I'm going through some more photos, and am starting to break them up by each of the six places I stayed. I'll update with links when I'm all done.

Wednesday, November 27th:

I was up at my normal time, and met with a man named Charlie at breakfast for a bit of a chat, before I settled up with Moira and went off for my long travel day to Westport. Today was a day of Neolithic monuments!

The Plan: Boa Island, Creevykeel, Drumcliffe High Cross, Knocknarea (Maeve’s Cairn), Carrowmore, Knockbrack Dolmen, Corrower Ogham Stone

GPS only brought me in the general area for Boa Island, and the signage wasn’t precise, so I asked at a convenience store. The kind girl there gave me good directions, and I was on my way. I’ve found, over various trips and getting hopelessly lost countless times, that the people in Ireland love helping out with directions. They aren’t always very clear, or accurate (especially for distances – 1 mile is sometimes really 5 miles!) but they are always happy to help. I’ve never come across someone that was surly when asked directions.

The land here had a very different feel. It was marshy, with lakes and thinner trees, and almost reminded me of some areas of west Florida or the Everglades in its general feel. I was back (barely) in Northern Ireland now, in County Fermanagh. I was searching for one thing – an enigmatic stone carving known as the Janus Figure. I wasn’t sure exactly what I was looking for, but found a small sign for an old cemetery, and thought I’d give that a try. The island wasn’t wide – perhaps a quarter mile across at this point – with the road going through the center. So the drive down to the cemetery was short, but rather unkempt. The cemetery itself was definitely old, with mossy bits of stone among the somewhat more recent gravestones. It wasn’t large at all, just a small enclosed field, and the Janus stone was immediately apparent.

The Janus Figure was an odd carved grave figure, with faces on both sides, oddly shaped with almond eyes and diamond shaped faces. No one is really sure from what time it dates, but it has a distinctly pagan look about it, or perhaps very early Christian, when the pagan hold on Christianity was even stronger than it is today in Ireland.

I wasn’t sure if there was another figure on the island; I seemed to remember something about more, but I wasn’t certain, so I explored a bit farther down. I came across a ferry dock, and got out for some lovely lake views, but decided I needed to move on, so reversed course and headed back down towards Sligo.

I came across a random brown sign saying Castle Caldwell, so stopped to explore. There was a lovely forest drive, a ruined chapel, and a parking lot, with a map, so I decided to get out and enjoy the morning a bit. The trail was gorgeous, the bright sun dappling the ground with flickers of light among the bright yellow leaves all around. After a little while, I came across what looked like a square tower keep – at least, what I could see through the thick ivy growing all around it. It was definitely a ruin! I didn’t know if this was a castle or just a guard tower, but it was sufficiently picturesque to satisfy my needs that day.

Back towards the main road, I stopped to explore the ruined chapel. The ground was very mushy here, and difficult to see as it was covered with a very thick blanket of fallen autumn leaves. I found a crest on the chapel, but didn’t go inside the small building. I headed back onto the road afterwards.

Gone was the winding, twisty roads through waves of sere mountains. Gone was the rocky, wild coastline. Now I was in a more settled part of Ireland, with towns, and what might even be called highways, industry, and commerce. There were occasional strip malls, and parking lots. There was, of course, more traffic and fewer special, hidden spots that I could see.

Creevykeel Court Tomb is a spectacular spot just on the main road, and easily found. You can practically see the stones from the road. There is a huge clootie tree near the entrance, and I made my request, tying on a bit of cloth to the tree, before I went in. The tomb itself is large, and excavated into an open multi-chambered area, available for explorations and speculations for its purposes.

I moved on down the road a bit, headed towards Drumcliffe. I saw the signs for Glencar Waterfall, and decided on a not-so-quick detour. I’d been there before, and knew the drive was windy and twisty, but well worth it. I had the place to myself, except a couple leaving as I arrived. The last time we were here, there were at least 35 people wandering about, children running and laughing. All very fine, but I enjoyed and treasured the solitude, absorbing the power and beauty of the sparkling falls all by myself.

Drumcliffe is on the main road, and the church with the High Cross easily found. The Cross itself was lovely, but there were several people obviously coming to attend a funeral, so I didn’t linger too long, as I didn’t wish to intrude upon their ceremony.

I finished listening to the second book in the Outlander series (Dragonfly in Amber) some time during the day, and switched to the third, Voyager. As I have read them all before several times, it is good as background interest, but I don’t miss anything if I zone out for a minute.

I found the signs for Knocknarea, or Maeve’s Tomb. I knew it was a huge cairn on the top of a hill, I’d seen the photographs. I even saw it in the distance at one point, and knew I was headed in the right direction. The trees soon obscured the view, though, and I followed the signs through side roads, around hills and villages. GPS sent me up one of the hills, and I found a small parking area and a set of crude, muddy stone steps up the side of the hill into a forested path. I followed the path, which was bounded on one side by a stone wall. The forest was pine, so it was thicker than I had been used to, with winter stealing many of the leaves in other woods.

I followed the trail, up and up, into more forest, and then along a path that looked like it went to a clearing. I made it to the clearing – and saw the cairn, plain as day, on the NEXT hill over. Sigh. Light was already fading, and I realized I wouldn’t have enough time to get down, find the next hill, and climb another one, and still get to Westport in decent time. I satisfied myself with some photographs from afar, cursed GPS and the capricious gods of the satellites, and moved on. The weather was brilliant, still, and clear, though, and the views from the mountain was a lovely consolation gift.

I stopped by Carrowmore, interested in once again getting some photographs of the multiple stone circles, dolmens and cairns this incredible site held. However, it was all padlocked, closed, and down for the season – sigh. I could see one or two from the road, but the padlocks prevented any exploration.

My next goal was Knockbrack Dolmen… but GPS once again failed me. Corrower Ogham Stone was another fail. It was with some damping of spirit that I pulled into Westport, just as the dusk was settling upon the town.

Leitrim and Sligo were much more domestic, settled and industrial than either Donegal or Fermanagh had been. Sort of like the difference between Pennsylvania and West Virginia. The roads were wider, in better repair; even the small ones. Every bit of land seemed parceled out to either field or farm. There were more horses, especially being ridden down the road. I knew the day would be a flyby day, as it was a long travel day, and I wouldn’t be able to stop at all the brown signs I saw… but, to be honest, I didn’t notice as many brown signs. It was disappointing, especially as I hadn’t found as many things as I had hoped that day. I missed not seeing Knocknarea the most.

I was relatively familiar with Westport, having stayed there before, and greatly enjoyed the town. My main goal was to spend some time at Matt Molloy’s, a pub I enjoyed. I also had a meeting set up with a friend of mine, Debe, and a friend-to-be, Niamh (a mutual friend thought we should meet). I stopped at the store for some more snacks, some gas, and some Jelly Babies, feeling particularly Whovian as I did so.

I found my B&B, McCarthy’s Lodge, without much trouble. It was just off one of the circles (or Octagons, in this case) in the city. There was a pub and next door, the B&B. Getting inside was a little more trouble. I had visions of trying to find another B&B by myself in the dark, or sleeping in the car. The place looked dark and locked up, but I did see someone inside, doing some renovation work. The person doing the work came out and managed to get me a room in the B&B next door, after consulting with the owner on the phone.

The room was huge! It had a double bed and a single bed. I settled in a bit and then went off to search for food. As I walked outside, I noticed a huge line across the street. There must have been 100 people in it, and it wrapped down the block and down an alley. I saw that it led into a funeral parlor.

The first place I found that had a menu posted (the easiest way to find a place that served food) didn’t have anything that particularly appealed to me at that moment, so I explored around the Octagon for other options. After making a full circuit, and a couple of ventures down a couple of the offshooting lanes, finding where Matt Molloy’s was (they don’t serve food), and then settled on a pub called Dunnings. There were several other options, such as take-away, pizza, a bistro, and even a couple ‘normal’ sit-down restaurants. Westport is not shy of options! But I wanted pub food, so in I went.

I ordered a nice Irish stew and a half pint of cider, and chatted a bit with the folks watching TV in the pub. The funeral had been for a 22 year old man, the victim of a horrible car crash. Evidently Westport (and perhaps all of Ireland?) has a tradition of everyone in town coming by to give their condolences at one time, to keep them from being dragged out over weeks and months, a constant reminder to the grieving family.

After my lovely Irish stew (with two scoops of mashed potatoes served on the side, of course), I went to McCarthy’s and hung out at the pub a bit, to see if the owner was there, so I could meet him. I did, his name was Michael, and I was also able to get the WiFi password. I went up to my room, charged my phone a bit, and relaxed until it was time to go find some music and craic at Matt Molloy’s.

The funeral still had a long line, and some people were now lined up on either side of the street, as if to see a procession come through. I walked behind the lines, and made my way to the pub. I sat at the bar – not many people were in yet, and I imagine many of the regulars were over near the funeral. Jimmy Molloy, Matt’s son, served me, and I asked him if he was Niamh’s brother. He said he had also met my friend Susan, the one that was arranging for me to meet Niamh. Susan is a good friend of mine in the US, a musician and singer. She had played with the Molloys at one point, and made friends with them.

People were eventually starting to come into the pub in small groups. The pub is huge, with five different rooms, including the huge one in back that is arranged with a stage. The last time I was here, my friend Debe’s boyfriend Dee Moore was playing in that big room. Jimmy mentioned Dee might be performing at the pub next door tonight.

There was a sign on the wall with a list of letters in what looked like an acronym. I asked Jimmy about it, and he brought it down for me to see. The front were the letters and on the back, the meaning. I don’t recall it exactly, but it was something like “AAROYCADIR” = “As a result of your curiosity, a donation is required.” Jimmy had brought a small can – it was for the Lion’s Club, a worthy charity.

We talked a bit, and both discovered we had very musical parents (Matt Molloy is one of the members of The Chieftains, for those that don’t know), without having much talent ourselves in that area. We commiserated a bit on this, and then I moved into the back room, as some musicians were due to arrive shortly. Also, my back wasn’t happy with sitting in tall bar stools with no back for long periods of time, and needed some proper support. My legs tend to fall asleep, as the struts never seem to be in the proper position to hold my feet.

When I was in Cushendall, and people were singing songs, I tried to think of what songs I knew well enough to sing. I knew several common songs, such as Molly Malone, but I didn’t want to do anything too common. I could do Loch Lomond or Queen of Argyll, but those were Scottish songs. There were many songs I could sing if I had the words – but not memorized more than a verse and the chorus. I could do funny songs, like The Scotsman, Johnny Be Fair, or Tom Lehrer’s Irish Ballad, and indeed, I did sing a couple verses of this last in Cushendall.

There was a group of three Canadian older women in one corner in this smaller room, and a couple of French men in another. A woman came in with her young son (about 10?) and mentioned she had been here twenty years ago, meeting her husband there.

I really enjoyed the flow and ebb of conversations between groups here. The pub culture is one of the great things about Ireland and the UK. It is truly like a neighborhood living room, with occasional visitors. Even the more touristy pubs, like Matt Molloy’s or Sean Óg’s in Bunbeg, there is a warm feeling of community, and sense of implicit friendship. It’s nothing like the meat market bars in the US. I know there are some Irish-style pubs here that come close, but none near where I live. Of course, if I were to live near a lovely pub with a good pub culture, that would be highly detrimental to my waistline! Drinking cider every night is all very well on vacation, but would be rather disastrous to any diet plans in normal life. Of course, if I WALKED to and from the pub every night… perhaps!

Some musicians came in after a while, and sat in the corner next to my table. I remember that was where the musicians had been the last time I was there… I chose that seat on purpose! There was Seamus on the accordion, Noel on the bouzuki, and Declan on the guitar. They asked where I was from, of course, and my standard answer to that on this trip was ‘I am living in West Virginia, but lived most of my life in Florida.’ The standard response to this was some mention of the song, Country Roads, as this is all most people ever know about West Virginia. They played a couple strains of it, and then gave up. Declan sang a lovely version of Andy M. Stewart’s Man on the Moon.

After Vincent came in with a mandolin to join them, they did “Leave her, Johnny” and some other tunes. Declan evidently had a great sense of humor, and was a very good showman. He asked for some others to sing songs. I got brave and offered to sing Tom Lehrer’s Irish Ballad. I think I did a creditable job, and Declan asked for the name of the song so he could look it up.

I headed home around 11pm, and collapsed into bed. It had been a lot of time in the car today, without many walks to split up the strain on my feet from driving manual, and the lack of cruise control was definitely being felt on the long distances.

Thursday, November 28th:

Breakfast at this place was the best so far. Mary was very sweet; she cooked and served for me and another gentleman who worked in town, Dave. The only thing that was a bit overcooked was the black pudding. The white pudding was soft and juicy and delicious, but the black pudding was closer to a hockey puck. Still tasty, but it required a good dose of egg yolk to be able to chew and swallow it.

The Plan: Dún Briste, Céide Fields, Achill Island, Croagh Patrick

This morning I was headed to the north of the peninsula. First stop was Dún Briste and Céide Fields, and then to explore Achill Island. First, however, I had noted that my camera memory cards were filling up fast (mostly due to some film recording I did of the performances last night at Matt Molloy’s). I decided to check the Pharmacy to see if I could get one card burned to DVD while I was out and about. I dropped it off (after waiting for the clerk to arrive late), and took off.

I headed due north, for Downpatrick Head, also known as Dún Briste. I set the GPS for Ballycastle, and drove through manicured farms and lovely homesteads. North and north, until I saw the coast. I found the sea stack, but couldn’t quite get to a spot that I could take a good photo of it. I could be ON the headland, but the angle was a bit wrong. That’s alright, there were plenty of other cliffs to photograph, and I sat enjoying the sea spray and sights before I moved on. The cliffs and beaches were stunning, of course.

I found Céide Fields nearby, a Neolithic farming area, but it was closed for the season, unfortunately. But there were more cliff views along the coast, and I enjoyed my drive despite the disappointment.

I headed back south, to Achill Island. That was my main goal for the day. I had visited before, and explored the island a little bit, but I meant to do more today. It probably took a bit longer than it should have to get there, as I was behind an industrial truck for six miles in a no-pass zone. The landscape started changing, moving from cultivated fields to peaty hills again, swamp and lake more common than farms and fences.

Last time I had explored the island, I had started on the right along the Atlantic Drive. This time I started on the left for variety. My first stop was Kildavnet, which has a lovely, lonely square keep tower where Grainne O’Mhaile once lived. She is Ireland’s Pirate Queen, and lived during Queen Elizabeth I’s time. She mostly lived on Clare Island and different places around Clew Bay, such as this one.

The keep is just on the water, with some reedy bits surrounding it, but it was well locked from intruders, so I satisfied myself with some photographs and a brief exploration of the area.

On the way in, I came across a sign for Achill’s Secret Garden. Thinking about the Celtic Prayer Garden, I stopped for a look. There was a walk down a driveway, and a lovely ornamental garden with a few sculptures. It was small, but lovely. However, I couldn’t get over the feeling that I was trespassing, so I left rather quickly.

Then I made my way up the coast to what I knew would be the highlight of the day. Hopefully not the only one, but certainly up there… Ashleam Bay.

Atop a tall headland, you can look down into the ocean below and see the waves shatter against the ragged rocks, sweep into the sandy beach inlet, and marvel at the beauty. There are several small white houses along the curve of the green land beyond the beach. Indeed, I had taken some language classes in Pittsburgh, and the teacher said he grew up in one of those houses, when I showed him the photo. They were mostly modern construction, with occasional ruined stone huts here and there for flavor.

The headland itself was covered in grass with a large parking lot. There was a small jitney bus, with no one in it, parked in the lot, no one else was around. I saw another one not far away, at another stop. Were they just randomly left there?

I sat there for a good while. The sun was playful again, dipping in and out of clouds, throwing sunbeams left and right, shining and sparkling on the water. This is another spot, like Sliabh Liag Cliffs, where I could have stayed forever. It was peaceful, powerful, invigorating, and relaxing, all at the same time. I wanted nothing more than to build a small cottage here and live the rest of my days, doing crafts and watching the silvery ocean do its best to batter the black rocks below.

I followed the road down, and found a brown sign for Minuan Scenic Drive. Up, and up and up the mountain road I went. Into the misty cloud that sat on top of the mountain. Eventually I saw nothing. Nothing at all… except for the road that stopped at a fence, and what looked like an industrial communication tower or something on the other side. Ah well… turn around and go back. As the mists started to thin on my journey down, I noticed the spectacular view I could have had, still too white to have shown up in any photo, of the towns and coastline on the other side of the mountain. Ah well! Down and down and down onto the other side of the island. More jitney busses were dotted here and there, empty and abandoned, for all appearances.

I followed the road on some more, and came across another brown sign, for the Famine Village. This was an abandoned ruin I had wanted to explore, so I followed them. I ended up in a town called Dooagh and found some scenic docks. I turned around and found the actual village, as well as a lovely graveyard. The weather was still misty, and everything was rather wet. I didn’t slip on my way up the hill, but my leg went under me as my other leg slipped forward. It didn’t hurt at all, but my side ached a bit afterwards.

I drove some more around at random. I saw the Silver Strand beach and the Golden Strand beach. I found Keel and walked out to the beach there, marveling at the sparkle of the sun working hard to shine through the mottled clouds. I then started making my way back to the mainland, and back to Westport.

On the way back, there was a lake… a still lake, surrounded by the low, brown and gold hills that I remembered from Donegal. It was like a little bit of the wild left here, just for me. I stopped and savored it before I moved on.

I waved at Croagh Patrick on the way back in. I would have liked to stop and explore, but the misty weather kept me from even seeing halfway up the hill at this hour in the evening, and would have done me little good.

Back in Westport, the clerk at the photo booth in the Pharmacy let me know that the card would have taken about 6 DVDs to burn, and cost about E50. Instead, he said, a new 16G card was just E20. I was glad at the cheaper option, and went on my way.

I went to the B&B, recharged myself and my phone, and headed to Cobblers Bar for dinner. This was another of the places on the Octagon that I had scoped out the night before. I ordered the mussels in white wine, which came with delicious soda bread, and my obligatory half pint. They were delicious. And so many of them! The Irish definitely know how to do mussels well. Most pubs seem to offer WiFi now, though some have very poor signal. This one was going in and out too often, so I gave up. Still, when it works, it’s a very useful amenity.

Debe said she’d meet me around 7:30 at Matt Molloy’s tonight, as that was when she was done with her radio show, so I headed off around that time. Elaine was tending bar tonight, Jimmy was not in evidence. I had posted a photo of the mussels I had for dinner, and Jason, back at home, was upset with me for having such delicious seafood without him.

While I was waiting for Debe, I listened a bit to the two guys next to me. They seemed to be speaking Polish, and I remember hearing about a lot of Polish immigrants who had come to Ireland, especially to work in the construction industry. I met an American couple who had just arrived from the airport about an hour earlier, from Chicago, and were very jetlagged.

I decided to retreat to a real chair for a while, to save my back from protestations. I finally saw Debe, and she introduced me to a group of friends – Paul, Derrick, and a couple others whose names I promptly forgot. Paul was a true character. He was from Manchester, and a very close talker. He wasn’t afraid to voice his very strong opinions about just about everything, including religion, conspiracy, business, politics, drink, music, literature. I am sure I shall never forget him! Derrick was much more soft spoken, and we discussed business, philosophy, and positivity. I then finally met Niamh – what a delightful person! I also met her boyfriend, Tom; they were both adorable.

I brought out my jewelry to show off, and showed some of the photos and digital paintings I had on my phone, and all were duly impressed. I saw Dee, and reintroduced myself. It was a grand night of craic, rounds, and music. Niamh let me know about the group in the big back room, Coda. They were a mostly a capella group, including Declan from the night before. They were fantastic! Beautiful harmonies. I bought their CD, which I think is the only thing I bought for myself on this trip.

ttt, just checking in - very late - will read tomorrow. Great report!

Thanks, ldt!

Glad to hear about Westport, we really want to base ourselves in a cottage or apartment next visit. Keeping track of your fav pubs.

Friday, November 29th:

The Plan: Connemara, Kylemore Abbey, Cong, Brigit’s Garden, Coole Park, Turoe Stone, Kilconnell Friary, Glasson

I didn’t sleep very well. Perhaps too much cider keeps me from sleeping? I was up at 7, though, and headed for my breakfast. Everything was delicious (including the black pudding being softer, yay!). I reflected that I only had three full days left of my vacation, and felt some regret.

As I had unpacked when I arrived in Westport, I had realized that I was 2 outfits short of having enough clean outfits. I must have miscounted at one point – so I had washed out a couple pairs of underwear and bras to dry on the radiator. The pants and shirts were less of an issue, as I was wearing underarmor each day, so they didn’t get sweaty or dirty. I could deal with re-wearing some of those.

Other reflections: Many people rolled their own cigarettes. When I asked Niamh, she said it was because it was cheaper. I told her of the cigarette-rolling machines at some tobacco stores in the US. I definitely smelled some smoke other than cigarettes outside different pubs – I swear I smelled clove cigarettes, and some wacky tobacky. I also smelled some sweet, incense-like smoke. Camoflauge for other scents? I don’t know.

Mary had the radio on while she served breakfast, and I heard the news announcing local deaths, with mass and funeral arrangements. I’d never heard anything similar on American radio.

Off to Connemara today, and then, to Glasson. It was another long travel day, but the day was turning bright and clear, and I was looking forward to the drive through lovely country of Connemara.

My first stop was to Kylemore Abbey, for the photo opp. I hadn’t gone inside last time, and I really didn’t have to time to do so this time. The parking lot was completely deserted – I don’t even think it was open, though it was early yet. The clouds came in, low and somewhat grim, but there was no rain.

I drove through the hills of Connemara. The lovely, rolling hills, somewhat more populated than those of Donegal, but still wild and sere, golden and yellow. There were blocks of green trees still here and there, and lovely lakes to enjoy, reflecting still and shining in the early morning calm.

Driving along, I had just decided to skip the detour to Cong. I had been there last trip, and the two places I was most interested in were unavailable to visit inside. The White O’Morn Cottage from the movie The Quiet Man lie in ruins, left by the American who owns the site, refusing to restore it. Pat Cohan’s Bar, from the same movie, would be closed this early – and besides, I’d heard that it had been sold from the folks that had restored it.

Just as I made this decision, I saw a brown sign that made me turn – The Quiet Man Bridge. And so it was! I stopped and took plenty of photos of the lovely little creek and its stone bridge, trying hard to get shots without the modern house right next to the one side.

I drove farther along, and found my next spot, Brigit’s Prayer Garden. This place had been recommended to me by John Willmot, of Celtic Ways. John ran a spiritual retreat a bit farther north, and had been very helpful in finding spiritual spots to visit. I am very glad I found this place – it was lovely. AND it was open! Jenny was inside, and gave me the overview. There were four sections of the main garden, one for each of the Celtic Feast Days – Beltaine, Litha, Lughnasad, and Yule. Each one had modern sculpture and traditional sculpture to give the feel of the holiday. There were other areas, such as an Iron Age crannog, a dream circle, a beautiful, still, reedy lake, and a Celtic sundial. I wandered about a good while, and then went inside for some scones and tea at the café.

Back on the road, I started searching for Coole Park and Thoor Ballylee. Coole Park had been a literary retreat, a nature reserve and manor house owned by Lady Gregory. She hosted friends such as George Bernard Shaw, W. B. Yeats, John M. Synge and others. Yeats lived nearby in Thoor Ballylee, a square tower keep on a lovely river. Coole had a huge tree, called the Autograph Tree, where many of the famous visitors carved their initials or symbols.

As I approached Coole Park, I saw the dreaded and anticipated brown sign – Thoor Ballylee this way! I followed it down a very small, sort-of paved road, with high hedges on either side, and thick grass growing in the center of the road. However, I eventually followed the signs to the tower keep. It was closed up, of course, but it was lovely. It set on a bridge on a lovely, babbling stream, and the late morning light filtered through the leaves still clinging on the surrounding ivy-clad trees. I experienced a perfectly still moment in time, standing on that river, next to the imposing tower, and thinking of the beauty that had been created there.

I moved on to Coole Park, and went to the office to see if I could find a map. There was a huge manor house, some ornamental gardens, and several tree walks – my main interest was the Autograph Tree. I saw someone in the office, but she just sort of shook her head and ignored me. However, a nice man walking his dog came by and directed me to the right place. I walked through the lovely trees – the autumn colors were strong, and the trees still clung on to their autumn cloaks, despite the chill. There were several people walking about, with dogs, or strollers, enjoying the fairly mild day. I walked by one large enclosure, and saw a herd of deer inside. The antlered buck was alert, but just stared at me, posing while I took several photographs through the fence. The does ignored me, evidently quite used to humans walking by. The buck just stared, making sure I wasn’t doing anything but looking.

I made my way through to the walled garden, and found a lovely formal garden, with the Autograph Tree near the center of one side. I was somewhat disappointed by the fact it was fenced off, but I understood the need. I’m sure others would feel the need to add THEIR initials to the historic signatures that existed on it. I made my way through some more paths to get back to my car. Such a lovely place – I would love to live near here and walk through the woods regularly.

My next goal was Turoe Stone, a carved stone from Neolithic times in the La Tene style. I drove through cultivated farms and rolling hills. I was once again in an area where every square foot was used, a patchwork of domesticity. As I made my way through the town of Turoe, it was a madhouse in the one downtown street. There was some sort of event at the school, so everyone was trying to park at once. I did ask where the stone was, and was told it was at a nearby Pet Farm. Well, no, it wasn’t. When I got to the farm, I was told it had been removed for renovation. The person telling me about this was giving me an entire treatise as to why it had been removed, the process of renovation, when it was supposed to be returned, the fact that they had been hoping to bring in a fake ‘replacement’ stone, but hadn’t since the renovation was going more quickly than they had planned… it was difficult to get a word in edgewise. I needed to move on, as it was getting dark. I wasn’t interested in the brochure he was trying to sell me. I had wanted photos of the stone, and if it was gone, then I couldn’t do that. Please let me just leave…

I made it to my last stop of the day, Kilconnell Friary. I saw it, behind a row of houses and stores, but I saw no entrance. How did I get in? I parked at one point, and just walked along the row of houses, and then I saw it, almost hidden – a small concrete V step stile, allowing someone to walk through a small alley onto the field that held the Friary.

It was worth it to visit this one. While I had been to many ruins before, this one had some lovely curvilinear carvings in the windows, almost organic and very elegant. There were beautiful architectural elements, and some detailed saint carvings. The sun was beginning to dip, and offered some brilliant sunset photographs as it hid behind a strip of shredded cloud.

On to my home for the next three nights, Glasson. This was my only true interior stop of this trip, as I was trying to wean myself of my addiction to the coastline of Ireland. Also, I had some distant ancestry from the area – Dillon and Fitzgeralds, from 400 years ago, lived in the area. I found Glasson, which was about 5 miles north of Athlone, without any difficulty. The B&B was easy to find, and Theresa, the hostess, welcomed me with homemade cookies.

When I asked about dinner options, she recommended The Fatted Calf and Grogan’s in town. ‘Town’ consisted of one downtown street with a couple pubs and stores. She said it was walking distance, so I walked it. She hadn’t lied, but she also hadn’t mentioned that part of this walk was along a rather busy street with no sidewalk. However, that was only a short bit of the walk, and I made it safely to The Fatted Calf.

This was a rather posh attempt at a gastropub. The menu offerings were fancy (and expensive), and I wasn’t all that interested in spending E30 on dinner, so I opted for one of the appetizers – scallops with pulled pork. It sounds like an odd combo, but it was quite good, and filling enough for E14. They also served a fantastic olive tapenade with crusty bread, yum! The waitress also brought a bucket (literally, a metal bucket with a handle!) of skinny fries. The place was quite deserted, and I asked the waitress if there were any pubs around that had decent craic in the evenings. She quite honestly recommended heading into Athlone if I wanted any kind of socialization.

I caught up on Facebook and email while I was there, and then I walked back to the B&B, settled in a bit, and decided to go check out Sean’s Bar in Athlone. It had been on my list to visit, as it was reputed to be the oldest pub in Ireland, dating to 900, a claim backed by Guinness World Records.

Athlone is a larger city than I’d been dealing with yet this trip, except for Belfast. The GPS decided that it could find Sean’s Bar, but was horribly wrong. I parked near where it told me to go, and wandered around a bit. However, I could find nothing that looked like Sean’s Bar. I asked a young couple who had their hands filled with Christmas shopping bags – they kindly directed me to the other side of the river, just behind Athlone Castle. I headed back to the car, navigated across, and found parking just near the bar.

Oh, my, this bar was crowded! It wasn’t a large place, and it had some musicians in the front, and perhaps 50 people packed into the two rooms. There were a lot of suited businessmen around, and this was perhaps the smallest (physically) pub I’d yet been in this trip, except for one in Keady. There was no room to sit or stand at the bar, so I made my way to a small table and caught up with my trip notes. The ceiling was decorated with all sorts of sporting equipment – rifles, fishing rods, nets, paddles.

Perhaps my insular, solitary behavior was taking over, but I felt most uncomfortable with this crowd. I didn’t feel like chatting, I wanted to escape the press and the noise. I was in a place that was over 1000 years old, and it wasn’t enough to keep me there. I finished my ½ pint, and made my way, very slowly, out of the pub.

I drove back to Glasson, and decided to try Grogan’s for a pint. This place was also crowded, but was a lot less intimidating. Many people were dressed up very nicely, with sparkling dresses, clutch purses and black suits, but I was able to find a seat at the bar. All of a sudden, it emptied out – evidently most of the crowd had been here for a wedding, and the festivities were due to start soon.

There were still a few people around. A few couples were eating in this room, and there were three more rooms with both tables and bar. There was a tall shelf around the top of the wall with many different sorts and colors of bottles. There was, of course, the typical Old Man in the Bar (Anthony), seated a couple stools over from me.

I have found the midlands to be gentler, with fewer stunning vistas, or at least, fewer high places to view the vistas. There were more trees, perhaps because of less sea wind. I’ve seen more horses, cows and donkeys and fewer herds of sheep. I see more people from other countries here – Indian, Hispanic, Asian, black. It is definitely less homogenous than the west and the north areas had been.

The odors of the food being served in the other rooms came through, and it smelled delicious. I decided I could do with a salad, and ordered a smoked warm bacon and mushroom salad from the varied menu. This place also had a penchant for fancy gastropub menu items, but it wasn’t as dear as The Fatted Calf, and seemed a bit less pretentious. The salad was absolutely delicious. I chatted a bit with the bartenders and Anthony, and then headed back to the B&B, very tired after my long day driving.

I watched a bit of television before I went to sleep. I had strange dreams of roommates who broke the lease, and then invited in nosy, destructive friends to live with us, friends who resembled Penn & Teller.

Saturday, November 30th:

The Plan: Athlone Castle, Moydrum Castle, Portlick Castle, Hill of Uisneach, Belvedere House, Durrow High Cross, Naas for Christy Moore concert at 8pm.

Today was going to be a long one, because I had bought a ticket for the Christy Moore concert in Naas at 8pm, which was about an hour and a half drive from Glasson, so I would be back very late. It was also a day of castles! Theresa served a lovely breakfast, the best yet.

I headed out first to Athlone Castle. Though I had seen it the night before, lit up with lights and dramatic, I was looking forward to some daylight exploration. I arrived too early, of course – it wasn’t open for visitors until 11am, and I would be well away by then, visiting other places. I did get to walk around it, and get some lovely shots of the sun rising over the river, and went on to my next goal, Moydrum Castle.

This castle was nestled in a group of small farms and spindly trees. The ruin itself was blocked off, and evidently being used as some sort of farm shelter. There were a couple horses tethered (yes, tethered) at the ruins, and bales of hay stored in one area. It looked very ramshackle and neglected. The horses were thin, but didn’t look too underfed, and weren’t very shy, so at least that was good.

I moved on to find Portlick Castle. This had been a Dillon castle, and my ancestors had lived there at one point, centuries ago. I did find a lovely bay, and took a delightful forest walk to the edge of Lough Ree. It was a bit marshy here and there, but still well worth it. There were ivy-covered tree trunks and splashes of red and gold with autumn leaves still clinging on. I met an older couple, also walking, and they gave directions to where the castle was.

I found the castle, eventually… well, I found the castle gates, with two lions flanking the heavily padlocked doors. The name Dillon came from the Norman De León, so the lions were understandable. You couldn’t see the castle itself, as there was a long, tree lined drive past the gates. However, the padlocks – and the sign declaring the property for sale – was disappointing. I chatted with an older man who was out walking, and he said that I might be able to find a key from a man in Kilnaver(?) named Nolan, but I decided not to make that most likely fruitless trek.

The Hill of Uisneach, my next stop, was the geographical and spiritual centre of Ireland. I was very much looking forward to this experience as well, and found a lovely, green hill… and the entrance was barred. There was a note that it was private land, and that one could arrange for tours by calling a number. The gate was next to a house, but it didn’t look like anyone was home, and calling the phone number yielded no answer. I hadn’t realized this was a private site, or I would have arranged ahead of time. It’s too bad – this is very much a national heritage spot, as much as, if not more than, the Hill of Tara. I was saddened that I could not experience it.

Across the street I found a rather large graveyard, and I wandered it a bit. I did find several Dillon gravestones there, and felt a little more of a connection to the place.

On to bigger and more accessible places! Belvedere House is a huge estate. It has gardens, both formal and informal, a restored house, and a ruin called The Jealous Wall. There was a very busy café and gift shop, where I stopped for a huge salad with goat’s cheese, roasted pepper and ciabatta bread with pine nuts. There were children running around and screaming in the café, and I was very glad to escape the madness and din for the relative peace of the courtyard.

There was a small petting zoo next to the café, and I took some time to go greet the friendly denizens. Then they complained a bit when a group of children came careening out of the café towards them, with breakneck speed and dubious intentions, and I moved on to The Jealous Wall. This odd ruin was simply a wall, built to block off the view of the owner’s estranged brother’s house, which was built nearby. It is simply a folly, with no true structural purpose.

I wandered a bit and found the manor house, which had a tour path, with no need of a guide. It had restored rooms, such as dining rooms, drawing rooms, etc. It was a lovely place, and I had it mostly to myself. Coming out of the back door, you could see a lovely vista before you, with steps down to the lake and fields, like something out of an 18th century painting.

I walked until I found the walled garden, where I found a greenhouse and some delightful tree-lined squares, with statues and drooping trees. There was a fountain, several benches in spots appropriate for contemplation, and a wee fairy garden.

The fairy garden was a small stream and bridge, with little statues and figurines of fairies, gnomes, and other silly sculptures not very well hidden among the greenery. It was a cute place, but more for children than for me, I think.

I wandered back towards the café, and my car, narrowly avoiding the meandering children that were still infesting the café and the parking lot. I don’t dislike children, but sometimes too many of them can be quite deafening!

I went in search of Durrow High Cross, and found a brown sign. Detour! This sign said Lilliput Park, or Jonathon Swift Park, and it sounded intriguing. When I reached it, it had a lovely lake, but it looked like it was more of an activity park – pitch-n-putt, game fields, an activity centre, etc. There was a team of boys playing soccer, so I took a couple obligatory photos of reeds reflecting in the waters, and moved on.

GPS sent me down what looked like a private lane. I was somewhat skeptical, given its history, and I turned around, and explored the nearby Durrow Roman Catholic church I had just passed, in case the cross was there. There was a wedding going on, and so I left off my explorations of the graveyard, and returned to the private lane. For once, GPS was spot on – this was indeed where I needed to be. I found a brown sign for a holy well to Colmcille, and walked down a rather perilous path. The path itself was only reasonably muddy, but what made it so perilous were the two very angry-looking sides of pot roast staring at me as I passed. The sign said it was electric, but I wasn’t certain these two bulls knew that. They were complete with nose rings, and stared at me quite intently as I walked along their field.

Colmcille’s Well was hidden in a little tree-covered pocket of garden, and looked in relative good repair – someone was maintaining it, while leaving it looking a bit wild. It was old and mossy, but the water was clear and empty of leaves.

Back past the intent black bulls, I went into the small church which held the Durrow Cross. It had originally been inside, but had been moved inside to protect it from the elements, and it was quite spectacular. The carvings are clear and tell stories, and the photographs and explanatory material inside help you to interpret those stories. The graveyard outside was very old, with mossy, slanted stones, tired from having stood straight so many centuries, leaning against the grass for support.

I started heading towards Naas for the night’s concert, by way of Kildare. Along the way, I saw a sign for Monastervin, and thought I remembered something about the place, but I wasn’t certain what. I saw no other brown signs, so passed it up in favor of Kildare. Later research reveals that it has a town high cross, and many bridges, earning it the nickname Venice of Ireland. Ah well, another time!

Near Kildare, I made my way to St. Brigid’s Well. This is a sacred well area near the National Stud Farm. I wouldn’t have minded visiting the Stud Farm and gardens as well, but daylight was beginning to fade, so I satisfied with the well, as I’d been to all of them before. The well is an extensively built up site, with a stone structure around the well, a statue of Brigid (saint and/or goddess), and a huge clootie tree in the back area of the enclosure. I made my wishes, supped of her water, and enjoyed the peace of the place once again.

In Naas, the whole town was setting up for Christmas. There were singers on what looked like the City Hall steps, and the sound was being piped into speakers all along the High Street. Decorations were going up, shoppers were everywhere, and stalls of vendors were set up. There was a lot of traffic, and it crawled through town. I tried to find the hotel where I was supposed to be for the concert. I was early, as I wanted to find it while still a bit light out, but I didn’t see it. I stopped and asked directions, and was told to drive back through town, stay on the road, and it would be there. It was!

Such a beautiful hotel – it was a grand house, and had been a nunnery at one point. Christmas lights were all over the trees out front, and I parked to have a good walk around. I found the area that the concert would be held around back, and then went in search of food. It was still a couple hours until the concert, but was full dark, so I was unwilling to go exploring in town again, with the traffic.

I had encountered another gentleman while walking around, as he was on the same mission as I was. His name was Wilfred, and was here on business from Vancouver with other friends. We both noted the concert venue, and went our separate ways. I went into the Snug Bar, but they served no food. They recommended Jack’s Bar, and I made my way through the byzantine hallways and doors until I found it.

This was a very crowded hotel, and the restaurant was no exception. They were able to get me a table, and I relaxed and enjoyed my shrimp and smoked salmon ciabatta sandwich, with a bowl of potato and leek soup. It was warming and tasty, though I don’t understand the obsession with hard breads and squishy fillings, which almost guarantees that those fillings will squish out of the sandwich when you bite into it. Every sandwich in Ireland seems to be on ciabatta bread these days, unless it is specifically a hamburger.

This was the first time I encountered DCC this trip – Dynamic Currency Conversion. Usually it is not to the traveler’s advantage to be charged in dollars rather than Euros, as they tend to use a high exchange rate. They said it came up automatically in dollars (which may be true, being a hotel) but I wasn’t pleased. However, for such a small charge, I wasn’t going to make a stink. I did tell her it was violating Visa rules to not offer the option, though.

Now, I had to pass the time until the concert began, so I headed back to the relative peace and quiet of the Snug Bar. On the way, I passed by a closed door with a window frosted, except for the edges – and I saw Christy Moore and a couple other people on stage, doing a sound check.

The restaurant had been modern and glitzy, filled with people both sitting and eating as well as standing and drinking. The ceilings were high, the lights were fairly bright, and the staff was a bit snooty. However, the Snug Bar was close and comfortable, with dim lights, wooden furniture, a wee fire, and a friendly bartender. I was the first one in there for a pint, but it got quite full after about a half hour.

The music being piped in, of course, was Christy Moore. The barmen said he was about sick of it, but had been able to see a bit of the concert the night before. He said often the bar staff was allowed in, but this concert they had not been able to. He had snuck in a small peek, though.

About 7pm I wandered into the concert hall, as it was general admission, and snagged an aisle seat, about 15 rows back. There were about 800 people at the concert, and Declan Sinnott played with Christy Moore. Christy was very funny, and chatted with the audience between songs. He told some small stories about the songs, or just in general. He didn’t watch his language either – nor would I expect him to!

The playlist, as far as I was able to note down, (should anyone care) was this:

(I don’t know if these were the names of some of the songs, or just the chorus lines)
Missing You
Nancy Spain (this one made me cry)
Welcome to the Cabaret
Beeswing
Farmer Michael Hayes
Back Home in Derry
(a song about a dead poet - Coralnie?)
Diageo
Delirium Tremens
Veronica Guerin
I’m a Bogman (Luka Bloom’s song, his brother)
Honda 50
The Curragh of Kildare
Ordinary Man
The Voyage
Weekend in Amsterdam (this one was hilarious!)
Joxer goes to Stuttgart
First Time Ever I Saw Your Face
City of Chicago
Black is the Color
Bright Blue Eyes
Lisdoon-lisdoon-lisdoon-lisdoonvarna! (Couldn’t help listing that out!)
Ride On

Encore:
Fairy Tale of New York

He sang clear, so powerfully, and put so much emotion and passion into each and every song, I thought he would burst. I greatly enjoyed the concert, and was very glad I came. It was interesting to see folks’ cheering on Fairy Tale of New York – even the couple next to me, probably in their 70s.

It was a long, dark drive home, with a bit of misty rain to accompany my hour and a half long journey, but not too bad. I was still pumped up with the concert, and was happy I had gotten some film of the concert on my camera. I slept well.

Just reading through the local bits, Sorry I wasn't around to give you a guide through Coole Ballylee and Kilmacduagh.. I didn't know you were aiming for Turoe or would have advised against it. Still recovering from the last couple of months and will get round to reading everything and catch the pictures when my brain catches the ferry, still going back over for Christmas will probably pass it on the Irish sea Glad you had a good time.

Still enjoying your tale. I drove down that sort-of-paved road to Thoor Ballylee just this past September to find it closed as well. But I am glad that I took the detour. Next trip! mean time, it was off to other brown signs.

You mentioned hearing funerals on the radio at the B&B and never hearing that in the US. The town where I spent 40 years of my teaching career had a local radio station (limited broadcast area), and the station listed local obits and funeral announcements as well as birthday and anniversaries.

Looking forward to reading the last bits of your trip, but sorry I will be to have the narrative end. Also looking forward to more photos.

Thanks!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Sunday, December 1st:

The Plan: Castlegrange Stone, Clonmacnoise, Clonfert Medieval Church, Birr Castle and Gardens, Leap Castle


Ah, my last full day in Ireland! I am very sad, but also want to make full use of this last, brilliant day of my holiday. I was up just before the alarm, which is good. I still had the ringer turned off from the concert the night before, and I’m not certain the buzzing of a vibrating phone would make it through my earplugs. Regardless, I headed for breakfast, and Theresa surprised me with pancakes in addition to my full Irish. Sweeter and a bit thinner than American pancakes, they were delicious. I did have a nostalgic thought for the candied ginger that I had gotten with Scottish Pancakes on my trip to the Isle of Skye, and our stay at the Lodge at Edinbane…

First, I gassed up the car and went on to my first stop, the Castlegrange Stone. This was another Neolithic carved stone in the La Tene style, like the missing Turoe Stone. This one, however, was in place. It was on a small farm, with a bit of a clearing around it, tucked into the side of a country road, and was beautiful. The La Tene style of carving is very elegant, curvilinear and flowing, a precursor to the more well-known Celtic knotwork. The culture started in Halstatt around 800 BCE, and is considered the beginning of the Celtic culture. This stone was created around 200 BCE.

I saw a brown sign for The Windmill, and tried to chase it – but it blew away, evidently. I couldn’t find any further signs. Then I saw one for The Ancient Cemetery, and I parked to walk along the path it indicated – but it was padlocked up tight. I saw the path, along two fields, but it was surrounded by trees, and I couldn’t see what was on the end. Another brown sign promised St. Patrick’s Holy Well, but once again, it was locked up with not just a padlock, but barbed wire as well.

So, brown sign attempts all being stymied, I headed towards Clonmacnoise, a huge medieval abbey on the river Shannon. I’d been here before, among crowds of June tourists. On the way, I saw some Percheron horses, and what looked like llamas. Perhaps they were alpacas? I’m not certain.

I got to Clonmacnoise around 11am. There was a group of five Italians, and about3 other people there. I stayed to watch the small film on the history of the place, and when I left, no one was outside exploring the site, so I had it completely to myself. The wind was low and the sun was bright, and I greatly enjoyed it. There was some construction going on nearby – the peace was occasionally shattered by some machine and perhaps a jackhammer – but the huge flock of crows wasn’t bothered. They were my only company, and contemplated my movements with a great deal of interest. I got many wonderfully gothic photographs of them standing on or flying around the gravestones. Shortly thereafter, a flock of geese came honking by, disturbing the crows and the sky was a cacophony of caws and honks.

I moved myself on to Clonfert Cathedral, but saw the sign for Birr first, so I went there instead, intending to find Clonfert on my way back. Birr was a lovely stop! While the house itself was not open for exploration, the grounds and gardens were. While I passed the gate for the house, you could see it, an impressive edifice. There was a car out front, and a man in a suit with some shopping bags going into the house. The flag was up on the flag pole, so the family was in residence. It is home to the family of the 7th Earl of Rosse.

Even for winter, the grounds were lovely. There was a river, and I followed the signs for the waterfall. I would love to see this place in full view, but even in the winter it was sublime. The path for the waterfall was a bit narrow, and ended at a bridge to a part of the house that seemed to be overgrown, crumbling, and in disrepair. Still, I enjoyed the leaping river and waterfall hum.

I walked a bit farther along, and found a huge structure in the center of a relatively clear place, in the center of the grounds. This was a 1840s/Victorian-era telescope, and it was huge! Gears and levers and all sorts of interesting mechanical bits festooned this creation.

I kept walking, and came across the Millenium Gardens – an area that was originally started in the turn of the 20th century, though the Earl who started them never saw them to completion. There are beautiful cloister-style tree tunnels around two large courtyard areas. There is a glass house in the Pergola Garden. While the flowers weren’t blooming, different colors of stalks and ferns lent a lovely variety to the area. There was an odd set of face sculptures in one area, and a globe sculpture in front of what looked like a hobbit hole. Also, there were incredibly tall 300-year-old box hedges, according to Guinness, the tallest hedge in the world.

It was with some reluctance that I left these gardens. They were lovely. The sunlight filtered in through the trees and hedges, green and gold. I had the gardens to myself, though others were walking elsewhere on the grounds.

I went in search of Leap Castle. This is, supposedly, the most haunted castle in Ireland. I drove to the town of Roscrea and searched for brown signs, but found none. Instead, I asked a couple out walking their dogs, and they directed me pretty well through town, down a road, and turn left here… I found it, which surprised me completely. I had no idea at the time if it was the RIGHT castle. There were no signs or indications. The front gate was open, so I parked the car and walked down the drive. The castle is behind a wall, down a driveway, and on the side of a hill. When I got to the castle, I saw that there was serious renovation going on – a couple trucks with boards and masonry were parked out front, ladders were evident, and tarps. Obviously it was not open, and I had not expected it to be. I took some photos, made a quick check for any wee ghosties that might be poking their heads out of an upstairs window, and went on my way. Looking Leap up later, I verified that I was at the right castle.

I started my way back north to Glasson, and hoping to find Clonfert on the way back. I set my GPS fairly carelessly, though, and somehow ended up in Turoe again! Argh! I don’t think GPS likes the midlands. Dusk was fast approaching, so I gave up on Clonfert. I did find a Clonfert sign, but it led to no other signs, and when I came to a crossroads, I evidently chose the wrong direction.

I did see a sign for St. Sianan’s Well, and I stopped to see – from what I remember, this saint may have been the origin of the name of the river Shannon, and I was probably somewhere near the Shannon Pot, the starting point of the river. However, this pathway was again padlocked and closed to visitors. I saw two other brown signs for holy wells – one each for St. Patrick and St. Ciaran – but I was disillusioned by this point, and didn’t even bother looking for padlocked gates. Evidently November and December are not months one is permitted to be spiritual.

I arrived in the booming metropolis that is downtown Glasson by dark, and chose Grogan’s for dinner. It was a very busy night, and the place was chock full, even at just 6pm. I had never had goose to eat, and my husband didn’t like it, so when I saw it on the menu, I thought it would make a fitting last dinner in Ireland. It was served in slices with quince sauce, and a nice crusty bit of fat along the top, accompanied by a dish of roasted leeks and carrots. It was delicious, though I think I still like duck better.

I was full and replete, but the pub and restaurant was still so busy. I was seriously considering just going back and vegging on my last night, but I was unwilling to waste my last night in such a way. This pub, though not as posh as The Fatted Calf, was still not as homey as I prefer. It wasn’t someplace that felt like locals would go to much, mostly catering to visitors. I wonder if the midlands was more like this? The coast seemed to be more relaxed.

I finished my dinner, and headed towards the bar itself, but it seemed very full. There wasn’t any place for me to sit and have a pint, and talk to anyone, so I gave it up as a bad job, and went back to my B&B. It was only about 8pm by this time, and I watched some television before going to sleep. I came across a show sort of like So You Think You Can Dance, but all with traditional Irish step-dancing, called The Jig Gig. It was in Irish, so I enjoyed watching it and trying to understand the language. I went to sleep early.

Monday, December 2nd:

The Plan: Glasnevin Cemetery, Airport

This was it, time to travel back home. I had dreamed of leaving my luggage in the rental car, so when I woke up, I knew I wouldn’t let that happen. I checked in online and was able to choose a window seat on the north side of the plane for my return flight. If we passed over Greenland when the sky was clear, I wanted to see it.

I was up early, at 6am, made sure everything was packed up, ate a quick breakfast, (which was again very good), and went out the door. The trip back was mostly highway, and still mostly dark when I left. As I drove, a ribbon of sunrise burnt its way through a blanket of clouds. I made it to Glasnevin Cemetery by 10:30am, and decided I had about an hour to wander around. Oh, it was huge! I had no idea it was this large, and I could have spent hours and hours exploring this fascinating place. I had to satisfy myself with a rather quick jaunt around the main part, taking photographs of funereal sculpture like mad, and reluctantly got back to my car, and headed towards the airport.

Driving through Dublin wasn’t bad at all, though I didn’t get into downtown. I made it to the Dan Dooley drop-off point pretty easily, received no problem with the receipt for the two new tires (it was refunded to my card in two days), and was checked out in 10 minutes. The shuttle took me to the airport, and I checked my bag of dirty clothes. I had brought a spare duffel bag with me, for just this purpose, so I wouldn’t have to fit everything into the carry on again, in case I bought things. It also allowed me not to wear the long wool coat – it would now fit into the carry on, and I could wear the lighter fleece jacket.

I went through security, and the tripod once again concerned the agents. I went through security again for US Customs, and they didn’t like it either. The ticket said boarding was at 11:30, even though I had a 1pm flight, because of the time it takes to get through all the screenings. I had made it by noon, and there was no boarding yet. However, there were VERY limited options for food at this point. Basically, just one little café with pre-packaged sandwiches and pressed pannini. Of the five varieties listed, only two were left – tuna salad (which I don’t like in the best of circumstances) and a ploughman’s pickle sandwich, which had cheddar cheese, pickle, and really was rather good, considering.

I finished off my sandwich, and boarded the plane. I watched the movie Pacific Rim, and somewhat enjoyed my lunch of Chicken Tikka. As we passed Greenland, the clouds did indeed clear, and I was able to see (and even get some photos of) the white, sparkling tip of Greenland. I finished off the flight with several episodes of the Game of Thrones.

I was able to collect my bag, without issue (yay!), and search for the shuttle to my car. About five different shuttles came by before the one for extended parking showed up. The driver kindly took me right to my spot, though it was against the rules.

The drive home was uneventful, and as soon as I got home, around midnight, I crashed into bed, my adventure done.

*******


My favorite pubs: Sean Óg’s in Bunbeg, Matt Molloy’s in Westport, Johnny Joe’s in Cushendall.

My favorite B&Bs: Riverside in Cushendall, Teac Campbell in Bunbeg, McCarthy’s Lodge in Westport.

From the above, you can probably tell that Cushendall, Bunbeg and Cushendall were my favorite stops this trip. You would be correct! While each place had spots of indescribable beauty that took my breath away, these three spots had so many more of them, and more than that, a feeling of welcome that I could barely escape, that they felt like home.

My favorite sites: How to choose? I’ll mention some. Tollymore Forest, Glenveagh Park, Bunbeg beach, Achill Island, Brigid’s Prayer Garden, Celtic Prayer Garden, Ballynoe Stone Circle, the Dark Hedges, Ards Peninsula, Mussendun Temple, Banba’s Head, Tullynally Castle Gardens, Monasterboice, Birr Castle Gardens, and so many more.

I didn’t shop much this trip, and didn’t really buy anything for myself except a CD from the group in Westport. I usually bought some jewelry or scarves, but I really didn’t find myself in any gift shops. I had brought some postcards to bring back to friends, and a gift for my friend, Natile, but nothing much else.

I love Ireland so much, my heart is breaking at this point, just thinking about the fact that I had to leave my soul’s home, mo anam bhaile, tomorrow. It wasn’t just the people, the sites, the history, or the land, it was all of these. It is a land of strength and perseverance, a land of friends and joy, sorrow and pain. It is infused with this mixture like an ever-present incense in the peat smoke, nestled on the hills and in the valleys.

Someday, I vow, I will live in this land. Until then, I shall keep it alive in my memory with my reports and my photographs. Thank you for journeying along with me.

Small spelling correction - Castlestrange, not Castlegrange.

Is it? I didn't realize! That must be why it was hard to find information on it!

I've completed the first photo album for Drogheda area. You don't need a Facebook account to see them. It's on my Green Dragon Artist page. https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?...1&l=4e89046346

Wonderful set of photos from Drogheda area! Looking forward to seeing more. Thanks for sharing.

Hi Green Dragon,

Again, what a wonderful report! Enjoyed your pics too, especially that “last rose of summer” pink beauty. Loved your independence in driving alone at this time of year and your encounters with the local establishment and folks in pubs. Thanks for the great details.

At Westport (love that town) you wrote:

“Mary [host at b & b] had the radio on while she served breakfast, and I heard the news announcing local deaths, with mass and funeral arrangements. I’d never heard anything similar on American radio.”

My dear cousin is married to an Irishman whose home place is Newbridge, Galway, a very small town near the Roscommon line –not far from my own ancestral seat in Roscommon (but that is another story). She has often described the many rituals associated with death there – including the wake at home, with appropriate food and drink, the bringing of the casket to the church the night before the interment where a vigil is kept throughout the night (the departed in never left alone), the digging of the grave by selected family and friends who are supplied with refreshments after the task, the tolling of church bells, the respect of the neighbors who line the road to the cemetery, and many other traditions associated with funerals.

Again, you captured the essence of Ireland in your wanderings. I hope that you preserve this report for your family to treasure.

Thank you so much, irishface and latedaytraveler!

Kitty Kiernan Cronin, did you see her grave at Glasnevin? My friend and I bought a plant of heather for her grave. We met her Grandson and that was fate. He was great and Kim met him again last year for drinks. She was buried very near Michael Collins. That is a very moving cemetery with so much history. You did great driving to it.
The Airport is very frustrating to me now. I always like to do my duty free shopping of Butlers chocolate and now you have to get there so early for customs. It is ok for later flights but we had an early one.
Must start saving for next trip! Love all your photos. You have a real gift.

Thanks, flpab! I didn't see her grave - though the next time I go (there will be a next time!) I will make sure i have plenty of time to wander...

Second album: Armagh Area

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