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.

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.