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.