Nora's England/Ireland Travels 2002
Sligo, June 12, 2002
Where did we leave off?
I know it was raining. After the Internet cafe, we drove out of Sligo, taking the coast road just to see the area. The weather was so poor, we didn't get out of the car much, just drove and looked, and drove some more. The wonderful windy roads, with the high hedgerows of fuchsia, snow in summer tumbling over stone walls. And outside of a little seaside village, a small cow traffic jam. HUGE cows. Big as horses, with utters all but dragging the ground as the farmer tried to herd them across the road. We stopped to let them pass, but one of the cows just stood there, staring at us, then strolled back in our pass. We had a nice life with the farmer and waited for her to meander away again.
Little patches of sun and blue sky interspersed with serious rain of piss-sprinkle showers. Green, green hills and misted mountains.
We ended up back at the hotel and in the pub. This place is spectacular from an atmosphere and view aspect. The accommodations, on the other hand, are poor. The musty smell permeates almost everything in a way I've never dealt with over here. Our room was so tiny, I imagine BW felt like a giant in Lilliput land. We had trouble with the phone, among other things, and to keep myself level, I went out for a walk.
Marvelous ground here. Huge old trees, a lovely river, nice paths through the woodlands with wild rhodos and chirping birds. The wind was lively, and cleared my head. I loved strolling through the gardens, then back inside to the pub.
While I lingered in the bar with a couple from Lexington, he went to see about changing rooms.
Jeff and Deb were here for their anniversary, and having a whale of a time. At one point she asked me what business I was in, and when I told her I wrote, then gave her my name at her request, she fell silent. Her husband volunteered that she and her sister both read my books. She asked me if I'd done the Born in books, and I told her I had indeed. She was very excited, but not irritatingly so. She drank many glasses of red wine, while her husband downed Smithwicks, and BW--successful with the new room--joined us.
BW and I headed into Sligo for dinner. We found a wonderful Italian place, had pizza and incredible ice cream in a wonderful atmosphere. Rolled ourselves out and back to the hotel to our new room which is a step or two up from the previous.
Pretty well dropped into bed for the night. The beds are like planks, but it's good for BW's back. I'm sleeping like the dead in any case, so it doesn't matter to me.
Nora & Bruce
Wonderful day today. BW has his full Irish breakfast while I putz around the room and figure out our day. I want to visit Queen Mabd (Maeve) particularly, so we head off in brisk weather and fair skies to Knocknerea. Her cairn sits a top the huge hill, and is visible from all around the valley. We find the car park, then set out, on a narrow, stony road that turns into a shallow, running creek. Wade through the water that rushes and gurgles over stones, then up, very rough path through fields where sheep graze. It advertises itself as a 45 minute walk, but we must be in good shape as we made it--though a good portion is nothing less than a straight vertical climb in muck or rough stones--in about 30. It spit rain for part of the journey up, but we had umbrellas, and used them. The mountains misted to the north and the south. Up, up, up. Pausing now and then when I actually hear my heart knocking. Slippery, scrambling, with sheep gazing at us now and again.
At the base of the enormous cairn, the mother of all cairns, you stop to catch your breath and just look. We can just see the car park, with our ride looking like a Matchbox toy. We are UP there. The cairn itself, a huge, wide pile of stone is at least 75 feet high. Maeve is reputed to have been buried standing there, though this is doubtful. Still is the Irish warrior queen isn't there is body, she must be in spirit. It's a powerful and astounding place. We climb the rest of the way, up her cairn to stand on the very top of Sligo, and watch the line of rain hurtling in from the south, and the light play with the shadows on the valley far below. You can look out at the sea, and on to the cliffs of Donegal. Amazing.
And there we stand when the wind blows the rain in. Pumps it in over us, so we climb down, carefully, with our umbrellas. We can watch the sun shining on the valley as the rain beats on our back and the wind whips.
We're halfway down again before we see another soul. And the rain stops again as we pause beside a field of cows grazing in a meadow of buttercups.
It's an amazing experience, every slippery footfall. And I'll treasure the fact that I was able to lay another stone on Maeve's cairn.
Back we head through uncertain weather to Strandhill, a little seaside village and the local pub there to take a break in the day and watch the Irish take on the Saudis in the World Cup match.
We walk in just as it's beginning, and several locals are already in place, wearing muddy boots and work pants. We've barely settled in when Ireland scores the first goal, and the room roars. It's a wonderful little pub and everyone's intent on the game. The first goal is the only score through the first half. The publican brings out baskets of fried chicken wings, chips and some sort of mini sausage, on the house. More have come in, sliding into tables and stools.
The second half is intense and quick, and I'm into it. So much more exciting than American football. Ireland scores again, and the pub roars. And then again, and we're insane with joy. At the end of the match is cheering and applause as Ireland takes it 3-nil. And glasses of champagne are poured and served throughout the pub for celebration. We couldn't have spent a happier two hours.
From there, it's on to the megalithic passage tombs nearby at Carrowmore. Amazing place, with a low stone dance as well as the tombs. All this spread over acres of fields that dance with buttercups, clover and starry white daisies. I can sit on the stones of the dance, nearly oval in shape and worn nearly smooth by the weather, and all but here them hum.
We make a pilgrimage from there to the little Protestant Church in the shadow of the great mountain Benbulben, where Yeats and his wife were buried. High wild grass, graves decorated with flowers and little gardens, and Yeats simple stone marker.
I can see, very well, why Yeats loved Sligo. It's lush and quiet, dramatic and dark, simple and stunning. Driving around through valley, along water's edge, through woodlands is an incredible experience. Any time we've stopped to ask our way, people have been patience and helpful, happy to take to time for us.
We had time for one more jaunt before dinner, and headed to Lough Glencar, which slips over into County Leitram. It's a lovely little lake, circled on one side by the mountains, and sheltered by woodlands on the other. We sit in the car, looking out over it as the rain's come in again. God, it's gorgeous, rain or not. A little field between car park and lake, full of sheep, the shrouded mountains beyond. Stunning. Gorgeous.
But we've come to see the waterfall, so we gather umbrellas and head out, and once again up. Much shorter climb. You can hear it immediately, and soon see why.
The water gushes over its cliff and spews down to pound into the base. It must be freezing. It almost makes my teeth chatter just to look at it.
Enough of the sites, and onto dinner. The town is in celebration mode. Horns beeper, trumpets blaring, people walking around in football jerseys. Pubs are packed, and the noise pours out of them.
We go back for Italian, and I go for pasta this time, and BW tries the lasagna. They give you enough for an entire family, but we're starving and do a decent job. Still, I stop short as I remember the wonderful ice cream from the night before. I get the chocolate and mint chocolate chip combo, and BW goes for profiteroles. Again, enormous portions. We need a forklift just to get up from the table. Good think we hiked a few miles today.
Back through more celebration, and in the carpark there a trio of men--with a big bottle of ginger ale. I have no doubt there's another bottle of something entirely different somewhere they're adding to it. The old man among them is up and banging on a bodhran drum with a broken stick. He grins the entire time as his companions look on. After we laugh with them, I see him march over to a young man in one of the silly hats their wearing in homage to their team. The young man has a beer in a plastic cup and dances with the old man and the drum. Football and Irish pride spans the generations.
Back to the hotel for a walk around the grounds--and a moment's conversation with an old gay couple from Florida who've brought their vintage Rolls over on the QEII for touring the country.
One more drink in the bar, then up to the room to pack up a carton of stuff we're shipping home. It's 10:30 now, and still light. Lots of blue in the sky, so I'm hopeful for tomorrow's touring--though we're not doing it in a Rolls.
Nora
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