Sunday Afternoon

Our Airbnb host, John,  suggested we visit a nearby pub on Sunday, because it is in a scenic location and it often features live music. We didn’t know what a treat we had in store, as we pulled into the car park (parking lot).

While we were drinking our pints of ale, a singer set up and began to play his guitar—not traditional Irish music, but American songs:  everything from Frank Sinatra and Edie Gormie to some rock tunes.  But it wasn’t the singer that made the experience special.  

There, at a crossroads, where cars would occasionally pass, a little girl and an even smaller boy, who could not have been more than two, began dancing to the music in the street.  When a car came by, their parents had to warn them to get off the street, the mom taking the hand of the small boy to lead him off.  While we sat, bicycles, cars, and even two swimmers in dry suits (who emerged from the nearby bay), came through the intersection.

Eventually, the little boy, who had a good sense of rhythm, made his way to where the singer was, dancing all the way, and clapping.  At the conclusion of the song, the musician asked the name of the boy, so he could share the credit for the performance with “young Arthur.”  It was a great way to spend an hour on a Sunday afternoon, and we will long remember O' Sullivan's pub.

Dances with Sheep

One day, as we were returning from a walk, we came upon a little girl at a curve in the road.  At first, we thought she was dancing.  She would plant herself in the center of the road, and then move to one side and then to the other.  

Hearing us approach, she glanced over her shoulder.

Yes, she was helping to herd the sheep. She was trying to keep them from going down the road. She was doing a good job too, even though she was so small that the sheep could have easily knocked her down, had they wanted to.

Soon there was a mad rush with a lot of yelling, as her father (?) and several sheep dogs appeared to herd the sheep down a side road to the farm.  The little shepherdess* held her ground and helped keep the sheep from coming further down the road we were on. Finally, her grandpa (?) came along on a three wheeler (with two other kids hanging on) and she climbed on, held tight, and they followed the sheep to the farm.

 What a delightful glimpse of rural Ireland!

(Thanks, Kevin for snapping these photos.)

*Apologies for not using the gender-neutral form, "shepherd," but somehow "shepherdess" seemed more appropriate in this context.

Brian, The Terror of Laraugh

He looks like a sweet little kitty cat, doesn't he? But we were warned about Brian.

I don't think I've ever been warned about a cat before. Well, maybe a lion in Africa, or a cougar that was sighted once near our cabin, but never an ordinary domestic shorthair (felis catus).

John was the one who alerted us to Brian, a neighbor's cat. "He's deceptive," he said. "He will let you pet him, and then, suddenly, he will lash out and bite you."

Brian’s bite is nothing to sneeze at.  A German couple who were staying in the bothy fed him and petted him, and then one day, Brian sank his teeth deeply into the man’s hand. The German played down the incident, saying his own cat had bit him once, but the wound was serious enough that he went to the hospital to have it treated.

"I wouldn't worry too much," John said, moderating his warning somewhat. "It appears he doesn't like Germans. But I think he can tell the difference between Americans and Germans."

One day, driving back from a walk, we spotted Brian at the neighbor's house.  Kevin rolled down his window and asked, "Are you Brian?"  He meowed, seemingly in the affirmative.

However, we did nothing to encourage Brian. I wasn't taking any chances. My heritage, after all, is German.

Our Walk in Glan Rastell

Near the bothy is Glan Rastell, a remote valley, inhabited in recent times, but now left only to the rocks and sheep. We had it all to ourselves. Mystical, and inspiring just a tinge of melancholy, I wrote a few lines to describe it.

The wind whispers the names of those who lived here,

not long ago. It whispers, too, of those who came so many years before.

It whispers of the farmers and their flocks, the faithful trudging

down the muddy track to mass, and of those in hidden tombs, whose names we never knew--of those with ancient gods and ancient ways.

The wind whispers to the water, "Remember them?"But the water, faithless, does not answer.

The wind whispers to the rock,

"Remember them?"But the stones, cold, unyielding, do not respond.

Nor do the indifferent sheep.

Only I can hear the muffled sounds, so indistinct, and wonder who will hear the whispers after me.

Our Beautiful Bothy

A bothy is a small hut or cottage, especially one used by farm laborers. But the bothy we rented in Lauragh, on the Beara Peninsula was elegant in its simplicity. Because I am days behind on my blog, and we left Ireland three days ago, I can say with certainty that our stay in this cottage was the highlight of Ireland for us. A week was not long enough.

With a kitchen, a bathroom with shower, a comfortable bed, and a cozy sitting area with a fireplace, what more could one want?  We also were highly impressed with our hosts, John and Siobhan, who are not only kind and generous people, but also highly talented. John is an accomplished potter and Siobhan is an artist. Together they have created a lifestyle that embodies the best of living on and with the land. They raise Connemara ponies too.

John and Siobhan with Kevin in front of tomatoes we (amazingly) didn't kill.

When John and Siobhan had to go to Dublin on a family matter, they left us in charge.  (True confession:  Actually our only job was to water the tomatoes and collect any eggs or garden produce that we wanted. A neighbor actually took care of the ponies and the chickens.)

Camera-shy hen hiding head behind egg container.

When you see the additional photos of our walks in the valleys and hills of the Beara Peninsula, you'll understand why--combined with our enjoyment of our little stone cottage--we hated to leave.

Here is just a sampling of John's pottery--and the photo doesn't do these justice.

Siobhan's little egg keeper and other itesms are delightfully whimsical, and her jams and jellies are delicious!

Driving the Dingle Peninsula

The rain kept us from exploring the Dingle Peninsula as much as we would have liked. We drove up the east coast, planning to enter Dingle from Connor Pass, which is quite scenic in sunshine.  But when we reached the top of the pass, it was fogged in, right at the waterfall.

Because the roads of Ireland are often congested like this…

And because the road narrowed to one lane with only pullouts (lay-bys) for vehicles to pass with a sign showing how steep the grade was…

We decided to turn around and come into Dingle by another route. When the fog lifts the landscape of Dingle is beautiful, as these photos show:

Eventually, we arrived at our destination, where we spent the night in a cottage with a turf roof.  It was delightful!  We had the most welcoming hosts, Louise and her husband Chris, who were extraordinarily helpful with our plans for Ireland and for our later visit to England’s Peak District, where they live most of the time. Our cottage, “The Nest,” was next to their holiday home. It was so charming, we were sorry we were only staying one night.

Trad Music and Towering Cliffs

 

We went to Doolin because it is the capital of traditional (trad) music in Ireland. However, I think almost every pub in Ireland has traditional music, so perhaps we didn't need to go that far.

Doolin is also close to the Burren, the barren area of landscape in County Clare that is composed of karst. It extends about 250 kilometers. There are also ancient dolmens and standing stones throughout the area.  It is said to be very beautiful in the spring when flowers bloom amid the rock, some of which are unique to the area, including a rare orchid. But it does look desolate at times.

The music doesn't get started in the pubs of Doolin until late--about 9:30--which is our usual bedtime. The first night we were there we felt bad, because our host at our Airbnb lodging is a musician and was performing that evening, but after our dinner and a pint at the pub, we were exhausted and missed her event.  We went back and slept for more than 10 hours. We never do that!

The next night we were a little smarter.  We took a nap, so we could stay up to hear the music.  Each pub in Doolin specializes in a different type of music. The pub we were in featured pipes. We heard an expert playing the uilleann pipes. Unlike the Scottish highland bagpipes, the uilleann pipes are not as loud, are played sitting, not standing, and they reach two full octaves. They are said to be very difficult to play. The pub was so packed, I couldn't get a photo, but it was a delightful evening with tourists and locals crowded round.

A path to the Cliffs of Moher begins in Doolin, and we couldn't wait to try it. We met a German couple who were walking the cliffs, and I offered to take some photos of them. (Because I didn't ask them if I could post their photos online, I'm only showing them from the back.) They were actually closer to the edge than the photo shows.

Our family will find it hard to believe that I, with a fear of heights, made this walk, but I did. I had a thin strand of wire rope (from the cattle fence) to grasp at the scariest place.  We were very happy we had taken the walk and had seen the cliffs with only a few people, because later when we drove the car to the official site, it was swarming with people. The cliffs were still beautiful, but not nearly as exciting.