Doolin

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.

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.