The Cliffs of Moher: An iconic Irish landform

“When you live in Ireland,” explained Grainne,  “You spend a lot of time looking at the sky.” We had just pulled away from the Dunraven Arms in Adare, heading northwest to the famous Cliffs of Moher along the Atlantic coast of County Clare. “For example, this,” she said, gesturing to the mixture of drizzle and mist out the window, “is called mizzle, and if it doesn’t clear up, we won’t have the best view of the cliffs.” The gigantic wipers on the front of our coach swished intermittently back and forth behind her as Tony, our taciturn but competent driver, steered us along narrow roads that seemed to have been engineered to accommodate exactly the width of our coach.

Grainne went on. “For us to have a clear view, here in Ireland we say we need to see a patch of blue as big as a Dutchman’s trousers.”

Wouldn’t that depend of the size of the Dutchman? I wondered, but it didn’t matter because by the time we arrived, the sun had come out and the horror stories we had all heard about freezing rain and gale-force winds at the cliffs faded like misguided banshees under the rays of a bright, brave sun. Blue patches in the dispersing banks of cirrus clouds that lingered over us did indeed seem to take on vaguely rectangular shapes, I noticed. Trousers?

Still, I zipped on my down jacket– packed expressly for this day­– and I noticed that Jennifer even pulled her bright yellow hood tightly around her face. It was quite windy, if not really cold, as we passed the Visitor’s Center that is carved into the base of the hill and before we reached the edge of the cliffs.

Jen, prepared for the worst...

The fearless foursome in bright sunlight.

When you’ve seen millions of Internet photos of someplace like this, you wonder if the real thing will live up to expectations. I must say this one does. I didn’t take many pictures (two) because although I’m not a great photographer, I do know the best shots are made in the early morning or late afternoon when the sun is not straight up overhead as it was when we arrived. Lining up a trial shot, I could see the faces of the cliffs in deep purple shadow, while the grassy tops glowed greenly in the sun, so I put Jen in front and shot.  Later, an exchange of camera phones produced the next shot, in one of those spontaneous fellow tourist offers: I’ll take yours if you’ll take mine. Finally, I tried another angle and gave it up. Best to form my own experiential memories anyway.

Still, the sharp 700 foot drop from the cliffs to the sea is impressive, the sunlight casts shifting shadows on crashing waves under circling sea birds, and the pervasive presence of the sea quickens the spirit. The tourists’ careless awareness of sturdy safety barriers erected to prevent falls, unintentional and otherwise, heightens the sense of potential tragedy amidst so much beauty. Our time there was sufficient to appreciate the sight, but not enough to take the longer walk down to Hag’s Head for a different perspective, something I had wished to do. But then, there was my dodgy knee.

In fact, in retrospect, there wasn’t a reason to prolong our time there, and we were happy to reboard our comfy coach and travel on to Galway.

A Yeats Experience

 

Damian Brennan stood on the gravel outside his low contemporary home in Sligo, the northernmost stop on our tour of Ireland.  His hair, grayed to nearly white, was pulled back in a neat ponytail that brushed the collar of his impeccable white dress shirt, in contrast to the rather casual black trousers and sturdy leather shoes worn underneath. His arms were crossed tightly over the bib of a crisp gray apron with a square red pocket, and his dark-rimmed glasses framed a business-like gaze as he greeted Grainne, our tour guide.  From my vantage point on the front seat of the coach, I noticed how the plaid bow tie at his throat caught the reds and grays in that apron, on which, when he lowered his arms to welcome us inside, I could read the logo: Yeats Experience. 

Back in December, when I read the tour itinerary listing for a “Poetry Lunch in County Sligo, with its renowned natural beauty, home to the young William Butler Yeats”, I had rushed to Google this Irish poet whose work seemed to have been overlooked in my high school and university lit courses. Still mentally pronouncing it “Yeets”, I had willed myself to fall into the verses that were inspired by the “magnificent vistas over Lough Hill and the Land of Hearts Desire”, according to our itinerary notes, but our relationship had remained persistently superficial. None of the poems really resonated with me.

That was about to change.

Damian ushered us quickly through the house out to a flat grassy area, bordered by hedgerows and unobtrusive wire fencing, where my eyes were drawn from an intriguing sculpture of two horse hocks to the expansive vista that stretched in front of us. Can you imagine living with this view? The early afternoon sky glowered heavily above us, but at the foot of the promontory where we stood transfixed, the expanse of water in the distance and the low hills that sloped gently down to it glowed softly where the dark clouds had turned to white mist.

Inspirational Irish landscape, indeed.

Inside, the view now framed by panoramic windows, we listened as Damian introduced us to the history of this fervently nationalistic poet, whose name I was now pronouncing correctly as ‘Yates’, and I was surprised and chagrined to learn that he was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1923. In preparation for the trip, I had brushed up on modern Irish history without coming across his name, but I have since learned that Yeats was once appointed a senator of the Irish Free State, the precursor of the current Republic of Ireland.

After this introduction, we were treated to a simple and beautifully presented luncheon that had been prepared right there in the contemporary open kitchen just behind us.

All those little vases are fused onto the ceramic base.

We munched on cold sandwiches and fresh greens grown on the premises, including a piquant Nasturtium blossom garnish. A cold yellow soup of tomato and apple was a pleasant surprise, as we had become costumed to delicious Irish variations of the tomato/basil recipe on this trip. Another surprise for this Southern California resident was the Irish Soda Bread, a chewy base for our thick slices of smoked Irish ham, and nothing like the heavily sweetened lump I often purchase at my local Stater Brothers grocery store.

Simple yet tasty food, and gluten free!

Following tea and coffee and a sweet bread called Irish Tea Brack, Damian continued his readings, amid nodding heads and smiles of recognition, as well as some companionable joining in on the most familiar lines, especially by Anne, Jennifer and Sheila. I, too, got caught up in the cadence and the language, and found a favorite, one that brought to mind a niggle of Thoreau and his famous pond.  It is perhaps his most well known, ­and it fixes the afternoon in my memory.

The Lake Isle of Innisfree

By William Butler Yeats

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,

And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;

Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,

And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,

Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;

There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,

And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day

I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;

While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,

I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

I don’t know if it was the view, or the congenial company, or the rich accent of the presenter, but Yeats’ words took on a certain familiarity, a universality of emotion. As I approached Damian our host to thank him, I was surprised to find my eyelashes suddenly damp. 

Whose horse inspired this intriguing sculpture?

Dallying in Dingle

Lazy black and white cows reclined on the eerily emerald grass under the afternoon sun as our coach headed back to Adare. The breed, related to Holsteins, is called Friesian and is valued for its low butterfat content milk. In adjoining fields grazed short-legged, ecru-colored sheep. In this area of county Limerick, the fields spread and roll in gentle rises and low dips, separated by shrubs, trees and stone dikes. In one field gone brown with harvesting, enormous flocks of black birds scavenged for leftover grain, as industrious as ants.

Along a different stretch of highway, we passed a peat bog where we could see the tools used to cut the peat into brick-shaped pieces that were then carefully stacked on the side of the field to dry, like low towers of organic building blocks.

The scenery in this part of the country calls to mind the 1970 film, Ryan’s Daughter, because it was filmed here.

 Our excursion to the picturesque (or Sheila is jokingly wont to say: picture skew) town of Dingle earlier in the day had included a stroll along streets bordered by rainbow colored shops, many of them decorated with three-dimensional figures. 

I dropped in at a pharmacy for more ibuprofen tables to keep my knee happy, and then we did that thing that women do in foreign places – we went to a grocery store. The tempting displays of fresh fruits and vegetables, and the variety of breads were hard to resist, the clerks were unfailingly pleasant, and the whole atmosphere was conducive to purchasing food, not to mention, wanting to cook. I think Anne was looking for oranges, you know, for the R&D. Near the check out, we found a stand of children’s books, where I caved to temptation, purchasing a picture book about Fungie, the Dingle Dolphin, who has frequented the Dingle Bay since 1983.  


 

Yes, I love sensational spelling.

I'm not a fan of this meat but the arrangement makes it look enticing.

Tapas food in a Dingle grocery store!

Which word means 'eggs'?

And this on a day when we decided to skip lunch.

A quick stop in a small gelato shop called Murphy’s reminded us that we were in the Gaeltacht, an area where the Irish language, or Gaelic, is widely spoken. Murphy’s advertising tended toward the cheeky, as evidenced by the t-shirt graphic in the photo. The translation, as Anne was told, is “Kiss my cone,” a variation on a similar phrase that you will have to figure out for yourselves.  

Figure it out.

A sense of Irish humor.

 Right away, we found a music shop with a delightful owner who helped us chose a set of CDs with the best selection of Irish Trad, or traditional, music. A large Celtic harp dominated the store’s collection of musical instruments.

The proprietress was as charming as the storefront.

I'd love it but it won't fit in my luggage, nor in my trip budget.

Returning to the Dunraven Arms for another tasty dinner, I called it a day and took my aching knee to an early bed, while the hale and hearty betook themselves to a local pub to lift a glass and listen to some music.