In the footsteps of giants

I’ve always heard that Giant’s Causeway in Northern Ireland is beautiful.  In the 90’s the last time I lived here though, Northern Ireland wasn’t exactly the best place for a family vacation destination.  The intricacies of the disagreements, skirmishes and disparities between Ireland, Northern Ireland and the wider UK are too much to even try to describe in the short space of this light-hearted blog, but I did like the summary from one guide book that we read – I’ve abbreviated it further…

Like its Celtic cousins, Scotland and Wales, Ireland has always been difficult for Britain to handle.  However, Ireland has been much more distant from London – a distance due more to its Catholicism than the Irish Sea.  Four hundred years ago, Protestants were strategically planted in Ireland to assimilate the island into the British economy.  This didn’t go well.  When Ireland won independence in 1921, six of the 32 counties stayed part of the UK whilst the others formed the Republic of Ireland.

In the Republic of Ireland (the south), where 94 percent of the population was Catholic there was a clear majority.  But in the North at the time it was formed, Catholics were still a sizable 35 percent of the population – enough to demand attention.  To maintain the status quo, Protestants considered certain forms of anti-Catholic discrimination necessary.  It was this discrimination that lead to the “Troubles” (the conflict that filled the headlines from the late 1960s to the late 1990s).

Four hundred years ago, the Troubles were a fight over Protestant and Catholic religious differences.  But over the last century, the conflict has been not about faith, but about politics: Will Northern Ireland stay part of the UK or become part of the Republic of Ireland?  The indigenous Irish of Northern Ireland, who generally want to unite with Ireland, happened to be Catholic.  The descendants of the Scottish and English settlers, who generally want to remain part of Britain, happen to be Protestant.

Though there continue to be eruptions of violence, mostly in Belfast & Derry and mostly around mid-July around the anniversary of the original disputes, there has been healing over the last 10-20 years with a significant step coming in 2010 when Prime Minister David Cameron expressed regret for the British Army’s offenses on Bloody Sunday.  And luckily for tourists, it’s no longer a sadly contorted corner of the world.

After saying a sad goodbye to our country cottage in Ardfinnan, including George (who we found out from the owner when we turned in the keys, real name was Louis), we set out for the north.  Not wanting to just see the Irish highways (which in a complete side note, are absolutely amazing!  After years of British roads, we really appreciate wide lanes, well signposted exits and smooth pavement.  Ireland has it!), we decided to turn off onto side roads and head in the general north easterly direction…or at least that’s what I told Adam when for the eleventh time he asked where we were & what we were doing on a road next to a cow – literally.

Eventually we found ourselves driving along the Antrim coast. The coastal-way is about 20 miles long, but easily takes you a day to drive it with tourist stops and many pauses at each scenic overlook along the way.  We set out from our bed & breakfast in Ballymoney around 9am towards our first stop of Giant’s Causeway.

Geologists claim that the causeway was formed more than 60 million years ago when highly fluid molten basalt intruded through chalk beds to form an extensive lava plateau.  As the surface of the lava flow quickly cooled, it contracted and crystallized into hexagonal columns.  As the rock (looking a bit like reptile skin) later settled and eroded, the columns broke off into many stair-like steps.  The pillars today stick up along the coastline like hexagonal trees waiting to be plucked from the sky.

Of course, the truth is that Finn MacCool, a Northern Irish Giant Warrior built a bridge to spy on rival giant, Benandonner, living on the Scottish island of Staffa (only about 17 miles across the Irish Sea).  Finn crossed over to Scotland to discover that Benandonner was a much larger giant and quickly retreated back to Ireland; running so quickly to leave his boot at the base of the bridge.  To hide, Finn had his wife dress him as a sleeping infant, just in time for the rival giant to come across the causeway to spy on Finn.  Benandonner, shocked at the “infant’s” size, fled back to Scotland in terror of whomever had sired this giant baby.  Breathing a sigh of relief, Finn tore off the baby clothes and knocked down the bridge.  And we know this is the truth as the geologic formations extend under the sea…and surface again in Staffa in Scotland.

Finn's boot!  He's a size 47, if you wondered.

You can see the storm roll in from the sea.  What you can't do is run fast enough from the top of the cliff back into the visitor's center to keep from being rained on, then sleeted on, then hailed on.  Needless to say we were really wet about 10 minutes after this picture was taken.

From Giant’s Causeway we drove the 10 or so miles to the Carrick-a-Rede Rope Bridge.  Just 65 feet off the mainland of Northern Ireland is the island of Carraig a' Ráid.  Originally built by fishermen, the bridge was strategically placed over the 90 foot chasm to allow the gathering of nets from the salmon filled sea below.  In the 1960s, almost 300 fish were caught each day, but by 2002, only 300 were caught over the whole season.  The bridge is no longer used widely by fishermen but rather the tourists who for £5.60 can take the terrifying walk single-file across a the bridge made of string and wood…not exactly the ironbridge from earlier in our trip!

You can call me a wuss, but there were 40mph sustained winds with 60-70mph gusts.  There was absolutely no chance I was going on a rope bridge 90 feet above a rocky, cold sea.  So we watched other crazy people attempt the trek.

We had planned to have a picnic at the overlook above the rope bridge, but the aforementioned wind on top of the already cold temperatures and the fact that we were still a bit damp from our earlier rain / hail / sleet shower, we decided eating in the car at the outlook was just as good as the picnic tables.

After lunch we finished the meander along the coast before hitting the road for our final destination of the great Irish adventure : Dublin!

The Rock of Cashel

Royal and saintly Cashel! I would gaze

upon the wreck of thy departed powers,

not in the dewy light of matin hours,

nor the meridian pomp of summer’s blaze,

but at the close of dim autumnal days,

when the sun’s parting glance, through slanting showers,

shed’s o’er thy rock-throned battlements and towers

such awful gleamsas the brighten o’er Decay’s

prophetic cheek. At such a time, methinks,

there breathes from thy lone courts and voiceless aisles

a melancholy moral, such as sinks

on the lone traveler’s hear, amid the piles

of vast Persepolis on her mountain stand,

or Thebes half buried in the desert sand.

-Sir Aubrey De Vere

The Rock of Cashel

It’s difficult to put into words how to explain the Rock of Cashel. Historically speaking, building at the Rock of Cashel goes all the way back to the early Medieval Age (c. 500 – 800 A.D.) where it was the royal seat for the Kings of Munster and supposedly where St. Patrick converted one of the Kings who ruled during the fifth century. In 1101 the castle was gifted to the church and construction on the tower began shortly thereafter. The Tower is the oldest building still standing on the sight and features a door that sits 12 feet above ground level. With excellent sightlines of the entire area the Tower’s primary purpose was to protect the clergy who lived there from raiding parties. Essentially when trouble was spotted on the horizon everyone on sight would scurry up a rope ladder pulling it behind them and simply wait for trouble to pass.

Mythologically speaking the Rock of Cashel is much older. According to local folklore the rock, upon which the church now stands, was cast by Satan himself from a mountain known as the Devil’s Bit some twenty miles away in an attempt to flatten a church being built in another part of Cashel. Having missed his mark, Satan unwittingly provided the townsfolk with an ideal outcropping complete with an unobstructed view back toward’s Devil’s Bit, thus providing the people with more protection from Satan than they would have had without the poorly thrown rock. Especially when fortified with a castle!

Our time at Cashel was probably far more brief than it could have been, because despite the bright sun and cloudless skies it was also exceptionally windy and bitingly cold. We did manage to get some really good photos though.

I also got a few pics of the River Suir where it cuts through the small village of Ardfinnan, where our cottage was located. 

I kissed a stone and I liked it…

With the weather as bad as it had been, we were a bit worried that given everything in the country had been closed for two days, all the tourist attractions where going to remain closed.  We decided to chance heading down into Cork and Blarney Castle.

I have almost nothing on the history of the castle or its strategic meaning.  I can barely tell you about its star attraction : the Blarney Stone.

In the late 16^th century, Elizabeth I was trying to shore up the Irish island in their loyalty to the English crown.  In doing so she planted loyal English strategically in the middle of rebel areas of Ireland.  One such transplant was Cormac MacCarthy, Lord of Blarney Castle.  Lord MacCarthy was smart enough to never disagree with the Queen, rather he cleverly acquiesced to her demands and sent back to the Mother Country a never-ending stream of lengthy and deceptive excuses, disguised by flattery.  Frustrated by this, the Queen declared his endless words nothing but ‘blarney’.

I don't care how sunny it looks in the pictures, it was raining the entire time we were here.

The actual stone’s origin is blanketed by myths ranging from it being placed in the castle after being won in a Holy Land crusade to it being part of the Scottish royal Stone of Scone.  To be honest, I’m not entirely sure why tourist line up by the bus load to lean over backwards to kiss the stone.  One account I read talked about Lord MacCarthy first finding his eloquent speaking technique after finding the stone in a forest and kissing it.  He was so excited about his new gift that he used the stone in the building of his castle.

Not sure.  They now say that those who kiss the stone a bestowed with the ‘gift of gab.’  As my Dad pointed out when I told him, for some of us, this is just a booster shot.

A Dingle Merry Christmas

Christmas Day brought much better weather so instead of staying in and relaxing we set out to explore the Dingle Peninsula. Of course as is often the case with us, getting to a destination is often as entertaining as the destination itself, and driving to Dingle on Christmas Day was no different. Thanks in large part to the fact that our arrival in Dublin was delayed until 9:30 PM on Christmas Eve due to rough seas we weren’t able to fill the car up with petrol on our way to the cottage as all the stations were closed for the evening. So we started out our journey to Dingle the next day with 77 miles to empty and a 300+ mile round trip ahead of us on Christmas Day. 

Now most people we know have asked what it’s like driving in the UK and typically my response refers to driving on the opposite side of the road. However, I should also stress that finding a place to fill up your vehicle can be surprisingly difficult. In the US it feels as if there is a gas station every few blocks in the cities and at every exit off the Interstates. In the UK, and most of the rest of Europe for that matter, gas stations are far more sparsely located, and even though we’ve lived here for nearly three years I’m still not used to strategically planning fuel stops for the sole purpose of not running out during the journey. So after nearly fifty miles of driving and no sign of petrol station in sight I was beginning to get a little uneasy about our chances of making it back to the cottage, much less finding our way around the Dingle Peninsula.

We eventually reached the town of Mitchell which consisted of two stop lights, a large commercial dairy and even more importantly two petrol stations. I drove past the first one we came to as it appeared to be closed and didn’t have a pay at the pump option so I pulled into the second station a hundred yards further down. A strong sense of foreboding struck me as I peered through the windshield at a darkened station, again no pay at the pump. While try to push aside my feelings of despair and extreme disappointment Amanda looked across the street towards the first station we passed and noticed a vehicle parked in the corner that wasn’t visible from the road as we drove by. With renewed hope we motored back the way we came and I quickly hopped out of the car and made my way to the door of the station. As I approached I could see someone inside and when I took hold of the handle and gave it a tug it pulled open, granting me access and a welling hope that all was not lost.

As I crossed the threshold it was apparent that the father-daughter team standing at the register were intent on this being a day of re-organization as displays were oddly located throughout the shop and merchandise was haphazardly spread across the counters. Not two steps into my approach the daughter looked up and in a lyrical tone informed me that they were closed for Christmas. Undeterred I continued my approach to the counter stating that all I need was to fill up so that I could make it to my destination. The father, sensing my plight, gave a sigh and told me in a much thicker accent that if I was willing to pay by credit card he would turn one of the pumps on for me.  Absolutely, I proclaimed and hurried out the door to fill the car before the opportunity was lost. On returning to the shop to pay I thanked the pair profusely and attempted to answer their inquisitive nature but the father’s accent was so strong I had difficulty following along. I believe he was asking me if there was anything else I needed and if the amount of gas I had purchased would be enough to get me where I wanted to go so I thanked him again, wished them both a Merry Christmas and tried to express my gratitude as much as possible without going all French in the situation. I just didn’t get the sense that this grizzled Irishman would have appreciate a couple of pecks on his cheek, much less the cheeks of his daughter. C’est la vie I suppose.As I re-entered the car and began pulling out of the station I relayed the entire tail to Amanda along with our brief discussion of the weather Ireland had seen for the last week and she just shook her head wondering how so much could happen in the span of a five minute fill up.

Thankfully the rest of our drive to Dingle was uneventful and we quickly settled in to enjoying the beautiful Irish countryside.

The Dingle Peninsula represents the western most point of Western Europe, so in a sense we spent Christmas day as close to home as physically possible whilst still being in Europe. We still missed all of our family and friends but looking out across the Atlantic Ocean we knew we would see them all again soon.

The town of Dingle is quaint and while not quite picturesque still has a distinctively Irish charm to it. This could partly owe to the fact that all the road signs in the surrounding area are in Irish Gaelic.

As is often the case, our visit to Dingle was due in large part due to the recommendation of one Rick Steve’s and the self guided driving tour he provides in his Ireland guide book, which did not disappoint. Of the many things we learned while Amanda took the wheel for the driving tour was that two rather famous movies were set in Dingle (‘Ryan’s Daughter’ and ‘Far and Away’) thanks in large part to its rugged and austere landscape. We also learned that I am rather rubbish when it comes to directing a driving tour as we always seemed to be either one or two stops ahead of my narration of the self guided tour. Unfortunately this means that for most of the photos I have absolutely no clue whether or not the picture matches the description I was reading at the time. So instead of trying to work my way back through the driving tour and attributing the photos to their supposed descriptions I’ll simply let you enjoy images of the amazing scenery sans likely incorrect descriptions. Hope you enjoy and rest easy in the knowledge that Amanda took tour guide duties away from me for the rest of the trip.

Amanda at the wheel!

Adam attempting to navigate.

I found Amanda a beach but couldn't get her to dip her toes in the water.

Hello sheep

Oh and Merry Christmas!!!