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.

FOYNES, IRISH COFFEE, AND THE FLYING BOAT MUSEUM: WHAT?

If you want to know the truth, the promise of sampling some Irish Coffee in the place it was invented was a much bigger draw than visiting some obscure WWII aviation museum as we left Dingle Bay and continued our day’s journey into County Limerick.  That initial apathy changed, however, as soon as the petite and uniformed museum guide showed us the introductory video of an unwieldy aircraft coming in for a landing…splashing down right in the water of the bay! Gasp! So that was a Flying Boat! Who knew they even existed?  I remembered hearing about ‘seaplanes’ but they were smaller prop planes with skis on the bottom. This was different. These were big passenger airplanes, and we were to learn that their history was even bigger.

When we passed through a photo exhibition of early airplanes, including the Spirit of Saint Louis, Jennifer gave me a knowing look. “Your father, remember?” It took me a minute to get her reference. A professional sign painter and somewhat of a storyteller, my father had always insisted that as a young man, he had painted the famous name on Lindbergh’s monoplane. Obviously, he had impressed Jennifer, while I had always taken that claim with a very large grain of salt.  Still, her comment set me up for an unusual sense of psychic awareness that grew as the tour went on. 

As our guide led us back in time to an era of Pan American Airways and the early days of transatlantic aviation, that strange sense of connection increased. Pan Am was one of the airlines that flew into Lima in the late 60’s when I first went to live there. In my mind’s eye, a picture flashed of the elegant office on the ground floor of the Hotel Bolivar on the Plaza San Martin. Shaking my head to clear that incongruous vision, I wasn’t able shake a feeling that I was entering into force field that would pull me closer to someone I knew well. If not my father, then who?

As we boarded the only full-sized replica of the Boeing 314 Flying Boat next to the reconstructed original control tower, I knew. My father’s son, Jack M. Jones, was in the Air Force in WWII and taught me to talk about “aircraft”. My much older half-brother wore his khaki trousers and shirts for the rest of his long life, and it was his spirit I was channeling as I stepped up the ramp. 

Once inside, however, the novelty of the furnishings dispelled my otherworldly preoccupations, and we stepped back in time to when flying was for the rich and famous and passengers dressed for the occasion.  A flying boat came complete with beds, tables with elegant tablecloths, silverware, wide padded seats, a tiny galley, and even a honeymoon suite at the rear.

 

The navigation was so primitive that pilots flew under the weather, so low that if the weather changed, they returned to Foynes to wait out the storm. When that happened, the airfield already would be closed for the evening, the personnel gone home to bed. In that event, a certain farmer, called the Horse Crier, would saddle up his trusty steed and ride around town blowing his bugle, alerting the town that the flight had returned and passengers needed emergency food and a place to rest until the weather improved.

And that is where Irish Coffee comes into the picture. As with everything in Ireland, the weather played a key role. In 1943 a restaurant and coffee shop opened in the terminal, and on one stormy winter night that year, a Morse code message arrived alerting the staff that a flight was returning to Foynes and the passengers and crew needed food and drink to warm them. When the famous chef, whose name was Joe Sheridan,  (please remember his name) was asked to whip up something special for them, he decided to put some good Irish whiskey in their coffee. One of the passengers asked if that was Brazilian coffee, to which Joe reportedly responded, “No, that was Irish Coffee!” and a legendary drink was born.

                                                                    

Note the stemmed glasses – they are the original and 'proper' way to serve Irish Coffee.

Oh, did you remember the bartender's name? Another connection: Sheridan was my mother's maiden name.

We were given a lesson in the proper preparation of this libation, and then encouraged to drink up. See the video here when I figure out how to make it short enough to post.

In reading the historical book I bought about the airfield, it says that there was no place in the tiny town of Foynes to house the Pan Am passengers who were awaiting their continuing flights, so they were put up in the Dunraven Arms, in Adare, the very place we were staying!

Foynes was the last port of call on Ireland’s western shore for these planes during the war. It became one of the biggest civilian airports in Europe. 

THE DINGLE PENINSULA - PART I AUGUST 20, 2015

When we read in the itinerary that we would be visiting Foynes, it may as well have been Nowheresville, since none of us had heard of it. If it wasn’t in Rick Steves’ guidebook, did it even exist? Why would Gate1 think we wanted to go there? And what in the world was a Flying Boat?

All of these questions percolated in the backs of our minds as, toting our carry-ons and daypacks, we went down to breakfast in the Dunraven Arms in plenty of time to be ready for the 8:30 departure for the Dingle Peninsula.

By this fourth morning together, some individual breakfast routines that had evolved suffered a sudden shift. Not Jennifer’s, of course. She never varied from her bowl of dry cereal and a bit of fresh fruit. I usually had some fruit, especially the fresh pineapple that we all were delighted to find in Ireland, and then some kind of eggs and Irish bacon or a sausage – a complete departure from my usual Spartan fare. In addition, I had given up my usual coffee for strong, Irish tea, just like everyone else. Sheila always started with a bowl of fruit mixed into the beautiful natural yogurt that was always on the buffet, followed invariably by one slice of fried tomato, one slice of black pudding, and one fried egg. Anne usually went for fruit and some kind of egg, as well, but on this morning, she mixed it up completely, returning from the buffet with a plateful of fragrant curry-colored rice mixed with squares of white fish and dotted with green peas. “Kedgeree!” she announced. “Real, authentic kedgeree!”  Blank look from me. Sheila, however, popped up and returned with a portion of the same. New to this dish, I listened as Anne invited me to taste it and explained something called the British Raj in India, a term that was new to me, even though the history was not. I will quote here from Wikipedia: It is widely believed that the dish was brought to the United Kingdom by returning British colonials who had enjoyed it in India and introduced it to the UK as a breakfast dish in Victorian times, part of the then fashionable Anglo-Indian cuisine.^[2] It is one of many breakfast dishes that, in the days before refrigeration, converted yesterday's leftovers into hearty and appealing breakfast dishes, of which bubble and squeak is probably the best known.

After a taste, I adopted the attitude that I teach to my young students when they encounter something unfamiliar and not entirely pleasant: two fingers on the chin, head cocked to one side, and the comment, “Hmmm. Interesting.” Tasty, but not for breakfast. In my opinion.

We set out early for the Dingle Peninsula, all the way to the Atlantic Ocean, stopping at Dingle Bay, on Inch Beach.

Sheila ‘had a paddle’ in the sea. 

I had a mission on this beach, which I quickly set about fulfilling. My teaching/writing friend, children’s author Shelley Moore Thomas, has a new middle grade book out which is set right here on the Dingle Peninsula in a beach community based on this one, titled SECRETS OF SELKIE BAY. It’s an engaging magical/reality tale set in modern times about a young girl whose mother mysteriously disappears after showing her three daughters a secret island off the coast where the selkies – those magical seal people –live. With great forethought, I had packed the book cover so I could take a picture of it surrounded by seaweed and sand on this beach, but due to my increasing absentmindedness, I realized with dismay that I had not brought it with me on this particular day.  Anne came to my rescue with her iPad, and I was able to improvise. 

 

Surfers in their wetsuits dotted the waves, while newbies learned the basics at a surf school. 

A magical mist kissed the tops of the mountains.

We met a delightful member of the surf community, a friendly Newfie, who sat at the end of the table with us, waiting hopefully for scraps from our snacks.

 

Jameson Irish Whiskey Distillery, visited on August 18

No one could accuse this group of an aversion to whisky, especially with our resourceful traveling companion Anne along, see photo. She can be counted on to supply us with a bottle of Canadian Club rye whisky, several oranges, a small but efficient knife and a nose for places to purchase Canada Dry Ginger Ale, or in its absence, 7Up. She usually remembers to take a bottle opener, as well.  Rounding up the bathroom glasses, she treats us to a restorative Rye & Dry at the end of each day of sightseeing.   

Here in Ireland, of course, we expected to enjoy our planned visit to the Jameson Distillery in Midleton, outside Cork. All of us had been to the venerable Glenfiddich distillery in Scotland, and even though our three Scottish lasses harbor a natural preference for the spirit spelled without the ‘e’, we all were up for a good tour.  The18th century plant uses waterwheel-powered crankshafts and 31,000 gallon copper still – the largest of its kind in the world.  When we were all invited to sample a generous glass, Nancy surprised herself by developing a discriminating taste for the amber nectar!!!!!!!!

Grainee, our dedicated tour guide.

Waterwheel that still drives the crankshafts.

 Our spirited (couldn’t resist) guide Orla described the process in a rapid-fire delivery with an accent that was (happily) easy to understand, even when she gave an extra syllable to kiln, turning it into ‘kilin’ and lending a soft vowel to the product’s name, pronouncing it ‘Gemeson’.

Sheila volunteered to ring the large copper bell that used to alert the workers to events taking place in the distillation process, and surprised Orla by succeeding on the first try.

At the end of the tour, Jennifer elbowed the rest of us out of the way when volunteers were requested for the whiskey taste test.

Happy tasters.

Cobh

Our next stop was Cobh (Cove) the waterfront from which more than three million Irish emigrated to America, Canada and Australia in the 19^th century. Convicts were also deported to Australia from this island port. It was the final stop of the Titanic before departing on its fateful voyage. We were each given the name of one of the Titanic passengers on our entry ticket and then were able to check it against the list of survivors. An interactive and atmospheric museum exhibition was outstanding and we would have liked a bit more time to take it all in, as well as more time to take a stroll around the town. The stature of the departing emigrant family on the walk outside reminded us of the children on board the “coffin ships”.

Looking out to sea and the uncertain future.

Medieval Banquet in 15th Century Irish Castle

The highlight of the printed itinerary, the Medieval Banquet didn’t disappoint.  Dressed in our finery, we were greeted by the participants in medieval dress, calling us all Milady and Milord. We had a cup of warm mead in the garden to the strains of Celtic harp and fiddle music before entering the hall of long tables and benches that faced a raised stage. We sipped a delicious tomato soup out of small ceramic bowls, followed by a fresh greens salad, either a salmon or beef main course, and a tasty dessert. Once again, there was  gluten-free bread. After dinner the waitresses and the Butler put on a musical show with Irish step dancing, singing, and more fiddle music.

Pat and Sandy Smith, from our group, celebrating their 45th wedding anniversary, were chosen to be the King and Queen of our tour group. Each of the four tour groups had a king and queen–complete with robes and crowns–all of whom were celebrating multiple years of marriage–and they were all introduced to the assembly. The oldest couple had been married for sixty years.

It was very well done and much more fun than any of us anticipated – a highlight of the trip so far.

This duo accompanied our meal as well.

We mingled and sipped mead while waiting for the four tour groups to assemble.

Three of the lovelies who acted, sang and danced for us.

A jolly time was had by all.

Rock of Cashel/ Adare and Dunraven Arms/Lunch at Kilflynn

Our lodging in Adare, the Dunraven Arms.

Street scene, with the pub we visited.

An expansive window looked out on a patio garden.

A beautiful thatched cottage.

The visit to Paddy and Margaret’s family dairy farm was an exceptional delight. Their family photos on the wall added to the homey atmosphere where we sat around well-appointed tables. Margaret and her neighbours had prepared a simple and delicious lunch of cold cuts, potato salad and greens, accompanied by an assortment of breads and fruitcakes. Margaret had taken the time to bake gluten free scones for Sheila and Anne. Nancy, following on from Jamison’s, enjoyed the Guinness cake the best, managing to snaffle a fourth portion on the way out!!!!!!!!! After the sherry trifle, we adjourned to the original farmhouse where Paddy’s past generations had been born and died. Family photographs and documents, plus the original Singer hand sewing machine, painted a vivid picture of the history of Irish farming over the generations. Following tradition, as the eldest son, he inherited the farm but now his youngest son Patrick, who has a degree in farm management, is running it. Patrick, William, and Dennis are family names repeated alternately through the generations. Young Patrick is currently living in the original farmhouse while his new house is being built just behind.

Paddy recited a beautiful poem by Mona Tierney What is it all when all is told?    The group were transfixed at his moving recitation that so ably demonstrated the famous Irish oratory skills.
For the text of the poem, see the link below.
http://carolcassara.com/what-is-all-when-all-is-told/

Jennifer gets pointers on making sherry trifle.

The group enters the original farm house at Kilflynn.

Up early to visit the Rock of Cashel on a ‘close’ day, meaning humid and overcast, with bursts of sun. The rain held off till our lively guide David had finished the outdoor portion of the tour. The history of this massive monument is a testament to all of Ireland’s history. It’s a cathedral but also a fortified castle with views for miles around from atop the uniquely Irish round tower, making it a great defensive position. It would have been the home of the King Bishop of the day in the 11^th century. A second floor series of hidden walkways built within the window arches allowed the resident monks to retrieve all the gold artifacts and relics during attacks, with the safest place being at the top of the castle keep. Beautifully restored after having been almost a ruin, the structure allows visitors to imagine what life for the monks must have been like. The scattered portions of the frescoes that remain on the ceiling and columns are the oldest existing 12^th century fresco remnants in Ireland.

David, our guide, just before the rain started.

The choir of eight monks held a special seal (see replica below)  which allowed them to access food and accommodation whilst away from the monastery – the first credit card, but just like today, they suffered from duplication and replication by rogues of the day. This visit brings home the centuries of religious influence on the Irish people. Monasteries served as hospitals and places of refuge for the poor.

Celtic crosses in the churchyard.

Note the walkways at the base of the windows.

Replica of the seal of the monks choir seal.