.: "Connemara is a savage beauty" (Oscar Wilde) :.

After a quick flight and a transitional drive across Ireland from Dublin in the extreme East to the gateway to the Connemara on the western coast, with some roving back and forth at the end as we searched for the hidden mount that led to our cottage, we got settled in our cozy cottage, relaxed and taking in the amazing view of the slopes and focus of the fjord of the Killary Harbor that rambled away from this inlet in the tiny village of Leenane for some twelve kilometers out to the sea. Over the next few days, of course, we became adept at finding this concealed entrance, but it was strange that a yacht, anchored due to the end of the tour season but still in the water, would become our major landmark.

The next day, we took right away to the wilds, mountains rocky and green but brown with dying fern leaves. All of us drove to the grounds of the Kylemore Abbey, a former castle built by a wealthy businessman and politician for his wife, which was gifted to a group of Benedictine displaced from their priory in Belgium during World War I, but who were actually themselves returned to their Irish roots, having left the country during the Catholic persecutions of the fifteenth century before the days of the Republic. The little chapel was fully ornamented in domestic marbles, including this strange, green marble from this area. While waiting for the shuttle bus to take us to the Victorian Walled Gardens, we were acquainted with the first of our many animal friends that we made on this vacation. The gardens, as the rest of the unique climate on the sea, had managed an unusual tropical collection with only bricks and mortar and careful planning. I suppose that this was also a good introduction for the lush vegetation of the region, dripping rich Fuchsias, palms, giant Jurassic ferns.

The rain was forever coming and going, but in a way that made it nearly pleasant and refreshing, though it was not always ideal for hikes through the country side. We only went a bit further that first full day, through Quaker Letterfrack, which hosts the Connemara National Park, and explored, after a pint and some fish and chips, one of the coastal trails—I least we concluded we were on the right path, taking the left after the second yellow water pump, up the mountain. There were strange pod-people plants, like alien pineapples. A little Boxer dog, whose owner eventually retrieved him, accompanied us most of the way, and we saw a tower ruin at the promontory on the rocky beach, where we collected some sea shells by the sea shore. We came home later that evening, and I thought maybe I had underestimated the distance and scale while browsing the maps: before, on the Baltic islands, greater detail was rendered over just a few kilometers, and the journey time took longer, but no matter since the road was an experience in itself, winding and bumpy, liable to flooding and avalanche but well maintained and the sheep knew better than to hinder traffic.

The next day, we started north, through Westport and Newport, and stopped at the ruins of the Burrishoole Abbey and marveled at the quiet beauty of the ancient graves in this isolated place. From there, we went on to the largest island on the island of Achill. The scenic drive through Keel and Doogort afforded many great views of the stormy Atlantic, grassy knolls hanging on to cliffs and gray, granite beaches. The turf here was so thick, as in many places, it felt as if one was walking on pillows. The island had a population of about three thousand but only catered to tourists for a very limited yearly window, and it seemed as in many areas, there was ample resort accommodations for every last native. I wondered what the people did after vacation season was over. Later, we learned that the entire parish of Leenane, which covered quite a large area from Maam to the frontier of Clifden, had only two hundred people and of those only seventeen children. The landlord later suggested that we should move there, except that we wouldn’t be offering more offspring and there was no industry to speak of, except the obvious spare holiday cottages and tagging sheep with spray paint. We visited a deserted village and hiked up to see a dolmen, a megalithic site in the pastures. I called it Poohenge, like Stonehenge but the sheep had not respected it. Such incredibly ancient sites were endlessly fascinating.

We drove up through Bangor and then across to Ballycastle before facing the treacherous, blustery scene at Downpatrick Head on Killala Bay. This spot seemed like the ends of the earth, the column-like rocky outcropping separated from the cliffs, with waves crashing and the howling wind propelling rain storms towards us. Carefully, we intruded upon a pasture of cows that I was afraid to make eye contact with for fear of riling them with us alone and out in the middle of nowhere, and made our way out to the land’s edge. There was only a warning sign advising us that we were entering at our own risk and to beware of “blowholes,” sudden eruptions in the cliffs when the sea breaks through. This stack was once connected to the mainland and the Devil lived there, but St. Patrick, like driving the snakes out of Ireland, made the land bridge crumble away, as it did during the Dark Ages, and trapped the Devil there.

On Tuesday, we ventured out in the direction of our first day again and took a drive on the Clifden Sky Road, and got some beautiful views of the shore and Ballyconneely Bay. Later on the landlord confirmed that that indeed was one of the most picturesque drives in Ireland. There was a very nice tower ruin and some friendlier cows along the way towards the Burren. This great sidewalk of slabs and crevices was like being on the Moon, absolutely otherworldly and we had this all to ourselves, like almost all the other sites we were the only visitors. We marveled at the singular Poulnabrone tomb and other megaliths, though there was no access to the collection of prehistoric forts. We drove through the landscape and met a sweet horse and rather standoffish donkey on the way to Kilfenora. This tiny, poor parish in a strange historic twist, mainly due to a debt-crisis, falls directly under the purview of the Bishop of Rome, the Pope, and the quaint church yard has a fine high Celtic cross. Completing the loop towards Gort, we explored the ruins of Kilmacduagh Abbey. It is very well preserved and there was this impressive tall tower that the monks built for protection in case of attack.

We all decided together to visit the Cliffs of Moher and drove along the ocean side rim of the Burren, experiencing more of the landscape, stopping at another abbey ruin and the real estate of a Keep we passed the day before. We winded our way into Doolin and had lunch at a pub with a few pints before we trekked down to the karst covered beach for a view of the distant cliffs. This site is Ireland’s main tourist draw and was equipped as such, but it was definitely not uninviting or overcrowded and was certainly spectacular.

Previously, we had not made it as far north as we had hoped, so we took another drive to County Sligo. Every corner of the country had a distinctive landscape and there were unique things to appreciate. After Aasleagh Falls, first we stopped at the site of the unexcavated cairn on the mountain top at Knocknarea. Legend has it that Maeve, Queen of the Connacht, is entombed there. We had some spectacular views of the monolithic Ben Bulben in the background. After the climb, we toured William Butler Yeats’ County, the burial site at the church of Drumcliff—Drumcliffe, his old haunts with another impressive, surviving high cross. Most of these thousand year old monuments were destroyed either because of pagan symbols and connotations or because the Church in Rome wanted a show of its supremacy over the renegade Church of Ireland. We had another look at Ben Bulben that rises above the country side like a green, water-hewn Ayers’ Rock. One archeological park was closed but we did come across another site that had some insights into the ancient past.

On our last full day, I was feeling loath to leave, and there was a promotion of lousy weather that curtailed our planned walks but we still had fun, driving around Lough Corrib. We sought a glimpse of an uninhabited island with ruins of churches of the early Christians, Inchagoill, but never found that. We explored the grounds of the ruined Cong Abbey and later had a coffee in the pub where the Quiet Man with John Wayne and Maureen O’Hara was filmed. Though it was a rainy and wet day, it was neat to see the little mountain streams bursting with white rapids and when the sun made an appearance in the late afternoon, we were treated to another perfect rainbow. In the evening, we again went to Gaynor’s Pub in Leenane, with the locals and the cacophony of pop and Irish music. This bar itself paid homage to the John Hurt film, The Field, about the famine, that was shot here.

Sleepy and reluctant, we tore back to Dublin, reflecting on our vacation, and all we had seen. After a little stress navigating the new construction and the expanding airport facility, we settled in for the flight for home.