Chapter 23: Dún na nGall

From Clonbur, we drove north 200 kilometers (120 freedom units) into County Donegal (Dún na nGall in Irish). Our two-week stay was a jumping-off point to explore Ireland’s northern-most and wildest county. We quickly felt at home among the open spaces and gorgeous coastal views, and were getting into the rhythm of life in Ireland. I was finally getting used to driving on the left side of the road and interpreting road signs in Irish that read like poorly thought-out vanity license plates: GO MALL, GEILL SLI.

(English has been the first language of most Irish residents for 200 years, but recent decades have seen legislation to put Irish/Gaelic on the same footing. Most state signage, documents, information boards, and the like are displayed in both languages, but it was not uncommon for a road sign to be in Irish only.)

Our AirBnb was a tiny stone cottage in the middle of acres of sheep-grazing land.

Spring brought fair weather and, much to Rachel’s delight, lambing season. We ambled along the tiny backroads watching the newborns wobble on awkward legs and listening to their plaintive bleating. (Baby lambs have heart-wrenching cries, like their tiny tails are being actively devoured by a rabid Rottweiler, then you’ll spy the tiny lad in the middle of a field just standing underneath his unconcerned mama.)

In that video you can see lambs spray-painted with a number: this is the number of their mother, who will be similarly tagged so the owners quickly know who goes with who.

One of the top tourist attractions in Donegal is Slieve League, a mountain on the western coast boasting some of the highest sea cliffs in Europe. Rachel and I decided to eschew the more-crowded west face and embark on a multi-hour hike to conquer from the east.

A posted sign advised, “Experienced Walkers Only”.

“Well that’s fine,” I reasoned. “I’d say I’m a very experienced walker.”

I’ve been walking ever since I could walk!

The hike started off easy, but became arduous as we gained elevation. We stopped to take a few pictures at one of the peaks overlooking the Atlantic.

A small section of the trail connecting our side to the more famous cliff view on the other is named “One Man’s Path”, for obvious reasons.

Rachel and I stared at the traverse, 18 inches wide and studded with angled rocks, and the 1,000-foot dropoff on either side, and jointly agreed to back away and retire to lower altitudes with a pint of Guinness at a sunny picnic table, an activity which thus far has afforded us an exceptionally low rate of vertigo and grievous bodily injury.

A few days later we tackled Silver Strand, a stunning horseshoe-shaped beach in the middle of nowhere, accessible only by descending several million steps from the parking lot high above. (The website claims there are 174, but, like, that can’t be correct.)

The day was warm by Irish standards, and I threw off my shirt and shoes and barged into the water up to my kneecaps.

This was a mistake.

So. Very. Cold. I can’t even begin to explain to you. Piercing agony quickly overwhelmed the decision-making apparatus in my brain, and I barreled back towards the beach, gasping in pain and feeling sheepish: my grandfather’s generation charged out of the Atlantic onto European sand to overthrow ultimate evil; I did it because my toesie-wosies were cold.

It was a pretty good day after that, outside of the stupefying self-torture, and we enjoyed the deserted beach.

Two weeks rapidly dissolved in the near-perfect weather. Our picnic table got much use.

(Yes, Rachel will hold Lily like that as she snoozes.)

Our final escapade from the cottage was a hike of Mount Errigal, at 2,467 feet the highest in the county.

The “trail” up was steep and rocky. One striding step forward, one sliding step back – and weather was moving in.

But we made it, and at the top were rewarded by expansive views of Glenveagh National Park.

It was a taxing and gorgeous day.

In our next episode, we will explore whether it was worth the hospital visit it caused me. (Hint: nah.)