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.