Ireland

Photo by David Lansing.

One other reason to walk down the narrow road back to the public parking area at Slieve League: During WWII, when all but Northern Ireland was neutral, the Irish government placed stone markers up and down the Donegal corridor. Stones, painted bright white, spelled out “Eire.” Meant to tell the pilots of allied aircraft flying from Enniskillen in Northern Ireland out over the Atlantic that they were in a free fly zone.

A few of the old markers are still around. And I’ve heard you can just make out the Eire sign near a viewing point at the bottom of the trail. So I walk. In the bitter cold (how can it be summer here?) and intermittent rain. Reeds and grasses swaying. Even the sheep have taken shelter, hiding in the deep grass.

Halfway down the road I spot a speck of red coming towards me. The only thing of color in the otherwise heather-colored landscape. Lean against a cold rocky cliff and snap a pic. The black clouds, winding road, a sheep or two. And the red coat.

I nod as the red coat approaches. It’s a young man. “Sorry if I ruined your picture,” he says.

“No, I wanted you in it. The red coat and all.”

“Ah,” he says. We both continue walking.

A little further on is a spot where you can look out over the hills and down the coastline. I stop and, using a telephoto lens, sweep the countryside looking for signs of the white stones. And there they are. Most gone, the few left overgrown by the marsh grasses. The first E is just a ghost but with a little imagination you can still make out the R and the E. EIRE. Ireland. A marker for the lonely boys, many of whom would not return, flying out over the stormy Atlantic.

The cliffs of Slieve League are the highest sea cliffs in Europe. Photos by David Lansing.

The wind rips up from the ocean 2,000 feet below, its Atlantic cold mashing you about like a ping pong ball atop the Cliffs of Slieve League in County Donegal. Four layers of clothes on and still I’m colder than a side of beef hanging in a meat locker. Everyone huddles over, arms tight around their chests, jumping from foot to foot to keep warm. Or warmer. Photos are quickly snapped. And then it’s a dash back to the van, out of the wind, the cold.

“Sure it’s a gale,” says Ruth. “Are you comin’?”

I tell her there’s something I want to do so I’ll walk.

“What? In this weather?”

Mad, yes, I know. But there’s something mystical here atop the cliffs. A trail to God’s backdoor. One Man’s Path, it’s called. A rock-strewn sheep trail, really, over the ridge with 40- or 50-foot drops on one side and a sheer 2,000-foot drop to the wave-battered rocks on the other. They say you should never hike One Man’s Path when the wind is blowing—and the wind is always blowing.

I decide to go anyway. And have the trail to myself. Which makes it feel even more mystical. Every time I lift a foot, I feel the wind pummel me, pulling me to the edge. One good gust and I’d fly over the edge like a kite. But it’s lovely out here. Wild and lovely.

I sit on a rock, facing directly in to the wind. Close my eyes. Hear a voice—“Hay-o!” Two young women, dressed as if they were planning to summit Mt. Everest, are coming up the path. They’re carrying backpacks and full camping gear. They stop to chat. They’re from Sweden, they tell me.

“Where are you going?” I ask.

They shrug. “Just along the trail,” they tell me.

“You’re not going to camp out here, are you?”

No, they say. They are traveling around Ireland. Like snails, they carry their homes upon their backs. Last night they were in a hostel, tonight who knows. They ask me to take their picture. I do. They continue on. Closer to the edge. I turn back. I’ve had enough of heaven for one day.

Swedish hikers on One Man’s Path along the Cliffs of Slieve League, Ireland. Photo by David Lansing