Befriended in Ireland

They say you can never go back.

By BARRY DAVIS
SHEEP FIND ample grazing near the steep Cliffs of Moher at the southwestern edge of the Burren region in County Clare (photo credit: MEGAN JOHNSTON)
SHEEP FIND ample grazing near the steep Cliffs of Moher at the southwestern edge of the Burren region in County Clare
(photo credit: MEGAN JOHNSTON)
They say you can never go back. Whoever the “they” in question happen to be, clearly they have never tried returning to Ireland. After making my maiden voyage over to the Emerald Isle last year, just 14 months or so later I found myself back in one of the most enchanted of places I have ever seen.
Last year’s trip was a dream come true. Finally, at the age of 60, after living just over the other end of the Irish Sea for the first 22 years of my life, I landed at Dublin Airport and set off to live the long awaited dream. During the course of our nineday trip, my wife and I traveled the length and breadth of Eire, taking in the sights, smells, sounds, flavors – naturally including pints of “the black stuff” – and the pure joy of being where all those Irish people I’d met over the years come from.
There is a traditional, apparently anonymous, Irish saying: “There are only two kinds of people in the world, the Irish and those who wish they were.” After meeting countless smiley faces, and being privy to so many stories, including many of a highly personal nature – of the kind that any self-respecting Brit would not be caught dead, or sober, relating – we got where that adage comes from.
So, what could Ireland possibly offers us on our second foray there? After all, we’d passed through plenty of the country before. It quickly became apparent that there was so much to be had from the place, its physical and, in particular, human landscapes.
Our first stop was, of course, the capital. Although we didn’t have adequate time to do justice to all the sights and thrills Dublin has to offer, we got an intoxicating whiff of some of the country’s heritage – literally – when we visited Trinity College and, in particular, the Book of Kells and its venerable library facility.
The main display is pretty impressive with outsized enlarged sections of the tome, which incorporates the four Gospels in Latin. The chronology is the subject of some controversy, although accepted wisdom places the writing phase at sometime around 800 CE. Then again, it seems the book may have been produced over the course of time, and no one is really sure where the scribes performed their work.
Much of learned opinion is divided between the small western Scottish isle of Iona, the Northumbria region of northeast England, Pictland in eastern Scotland, and Kells itself, which lies around 60 km. to the northwest of Dublin, wherein lies Kells Abbey, which gave its name to the famous book.
The Trinity library, in the same building, is replete with historical artifacts of literary and other natures, with plentiful niches with towering shelves jam-packed with ancient tomes, the earliest of which date back to the 15th century. There are also intriguing showcase exhibits, including letters written by locally born Oscar Wilde, and the Brian Boru harp, made in the 14th or 15th century, said to be one of the three oldest harps in the world.
Elsewhere in the Irish capital, Christ Church Cathedral is well worth a visit. It is located in the former heart of medieval Dublin, next to Wood Quay at the end of Lord Edward Street. The original cathedral was built in the 11th century, with the current structure largely the result of rebuilding and renovation work carried out in the 1870s. If you’re looking for some urban revelry the Temple Bar district on the south bank of the River Liffey, with its watering holes, cafes and night clubs, offers plenty to keep the tourist well slaked and fed. It is also the home of numerous cultural facilities, including the Irish Photography Center, Irish Film Institute, the Button Factory, the Arthouse Multimedia Center and Temple Bar Gallery and Studios.
On the morrow, we headed north, across the “border” into Northern Ireland.
There is no official demarcation line between the Republic of Ireland and the UK province, although, if and when Brexit actually happens, that will presumably change. After a while, you note that there is no Irish lettering on the road signs, and you catch the odd Union Jack fluttering in the breeze. The prevalence of the British flag fluctuates, depending on whether you are in a Catholic or Protestant area, which was most noticeable in Belfast. We did the cab-guide tour of the Troubles area of the city. Growing up in Britain in the 1960s and 1970s, newsreels about the sectarian clashes that began in the late 1960s were part of the backdrop to my formative years. So it was moving, and personally poignant, to drive through the area with Morad, our Muslim, Turkish-born cabbie.
The so-called Peace Wall trail provides an overview of the annals and spirit of the Troubles, and the aftermath of the long period of violence. Much like the western side of the Berlin Wall, the Peace Wall is plastered with murals, other artwork and graffiti, including the odd observations in Hebrew. While, thankfully, there has been no intersectarian violence there for a while, there are still telltale signs that, possibly, full harmony has not yet been achieved. There are monuments for the fallen, of both denominations, with, for example, a Catholic tribute plaque noting, “We, the Republican ex-prisoners of the Greater Clonard, salute you, and your reward will only be a United Ireland.”
At one end of the Peace Wall, you drive through enormous iron gates that, we were told, are still locked at night. There are several gates between predominantly Republican and Nationalist Catholic neighborhoods and predominantly Loyalist and Unionist Protestant neighborhoods.
Then again, enjoying a delicious lunch at The Honest Vegan, on Lisburn Road, we were served by a young man called John who told us that he was brought up in a Protestant area by his adoptive Protestant dad and Catholic mom and that he was openly gay. He told us he had had no problems at all, from either side. Depends who you talk to, I suppose.
After spending the night at the delightfully appointed and highly hospitable Valley View Country House B&B accommodation near Bushmills, in Co. Antrim – one of four places we stayed at around the country, courtesy of B&B Ireland and sponsored by Failte Ireland, the National Tourism Development Authority based in Dublin – we drove 10 km. northward to the Giant’s Causeway. We’d missed Storm Ophelia by a few days, but it was still pretty tempestuous when we got to the coastal site. Hence, the cliff-top trail was closed, as was the nearby rope bridge. Still, we marveled at the incredible rock formations created by volcanic action.
All told, there are said to be around 40,000 interlocking basalt columns spread across the area, which was declared a World Heritage Site by UNESCO in 1986 and is administered by the National Trust. There were moments when we were buffeted by such strong winds that we had to take cover behind some of the hexagonal stone piping features.
From there we headed west to the area of Ramelton, back in Eire. As advised by Dudi, our Israeli host, en route we dropped by Harry’s Shack in Portstewart, a fabled beachside eatery that comes complete with a wealth of locally brewed beers, excellent chips with vinegar, and a welcoming ambiance to go along with the roaring log fire.
During our two-day stay near Ramelton, in the far northwest of Ireland, by the bank of Drongawn Lough, we reveled in the unparalleled verdancy of the local countryside, including Glenveagh National Park, where we took our time walking the four kilometers to quaint Glenveagh Castle, built in the 1870s.
The autumnal foliage and moss-encrusted tree trunks, branches, roots and even rocks were a sight for sore eyes that had endured yet another scorching summer in the Middle East. We followed that up with a drive through majestic scenery to nearby Ards Forest which, if anything, was even greener than Glenveagh.
Next stop was Achill Island to the south, the westernmost and, apparently, traditionally poorest area of the country. This was rural Ireland at its most fundamental and elemental. Our hotel faced a large bay where the beach was constantly battered by the fierce waves of the Atlantic Ocean, overlooked by towering cliffs. Spoilt for choice, in terms of walking routes, we opted for the trail that led up to the Deserted Village.
We left the main road and, dodging roaming sheep, we headed inland toward the abandoned community with its remnants of booley houses, single-room dwellings made of stone. En route we passed by a cemetery with gravestones dating back to the 19th century.
We also noticed some headstones erected more recently, which, we were told, had been installed by descendants of locals who, like millions of others, had relocated to the other side of the Pond. As we made our way toward the village of Dooagh we saw a man digging up peat and filling umpteen bags, presumably for kindling, ahead of winter.
Ireland is a country of folklore, music and joy, but also of great suffering. Over the centuries, the Irish have endured numerous invasions – among others, Normans, Vikings and the British all lorded it over the island – and there was the Great Famine of the mid- 19th century that caused the death of over a million people and led to a million others heading west to the New World.
But there were more recent trials, of a financial nature, prior to the economic boom of the mid-1990s to mid-noughties. An abandoned pub and nearby stone house stood as silent sentinels, testament to lives of hope and ambition shattered, seemingly overnight.
Through the broken windows and doors we espied the interior of the tavern complete with piano, upturned bar stools, tables and even a jukebox, betwixt shards of glass and pieces of fabric. The dwelling on the other side of the narrow road made for even more painful viewing. One room contained a couple of single rickety beds, jammed up against each other, still covered with linen and blankets. The open window was partly covered by shredded lace curtains and the hearth looked like all it needed was a little stoking to restore it to its former roaring glory. The family had left in a hurry. But why? Our Achill foray also took in a visit to Ted’s pub, at Cashel, the next village to the east where we attended the launch by journalist Kevin Toolis of a book called My Father’s Wake - How the Irish Teach Us to Live, Love and Die. It was one of two “authentically Irish” experiences we had on our 11-day trip. Scottish-born Toolis’s family has been living on Achill for 200 years. The event included a talk about the book by the author; a musical spot with a 68-year-old woman angelically singing a haunting Breton number a cappella; a recital, by Toolis, of a poem he wrote about the island; and an enchanting declamation of an Irish translation of parts of the long poem.
That, and an all-night musical event at a village south of Cork a few days later, gave us a taste of “real Ireland.” Other than us, the events were attended only by locals with the latter, at the house of an artist called Johnny, featuring an acoustic set by the Rianoir guitar trio, followed by an all-out no-decibels-withheld electric session that went on into, and beyond, the wee hours.
That followed a wonderful tandem ride from Achill Island, to Newport – 31 km. of the 42-km. Great Western Greenway bike trail laid down on a disused railway line.
The weather gods were exceedingly kind to us that day, as they were almost throughout our time in Ireland, as we pedaled our way past patchwork fields, and stretches of sea and lakes, enjoying the requisite pint and chips at Nevin’s pub, in Mulranny, on the way.
Before we hit the southernmost reaches of Ireland, where we stayed in a restored farmhouse in an enormous, rambling wooded estate in the gorgeous back of beyond, we managed a few hours in The Burren National Park, in County Clare. The whole area is dominated by karst landscape, as far as the eye can see, with a number of ancient burial spots complete with enormous coverings of limestone slabs.
After a couple of days at the Cork Jazz Festival, we headed back north to Dublin Airport, but squeezed in a visit to the charming south coast resort of Kinsale, complete with its eye-pleasing bay.
If I were to try to sum up our second experience of Ireland, I could do a lot worse than to quote the words inscribed on a stone plaque by the entrance to the Loughrask Lodge B&B in Ballyvaughan, County Clare, where we were warmly welcomed by Annette Flanagan: Arrive as a guest. Leave as a friend..
The writer was a guest of the Irish Embassy in Israel.