney and spent three hours walking around in the rain, much to keyed up to sit still. Physically I appear to be okay; no one suggested a checkup. If you’re walking and coherent, apparently everybody figures you’re all right. My left hand is pretty well scraped up, probably from the airbag deployment. Over the next few days I suspect I’ll discover some aches and bruises, but I think it’s depression I’ll have to fight off. That is from an old perfection thing: come on, I should be able to drive around Ireland without a head on--or, figuratively speaking, was that what I was doing?

But as always, I’m probably concentrating on the wrong aspects of the experience: I’m alive and ambulatory, and yesterday I did know joy—and this, too, shall pass.

On to Wales

(Back on the bus again) I suppose there is something to be said for this mode of travel if a person is just heading for an end destination. I can relax; it doesn’t take constant vigilance, at least on my part.

My night in Killarney was restless, full of ugly dreams; at times the daylight hasn’t been much better. I close my eyes for a few moments and…unbidden, the lorry appears, barreling around the curve, the windscreen framing the open mouthed face of the driver. I feel that moment of astonishing impact, the explosion seeming to come from inside of me. Next, I relive those awful seconds when time and space are suspended and the silence is absolute; and then, finally, I begin to breathe, as the world ever so slowly reclaims me. I will the images to go away, but they won’t, replaying in an endless loop behind my eyelids. Perhaps, somehow, they’re a semi-conscious reminder of that mysterious event, common to us all, but which we can never remember: the time we were expelled from the warm, comforting darkness into the harsh light of reality.

I am sure these images will slowly fade along with the aches and bruises. I am somewhat stiff-necked, a bit more pharisaical than usual; but on the upside I hardly notice the occasional plaintive moo emanating from my torn calf muscle. I do have a constant headache, so I probably suffered a mild concussion. Last night as I walked about Killarney, I stopped at a bookstore and picked up a volume of poems by Seamus Heaney, Ireland’s Nobel Prize winner; he, too, is helping to keep things in perspective.

(Later) After a six-hour ride, I’ve arrived in Rosslare; and I’m looking across the Irish Sea toward Wales, invisible, at least on this overcast day. We came through Cork, Ireland’s second largest city; it seems older, seedier, and much less vibrant than Dublin, but that may be just a reflection of my mood. I have a two and a half hour wait for the ferry and then a one and a half hour ride—I’ll go back to Seamus for a while.

(Later yet) I’m on board now, and we’re moving. This is a smaller boat than the palatial Stanraer one, and it looks like a rougher passage (oh, oatcakes where are you!). Ireland is slipping away from me into the mist, perhaps forever. I’m not ready for any sort of summing up, but I will say this: it was a coming home to a place I’d never been. And, although I pose as no expert, I will also venture this opinion: if you come to Ireland and have only a few days: see Dublin, go to the Dingle Peninsula, walk on the Great Blasket—and you will have missed nothing essential.

Wales

The ferry opened its maw and upchucked me onto Wales last night around eight o’clock, a light rain falling. I took a taxi into Fishguard and found a BB on the main street. It’s a nice little town sitting on a hill above the harbor, but on this Sunday night it was closed down tight. The dining room was also closed; but the proprietors, a husband and wife, kindly rustled up a good makeshift meal. Encased on a wall in the dining room was a seven-pound shot, fired from John Paul Jones’ ship during the War for Independence. He held up the town for ransom; and when the townspeople tried to welsh on the payment, he fired off a few rounds to encourage their cooperation. This particular ball struck one Mrs. Fenton on the heel, and she limped the rest of her days—all because of that no good, no better than a pirate, J.P. Jones. That was my host’s story; for all I know there may be a Fenton cannonball in every guesthouse in town, but who wants to spoil a good story by checking it out?

I had a better night; the dreams turned from ugly to merely homely. I still have a stiff neck, but that probably won’t get better until I stop lugging a thirty-pound rucksack around.

I’m on a pilgrimage—well, at least a half of one. I’m off to St. David’s, a place where Pope somebody declared that two visits were worth one to Rome.

(Evening) The bus ride to St. David’s was worth every pence—and then some, since it only cost 1 pound 35 p. The two towns are only sixteen miles apart, but the journey took nearly an hour; I think we covered the whole peninsula. The Welsh scenery is striking, both inland and coastal. Tiny villages pop up unexpectedly; the roads are—I didn’t think it was possible—even narrower than Ireland’s, many of them one lane for quite long distances. There are few turnouts, as the roads often run between embankments five or six feet high; fortunately, traffic appears to be very light.

St. David’s is a quiet little city, plain and unpretentious. Its glory is its cathedral, an anomaly in this small settlement (glorified village, really) in the middle of nowhere. The cathedral sits in a little valley below the town, a bubbling stream running through it (the valley, not the cathedral). The building is certainly no St. Paul’s or Salisbury Cathedral; but it is quite impressive in its own right, especially in its beautiful setting. It is more solid than soaring; but I love the feeling inside, not gloomy at all, but open and airy. St David founded the place in the 5th century, so people have been worshipping God here for fifteen hundred years.

The present church was started in the 11th century, and has been added to and modified countless times; but to my untutored eye, it all comes together quite nicely. Next door, across the stream, stand the ruins of the Bishop’s Palace, a complex of rooms, halls, and chapels. Besides being the abode of various bishops, it served as the Ritz for the many well-heeled pilgrims who came seeking a blessing. It is a mightily impressive ruin, the more so because it is so little restored; however, a pox upon them, as I noticed a lot of scaffolding about.

The tourist office in Fishguard booked me a room for two nights in St. David’s. When I first saw the BB, my spirits sank a little; it was across the street from a Texaco station and the town garage. And then they showed me my room in the back, with nothing in view except fields, hills, and a faraway coast. It is, without doubt, the nicest room so far on this trip.

After touring the cathedral and the palace, I stayed for evensong, sung by an all girls’ choir of twelve strong. They weren’t completely polished, some beginnings a little raggedy, but what a sweet sound in the old cathedral. Sunshine finally broke through the clouds around 5:00 p.m.; but now, at nine o’clock, it’s raining again. I’ll let you know what the morrow brings.

The Pembrokeshire Coast

I awoke this morning to a light rain patterning down. I skipped breakfast and lazed around until 11:00 a.m.—my, I didn’t know you could do things like that on vacation. I finally shoved myself out the door and had a baguette and hot chocolate. Fortified with a Snickers bar and a bottle of water, I set off for what had drawn me to this area in the first place, the Pembrokeshire Coastal Path. The way there is a half-mile through town and then another half mile along narrow country lanes. I intersected the path at the ruins of St. Non’s Chapel, with the rain still falling and darker clouds and mutters of thunder out to sea.

St. Nons was the mother of St. David; her original chapel is just a few low-lying walls in a little swale. Nearby is a small well with stone steps and an arch, the water overflowing and gurgling down to the sea. This well came into being during a thunderstorm the night of St. David’s birth. You can still see St. Non’s handprints where she gripped a stone in the throes of her labor—well, don’t be too skeptical: I once passed a kidney stone, and I could have left imprints in a diamond. It’s claimed the water has healing properties; I thought about dipping my neck but couldn’t visualize a possible position.

I stood hesitating for a while, taking stock of the weather; but, as it appeared no worse, I set off down the coastal path. True to its name, it stuck as close to the cliff’s edge as possible. It faithfully follows the curvature of every inlet, bay and ravine. On this section at least, it about doubles every straight-line mile. It’s narrow, but well defined and well maintained. Today it was muddy and puddled in places, but rocky enough that it didn’t get too sticky. I met perhaps a dozen other people, so I was encouraged that I wasn’t the only idiot out walking. It wasn’t cold at all, virtually no wind, which I’m told is a rarity; usually when it rains, the wind howls. There were wildflowers everywhere, no trees but lots of heather. The cliffs are only fifty to a hundred feet high, but sheer; I saw no way down to the rocky beaches. Just offshore, a boat kept pace with me for a while, a lobsterman out checking his traps.

After I had walked an hour, the rain got wilde, coming down in earnest; and realizing my performance wasn’t going to earn an Oscar, I began to contemplate the importance of being dry. In a small, protected cove, I took refuge in the gent’s room and again took stock of my situation. It was still five miles to my destination (a beach resort called Whitesands, from which I had planned to take a bus back to St. David’s). The rain wasn’t letting up; my pants were soaked, so reluctantly I decided to turn back. As it turned out, it was probably for the best. Since the accident, my energy has flagged, and I arrived back at the BB well nigh exhausted.

(Evening) I went back to the cathedral for evensong: a boys’ choir this time, half a dozen strong—nicely done. Tomorrow I’m off for Bath to see my daughter and her family; the weather isn’t improving, and I’m ready for some familiar places and faces. Regrettably, I’ll be missing a performance of Bach’s St. Matthew’s Passion Saturday night in the cathedral; the sound is pretty incredible in the old church.

On to Bath

No rain this morning, but no sunshine either: really, I can’t complain; yesterday was the first time one of my major activities was curtailed by the weather—for the British Isles that may be some sort of record. I don’t know if it rains in Wales as much as they say; but when a strange, yellow orb made a fleeting appearance in the sky, I overheard Welsh parents explaining its function to their smaller children. I took a bus to Haverfordwest where I boarded the train direct to Bath: “direct” meaning that I don’t have to get off, but that we stop at every town, village, hamlet, city, pub, crossroad, and various points in between.

I need to say a few words about Welsh spelling. I think I could bring the internet to a crashing halt by simply writing down some of the place names. The Welsh have fallen in love with the letter “y”; “y,” I don’t know. They stick it in the front and middle of many words and often double it as the mood strikes. Their consonants have run completely amok, but they suffer bouts of amnesia when it comes to inserting vowels—and they don’t pronounce half their letters. I suspect that the Welsh themselves don’t really understand the language, but they’re too embarrassed to admit it. For instance, checking my map at random, I find “Llanymawddwy”and “Yllethr;” both pronounced, even by native speakers, as “Huh?”

There’s really not a lot to see in this part of Wales, at least from the train. The towns are getting bigger and more industrialized: tenement housing, a patina of grime, a touch of smog. It’s a bit depressing after all the magnificent scenery I’ve passed through. Thank goodness Bath is in contrast to all this; it’s an industry-free zone. Speaking of the place, it’s just down the tracks; and I’m more than ready to settle down for a few days. Thanks for joining me in these ravings and ramblings.

Until next time…

The Lonesome Traveler

P.S. A news item that caught my eye this morning made me feel a bit sheepish. It seems a band of renegade sheep here in England have found a way across the metal road grids designed to stop them. They simply lie down and roll right on over…I will tell you right now they are not doing this on their own; they are channeling something smarter than themselves—say a cabbage or a rutabaga.

TLT