Chapter 22: West Siiiiiiiide

On February 12, our time in the UAE behind us, we settled in for a week in Dublin. The culture shock was immediate, and welcome. No more happy hour at sterile hotel bars; we found drinking draft Guinness and listening to a live fiddler at the neighborhood pub much more to our liking. No more searching for the clandestine enclosed alcove in a grocery store labelled “Non-Muslims Only” to peruse pork products like we’re buying skunk weed out of a trench-coat in a Juarez alley. No more waiting for an empty elevator car just because we had Lily with us.

We did the usual things that people do in Dublin – Guinness brewery tour, Temple Bar, guided walking tour, strolled the riverside. We visited St. Patrick’s Cathedral, where a Guinness keg cheekily collected donations.

Ireland was kind enough to give Rachel a COVID booster shot as a non-resident, a rarity, although restrictions were beginning to ease across Europe. We had a grand time in Dublin, and hope to return, but we were ready to get out into the beautiful countryside we’d heard so much about. We rented a car and drove west across the island to Clonbur, a small town sandwiched between two lakes, where we’d rented a cottage for a month.

Left-hand driving was becoming more natural, but roads in the lesser-populated areas of Ireland are often one-lane. Accordingly, about every half-mile you’ll whip around a bend to confront an oncoming car (or tractor) hurtling towards you, necessitating one of the vehicles (usually the one going uphill) to reverse until it reaches a driveway or turnout and the other car can squeeze by. Nothing will wake you up on a sleepy Saturday morning like a panicked skid-stop every few minutes to avoid a head-on collision.

Combine this with the masses of unconcerned sheep lolling beside (and on) the tiny roads, and you quickly realize not to try to “make good time” driving in Ireland – you’ll get there when you get there.

Our delightful AirBnb hosts, Helen and Jurgen, lived just around the bend, and popped by occasionally to bring us banana bread and fresh oysters. They invited us for wine and charcuterie one evening, where Helen gave us an Irish perspective of the island’s complicated history with England. Jurgen, raised in Germany, visited Clonbur as a young man for the “best trout fishing in the world”, and stayed for Helen. He told us stories of his childhood in post-war Germany – his father had fought in the army and was ultimately relieved when he was captured and sent to an American prison camp instead of being marched into the buzz-saw of the Russian front.

Our cottage at the end of their long driveway was secluded and cozy, with an expertly crafted sauna outside, built by Jurgen during the monotonous COVID lockdowns. For long periods of time the Irish were forbidden to travel more than five kilometers from their home – luckily for him, he lived four kilometers from his boat landing.

The view walking out our front door was incredible: sheep grazing on a gentle hill to our left…

…and an uninterrupted view of Lough Corrib straight ahead.

We were even lucky enough to get a bit of snow our first weekend.

Lily was unimpressed.

The cottage was nestled at the base of Mount Gable, which I hiked one day while Rachel was on Zoom calls.

Our cottage is one of the specks of white down there somewhere. My fellow hikers were all four-legged.

The Cliffs of Croaghaun are the highest sea cliffs in Ireland, third in Europe, and it is suuuuuper windy at the base.

I hiked up an extraordinarily steep muddy trail (they don’t believe in switchbacks here), but once I got to the top of the cliffs it was too windy to take any pictures. Indeed, it was too windy to stand at all, or even to put back on the coat I’d removed on the way up. I hunched over, and carefully skidded my way back down. Rachel was sitting in the car, having preferred not to watch.

A nearby lake with a small beach was a fine setting for Lily to run around and collect sand between her paws.

We drove to have a pint at the pub overlooking the lake. The Irish have a famously laissez-faire attitude towards the clock, and when we peeked in a half-hour after “opening time”, the lone worker in the back looked startled and invited us to sit on the porch while he opened. It was unseasonably warm for much of our time in Clonbur, and we dozed in wooden chairs on the front porch while our Guinness settled (three-quarters pour at a 45-degree angle, let sit for two minutes, finish with a foamy head while holding vertically, no overspill, place down with the word “Guinness” on the branded tulip-shaped glass facing the customer).

The Aran Islands are a group of three small limestone islands off the west coast of the mainland, famous for stone fortifications and history of monasteries dating back 1,500 years. We took a (chilly) ferry to Inis Mór, the largest island, and rented bicycles for the day. (It took about seven minutes to regret not springing for the e-bikes with electrical motor assist.)

Our destination was Poll na bPéist (“the Wormhole”), a naturally-formed geographic formation in the shape of a rectangular pool, famous for hosting the Red Bull Cliff Diving World Series each year.

We cycled past innumerable stone sheep pens, parked our bikes next to a spry donkey looking for treats, and began picking our way down the rocky coastline. No smooth wooden boardwalk here – we scrambled over algae-coated rocks, long enough to wonder if we were in the right place.

It was worth it all when we rounded a corner and saw the cold Atlantic surf sloshing in and out of the Wormhole like a giant playing in his humongous stone bathtub.

Some intrepid visitors go swimming here, but the angry ocean conditions on our day quickly warranted a “Hell No” from me. I would like to return sometime and watch the cliff diving.

Saint Patrick, born in Britain in the fifth century, was captured by Irish pirates as a teenager and held in slavery for six years before he escaped. After becoming a cleric, he returned and spread Christianity to Ireland – and, much to Rachel’s delight, purportedly drove all the snakes off the island.

He is said to have used the shamrock, a (green) three-leaved plant, to explain the Holy Trinity to the pagan Irish. His death date of March 17 lives on worldwide to honor this foremost patron saint of Ireland, as well as an excuse to wear unflattering green outfits and drink beer at 10:00 a.m.

Every village, town, and city in Ireland holds a St. Patrick’s Day parade, and Rachel and I drove into the city of Galway to celebrate with the locals. The day falling on a Thursday this year basically kicked the whole country off into a four-day party weekend.

We missed the large parade, but ducked into a bar to have a pint and watch guys in loose green shirts try to hit on girls in tight green leggings.

Tiring of that, we drove to the famous Moran’s Oyster Cottage just outside of town, where we tucked into the three dishes common to all seafood restaurants here on the west coast: raw oysters, fish and chips, and creamy seafood chowder served with crumbly brown bread.

It was all very delicious, and we loosened our belts and made our way home to the cottage before evening fell and the youths reclaimed the streets. (I’m cranky in my earlyish-middle age, and generally suspicious of anyone born after 9/11.)

Croagh (pronounced “croak”; means “mountain” in Irish) Patrick is a popular mountain to hike in nearby County Mayo. St. Patrick (supposedly) fasted on the summit of the mountain for 40 days of Lent, and each year thousands of pilgrims walk barefoot up its scree-strewn path to a small church at the top in a bid for penance. Unfortunately, due to the temperamental Irish weather, this means that each year under-dressed and under-prepared climbers are stretchered or airlifted off the mountain, prompting local authorities – each year – to plead with the resolute pilgrims to please wear shoes.

We had Lily with us, and figured her four-inch-long legs would not fare well on the rocky path. We snapped a few pictures from its base and moved on.

The countryside here is gorgeous: lush green fields, mountains, rivers, lakes, coastlines, and winding roads through nowhere.

After about two days in the cottage, we seriously-not-seriously began to keep a wandering eye out for “For Sale” signs as we drove. Our host Helen was a realtor who specialized in selling castles, and we implored her to keep a small one in inventory for if we were ever able to wrangle an Irish passport.

Honestly, Rachel and I agreed we would move here in a heartbeat if we could. How could we not?

But the one-month cottage stay in County Galway passed quickly, and our itinerant lifestyle beckoned. Heading north.