Cliffs of Moher

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The Burren

The Poulnabrone Dolmen in the heart of The Burren. Which we didn't bother to go see.

Did you see the sign at the hotel, I say to Mr. Lynch as we’re driving out of Doolin, saying that this is the gateway to The Burren?

Really? says Mr. Lynch. That’s great. There is a long pause during which neither of us says a thing. Then Mr. Lynch mutters, What the fock is The Burren?

I read to him from the guidebook in my lap: The word burren means “rocky land” in Gaelic—an apt name for this vast limestone plateau. In the 1640s, Cromwell’s surveyor described it as “a savage land, yielding neither water enough to drown a man, nor tree to hang him, nor soil enough to bury.”

Sounds lovely, says Mr. Lynch. And you say Doolin is the gateway to this godforsaken place?

That’s what they say.

And what’s to see in The Burren?

Let’s see now…well, it seems there are some unique flora and fauna here.

Such as?

The pearl-bordered fritillary for one. Says it can be seen in no other part of Ireland. And the hoary rock rose. Very rare. Very rare indeed. Ah, I say skimming over the guide, there’s also a very famous dolmen around here somewhere.

Well, that’s grand, says Mr. Lynch. A dolmen you say? Can’t remember the last time I saw a good-looking dolmen. Remind me again…what the fock is a dolmen?

It’s a portal tomb, I say. Some massive slabs of rock stacked on top of each other. Says here the Poulnabrone Dolmen is at least 4,000 years old. They did an excavation 25 years ago and found some 20 adults and 6 children buried under the slabs. Oh, and listen to this…they also found a polished stone axe, a bone pendant, quartz crystals and some pottery in the graves as well.

A polished stone ax?

That’s what it says.

I’d like to see that. Frankly, I’d rather see a polished stone ax than a pearl-bordered fritillary, if it came right down to it. Although I wonder why they say a polished stone ax? Wouldn’t it be enough to just say a stone ax?

Can’t tell you.

For half an hour we drive through The Burren. Not much to see. No trees. Few bushes. Just strange looking cracked rocks. If there’s a pearl-bordered fritillary or hoary rock rose, we’ve missed it. Near Ballyvaughan there’s a sign for the turnoff to the Poulnabrone Dolmen. Mr. Lynch stops the car. He looks at me. Should we go? he asks.

I look at my watch. It’s almost noon. Aren’t we suppose to be in Galway for lunch? I say. Mr. Lynch nods. I nod back. We both look at the sign that says Poulnabrone Dolmen with an arrow pointing to the right.

Fock it then, says Mr. Lynch, putting the car into gear. And we continue on the road to Galway.

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The Waterboys in Doolin

The town of Doolin.

Before we left Killarney, Mr. O’Connor had arranged for us to stay in a hotel near the Cliffs of Moher. He wrote down the directions: A few miles after the Cliffs, you’ll come to a fuel station and a crossroads. Turn left down the hill towards the sea. This will bring you into the village of Doolin. The Hotel Doolin will be on your right as you come in to the village.

Doolin is one of those wee places that you wonder why they’re even there. After we’d checked in to our rooms, we asked the woman at the front desk where we might go for lunch. Well, there were only three possibilities, she said. There were two pubs and a restaurant in the hotel itself. We decided to go to a pub so we walked along Fisher Street (the only real street in town) to McGann’s which looks just exactly the way an Irish pub should look with paneled walls and dark little nooks and crannies where you might try to get fresh with a colleen, and a menu that focuses on seafood chowder and fish & chips with mushy peas.

When our waitress, who was also the bartender, brought us a couple of pints of the black stuff, I asked her why people came to Doolin. Well, there’s the ferry from here to the Arran Islands, she said, but they also come for the trad music. Micho Russell and his brothers, Packie and Gussie, have played here, she said, as well as Sharon Shannon. No doubt she could tell by the look on my face that I had no idea who those people were.

What about Stevie Wickham, she said. Certainly you’ve heard of The Waterboys. I sadly shook my head. She put her hands on her hip and turned her head towards two old gents sitting in the corner nursing their pints. Can you believe it, she said, these two have never heard of The Waterboys? The two old gents didn’t say a word although one of them raised his eyebrows.

A few minutes later, the woman was back with our seafood chowder. She also brought two fresh pints, although we hadn’t ordered them. When I pointed that out to her, she waved me off and said, That’s on the house. Then she pointed her index finger at one of the speakers in a corner of the ceiling. Do you hear that now? she said. I nodded. Well, then, now you can say you’ve heard The Waterboys at McGann’s in Doolin.

And so I can.

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Cliffs of Moher

Sheep in a meadow along the Cliffs of Moher. Photos by David Lansing.

They are stunning, the Cliffs of Moher. Though it’s lightly raining you can see the Aran Islands and several miles of the green cliffs towering some 700 feet above the Atlantic. A marker is dedicated to all those who have died here. I wonder how many of them were thrown over rather than jumped, says Mr. Lynch. Quite a few, I should imagine, say I. Particularly back in the day of the tribes and chieftans and such. Take your enemy here and toss them off. Gawd, that’s a thought, says Mr. Lynch holding tight to the railing over the northern platform.

It does give you the heebie-jeebies just looking over the side seeing the brutal rocks and roaring ocean slapping up against the base of the cliffs. From the north platform to the south is about a half hour walk. At the end is a sign expressly forbidding going any farther. Danger, it says. Unstable cliffs. A few people—mostly young—ignore the sign and climb over the low fence and then underneath some barbed wire. I do the same. Mr. Lynch just shakes his head.

The Cliffs of Moher looking north towards O'Brien's Tower. Photo by David Lansing.

It’s nothing but a cattle trail at this point. The wind is blowing, the rain comes down. I tred carefully, leaning away from the drop so if a gust comes up it won’t throw me over. There are sheep in a meadow far away in the distance. I tell myself I’ll just take the path to where the sheep are and then turn around. After about half an hour, I’m only about half way there. Along the way I’ve passed a couple who were almost crawling along the ground, holding hands and leaning as far away from the cliffs as possible. Vertigo I imagine.

Farther along, another young couple is sitting on the earth with their feet dangling off the cliffs. Just looking at them freaks me out. But they look completely unconcerned. The girl has her head on the boy’s shoulder and he’s got an arm around her waist. Lovers. You’re not thinking of jumping, are you? I ask them as I pass. They laugh. Not today, they say.

Finally get close enough to the sheep that I can take their picture. And a couple of the cliffs looking north towards the tower on the end which looks so small from here that you’d think it was nothing more than a stack of rocks. Time to head back. I zip my coat up tight against the wind and, head down, walk slowly back the way I came. The young couple I’d seen earlier with their legs dangling over the edge are gone. I look up ahead but don’t see them on the path. Must have gotten back already. At least I hope so.

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The Jolly Tinker

The melodeon player at The Cliffs of Moher. Photo by David Lansing.

What would you expect at the Cliffs of Moher except the wind to be blowing and the rolling green hills covered in mist? And it’s bloody cold out. Even in three layers of clothes and a rain jacket, I’m near to freezin’ my arse off. But gawd it’s beautiful. At least what I can see of it as I walk along the wet path leading from the visitor centre to the first viewing platform above Goat Island.

Not many out this afternoon, not in this weather. Still, if you’re going to come all this way, you’re going to want to have a look and a walk, aren’t you?

Along the side of the path is a man in tan Irish cap and thick jacket playing a very old melodeon, one of those small button accordions you see in almost every pub. The man has several days of growth on his chin and although he’s wearing glasses, seems to be mostly blind, not catching our approach until we’re almost in front of him.

Look at that box, says Mr. Lynch, nodding towards the much-worn one-row melodeon. Must have been around during The Famine.

It’s not that old but it has seen better days. The metal trim is rusty (probably from being played so much outdoors in weather like this) and the bellows are cracked and frayed. Still, it’s got that classic rich Hohner sound. The man stops playing for a moment as we get close. There’s a tin cup at his feet and I toss in a couple of euros. You know some Máirtín O’Connor? I ask him.

Máirtín O’Connor?

Aye.

Without saying another word he pushes and pulls the bellows of the melodeon tapping out a simple tune that’s as sad as anything you’d ever want to hear.

That was lovely, I tell him when he’s finished. He gives me a half smile but doesn’t say anything. What was the name of that tune? I ask him.

That tune?

Aye.

Some call it The Timpan but mostly it’s called The Jolly Tinker.

Did you hear that? I say to Mr. Lynch. What? The name of that tune he just played. What was it? The Jolly Tinker! I wish that gal from The Irish Times was here. What would she think of that? Do you suppose she’d upbraid our fine friend here for playing a traditional Irish song called The Jolly Tinker? Do you think she’d tell him he had to call it The Jolly Traveler? No, sir. No indeed. It’s a song about a jolly Tinker, not a jolly Traveler. There you go now. Let’s give this fine man another couple of euros. Have you got any change? Don’t be cheap now. Give him the five. I’ll pay you back later.

Can you play that tune again for us as we walk towards the cliffs? I ask him. And he’s happy to oblige. The tune floating in the cold wind as I dance and skip towards the cliffs whistling along to The Jolly Tinker.

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