Cliffs

September 23, 2023

Downtown Galway combines restaurants, bars, boutiques, still more bars. The attraction is Irish music in and around the Latin Quarter, and Guinness. The place is swimming in Guinness. Everyone standing in or near a bar is holding one. This was Wednesday.

The wind howled, the rain poured the afternoon we arrived, although the Irish sun beamed in a far corner of the sky. Stepping around the puddles and bending into the wind was the low point. Sandy and I had an overpriced dinner at the King’s Head in the Quarter, but didn’t stay for the music. We were looking at a long day.

The sun rose the next morning. We got a cab downtown then boarded the bus for the Cliffs of Moher ride, which includes a few other stops. The tourists, 98 percent Americans, an Indian, an Australian couple, and a half-dozen Swedes, piled on. The driver, John, pulled slowly out into city traffic then picked up speed. The city faded behind us—suburbs don’t exist in Ireland. Suddenly we were looking at deep-green pastures, lush meadows, cows, and sheep.

The first stop was Dungaire Castle, a 16th century fortress now reduced to a heavy stone tower and three walls, intended by the clan that built it for defensive purposes, but not known for a major role in local history. It’s outside Kinvarra along the two-lane highway, perched on a serene corner of Galway Bay. We walked through the gate and snapped a picture.

We plowed along through lovely country to Ballyvaughan, site of the Merriman Hotel, a fashionable place that now houses Ukrainian refugees. We made a sharp turn onto Corkscrew Hill, a sharp zigzagging climb to the Aillwee Cave, where, for nine euros, we could follow a guide on a half-mile hike through the narrow, dimly lit rock passageway. I bought the ticket and followed the guide, ducking at low points, and listened to his pitch on the geology of the place. It was discovered in 1940 by a local man who kept quiet about it for 33 years.

The guide talked about the mysterious drainage that created the cave. He pointed out the strange mineral-rich rock formations and the gushing waterfalls, and answered a few questions from science-minded tourists. Then we were done. I hurried along to the exit. It seemed an odd add-on to the Cliffs tour, but it’s there, so we did it.

The cliffs, nearly nine miles long, between 400 and 700 feet high, fronting the Atlantic, are spectacular. Five or six tour buses and dozens of private cars were parked below a steep path of a couple of hundred yards alongside a stone wall that borders the cliffs. Folks trudged slowly to the top, snapping pictures all the way. Since we got lucky on the weather we hung around, enjoying the crystal-clear sea air and staring at the breathtaking views out to the horizon, the surf crashing against the rocks far below.

We stopped for lunch a bit farther up the coast at the Fox Pub in Doolin. John pushed the local red beer, most of the group went along and ordered the beef stew or fish ‘n chips. Apart from cows and sheep, the tourism business is the only business in these parts. Our group took every seat in the place.

We tooled along winding roads in stretches barely wide enough for the bus and one compact car. A few times John careened onto the shoulder to avoid sideswipes. We stopped at the Burren, a bizarre, moonlike stretch of sharp rocks that extends to a steep drop into the steel-gray surf foaming against the shore. The wind roared. We didn’t stay long.

We were still miles from Galway. John, in his lyrical brogue, gave us history, local color, and his own political analysis. He talked about the famine walls, the miles of stone walls that crisscross fields and hills that English landlords forced their Irish tenants to build during the 1840s famine, trying to force them off their land. He blasted the government for permitting giant wind turbines to be built to sell power to Britain and France, spoiling the natural environment. We could see the turbines in the distance, a forest of spindly three-bladed sticks.

He pointed out an abandoned Catholic church, closed decades ago after revelations of abuses of children by Christian brothers. He added, though, he still takes his family to Mass.

The miles were wearing on all of us. But we couldn’t escape the mystical charm of this corner of the world. The highway for a hundred miles is a narrow two-lane road. The landscape across the meadows and hills is the rich green Ireland is famous for, homes are nestled in open space, no mindless subdivisions distort the loveliness of the exquisite blend of earth, sea, and sky. A few modest signs here and there advertise this B&B or that one, a bar, a restaurant. No billboards or traffic lights.

The rural Irish live in nature and are part of nature. We could feel it in the poignant music John played as he drove, the passion and humor in his stories, the greetings and smiles of the young women in their sharply pressed outfits who brought us lunch in Doolin.

We passed through Craggcorradane, Fanore, and Murrooghtoohy and back through Ballyvaughan. We also may have seen Liscannor, Kilshanny, Lisdoonvarna, and Ballyallaban, I’m not sure, they’re that small. John picked up speed as we closed again on Galway, we could see traffic increasing in the opposite direction, Galway’s rush hour.

He maneuvered through the city streets, still pointing out interesting things, famous hotels, ships in the harbor, then gave us the names of his favorite restaurants. He explained that Scotch whiskey became popular with American GIs stationed in Britain during World War II because the Irish government, trying to stay neutral, banned the sale of Irish whiskey to Americans. Jameson Black Barrel is the stuff to drink, he said.

We parked at the drop-off point. John asked us to do a review of the trip for the company’s website. We all shook hands, John patted us on the shoulder and waved goodbye. As we walked away, Sandy said he had mentioned, quietly, he was being laid off. The tour company owner had made a deal with friends to squeeze him out at the end of the month. He’ll be driving a school bus for the winter. I wondered: God’s will or the luck of the Irish? Maybe both.