The Cliffs of Moher & Connemara

Driving in Ireland is not often an easy thing, with narrow and hilly roads and an increasing number of vehicles. Too often there can be tension as a lorry or tourist bus approaches on an especially twisty turn with very little visibility. I think our Californian co-travelers were unhappy at times with the kinds of roads in this country. We found that every estimate of how long it would take to get somewhere would double because of the roadways and traffic. The road from outside Galway to the Cliffs of Moher--and back--was particularly nerve-wracking.

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It was already lunch-time when we arrived at Ballyvaughan. It was apparent that there was a cycling event underway, but the seashore road was mostly empty. There is a good seafood restaurant here called Monk's and we were hungry, so we enjoyed a midday lunch. I had a "feed" of Galway Bay Mussels, which were quite good, although not on par with the Bantry Bay mussels I have enjoyed in Hinton-in-the-Hedges, back in the UK. When we finished lunch, we stepped out into bicycle mayhem, with hundreds of bikes everywhere. The first of the races had started at 10:00 and the cyclists were arriving back in town in droves as we left. Our intention had been to follow the scenic route along the shore to get to the Cliffs of Moher, but with the possibility of driving along a road filled with approaching racers on bikes, we instead chose to take the mountainous route up to Lisdoonvarna.

The hills enclosing The Burren, on the way towards The Cliffs of Moher.

The twisting road up into the mountains from the coast is called the Corkscrew Hill Road. The views were great, but this is not a road on which we want to pull over too often, especially with heavy traffic.

Driving to Doolin, past which we will find the Cliffs.

Our first view of the Cliffs, obviously approached from above, if not by sea.

To the left is Liscannor Bay and the towns of Liscannor and Lehinch. The hill in the distance must be Slievecallan.

Our first views of the Cliffs of Moher.

I first saw these cliffs on July 2, 1965, when Captain Miif of the M. V. Fursund sailed into Galway Bay. The Danish pulp carrier had sailed from Weymouth, Nova Scotia and I had managed to secure passage--for $25--through the kindness of Mr. Roy Jodrey, the Hantsport industrialist. Captain Miif zig-zagged into Galway Bay searching for a harbour pilot. This was the only time on the 10-day voyage that I was allowed on the bridge. The pilot who finally reached us was straight off a postcard: a weather-beaten old man in heavy tweeds with a thick, Irish brogue. (Actually, he could have been speaking Gaelic. I couldn't understand a word he said.)

Atop the Cliffs is a signal tower that sits on the site of a ruined promontory fort called Mothar, demolished during the Napoleonic Wars.

The Cliffs stretch for 8 km from Hag's Head due west of Lisccannor to a point beyond O'Brien's Tower. They rise majestically from the Atlantic to a height of nearly 200m, or 700 feet.

Considerable development has taken place here, to accommodate the thousands of daily visitors. There are shops cut into the hillside, an interpretation centre, places to eat, and large parking areas. There were dozens of buses from all over Ireland. I can be a harsh judge, but I think it is done reasonably well.

O'Brien Tower.

Grandfather and grandson had enough energy to climb to the top of the hill and its tower. A kind gal approached us and offered to take our photo together after watching the seven-year-old try to get mine.

The people on the western cliff top are trespassing. That area is posted with signs proclaiming it was off limits and private. Other signs read: EXTREME DANGER. I would not let my grandson go up there, where we saw people standing very close to the edge. Perhaps they had not noticed the memorial garden recognizing the many people who have died from falling from the cliff tops, some by accident. (It was implied that many people have jumped from the cliffs to die on the rocks or in the water.)

Outside the Cliffs of Moher Interpretation Centre I discovered an Irish woman playing the harp beautifully. I sat in the blazing sun listening to her for over half an hour while the others shopped and ate ice cream. It was worth the sunburn!

TO CONNEMARA

Our next drive was into Connemara towards the Atlantic seacoast, where we had booked the night in Cliffden. We could see our destination across the water past the Aran Islands--Inisheer, Inismaan, and Inishmore. First, of course, we had to drive back to Galway--a city the others agreed to skip as I was here in 2008. The stress of the road was worsened by the luck of the tourist, if not the Irish: most of the cyclists in the now completed-marathon were cycling back to Galway, and would not yield to traffic behind them--us.

One reason for wanting to visit Connemara was that several of the scenes of a movie set in Ireland were filmed here, and my daughter had loved both the film and especially the scenery. The film, called Leap Year, took considerable liberties with Irish geography, but it was rather funny--and beautifully set in the Irish countryside.

Our accommodations were in the town of Cliffden. We arrived for supper and sought a restaurant on the square.

We settled on a pub in a fairly new development of the original train yards in the town.

The pub is incorporated into the former Cliffden train station.

I found a photo of the original train station through the window of the local museum.

Looking into the museum I soon realised two things I had not known: associated with Cliffden is the transatlantic flight of Capt. John Alcock & Lieut. Arthur Brown, who flew from Newfoundland and arrived on 15 June 1919. They crashed near the town on the edge of the Roundstone blanket bog.

As well, it was just south of Cliffden at Derrygimla Bog, where Marconi's wireless station opened in 1907 and he established his first transatlantic wireless service, with his station in Glace Bay, Nova Scotia, my home province.

The Station House development seems quite well done. Here, it seems the railway water tower has been incorporated into a small number of upscale shops.

Inside the Station House Pub, where I quickly noted the 1960s JFK poster on the wall.

In fact, we saw numerous references to President Kennedy in Ireland. He never forgot his Irish heritage, and it seems many in Ireland still honour his memory.

Cliffden did not appear to have many interesting buildings, but when we first passed this Catholic Church on the way to supper on Saturday night, there was not a place to park anywhere in the vicinity. After Mass there wasn't a vehicle or person to be seen.

Our home for the night was named Buttermilk Lodge, named for a nearby lake--Lough Ime or Buttermilk Lake. It was built in 1996 specifically for the tourist trade and it is very nice. Not only were the rooms comfortable and well appointed, but the lodge was warm and welcoming.

From my bedroom window I could look towards the Twelve Bens, the hills of Connemara National Park.

In the common room, where my grandson beat me three times in draughts, or checkers.

Although much too warm for a fire, I enjoyed the smell of the peat sitting in the fireplace waiting to be lighted. Connemara contains some of the last surviving tracts of blanket bog in Europe. The harvesting of the turf takes place from late spring through early fall.

We enjoyed a fine home-made Irish Breakfast in the sunny breakfast room in the Lodge. (Actually, the others were not fond of the full Irish Breakfast, preferring a continental breakfast, but I ate heartily every morning, chockablock full of bacon, sausage, eggs--poached--blood pudding, tomatoes and mushrooms, toast and tea. I tossed in a yoghurt to offset the deleterious effects of eating so "well.")

Across town town the hills were alive with--smoke. I assumed it to be intentional.

One of my favourite plants in the Buttermilk Lodge gardens. The family also raises black-faced sheep and Connemara ponies, but these were at their own farm three miles away.

Our hostess said we could not miss driving along the coast for a few miles. Having changed our original plan of driving north through the national park to Castlebar past the Maumturk and Partry Mountains, it was a good compromise to follow the Skyroad past Turbot Island and Inishturk.

Turbot Island on Cliffden Bay. Our first Atlantic views.

Looking down on Belleek and Fahy.

Above Fahey.

Eyrephort.

Toward Coolacloy & Knockaurn.

Toward Kill and the National Park.

From here we re-traced our original route, having opted out of the northern one.

We also decided to take the newer, wider motorway straight across Ireland from Galway back to Dublin. Not much to see, but we wanted to get to the airport on time, and the driver was tired of narrow-track roads!

Farmland on the way to Athlone, where I had suggested we stop for Sunday lunch.

The River Shannon, flowing through Athlone.

We are only here to eat, but I strolled across the bridge to look back at Athlone Castle and the river cruisers.

St. Peter and Paul's Church, Athlone.

Our choice for lunch turned out to be a good one. Most of the customers seemed local, and it seemed to us that everyone was here eating Sunday dinner, so we joined them for roast turkey and roast beef dinners. The food was very good and we enjoyed ourselves.

Guinness claims Seans Bar in Athlone is Ireland's oldest pub. Who could doubt Guinness?

Soon we were in the air again. And I was playing with the aerial setting on my Panasonic, over Malahide, north of Dublin.

Arriving over Birmingham. Our flight was uneventful, but I preferred flying Aer Lingus as I did in 2008. Next week we will be back in Birmingham to fly to Edinburgh.