The 1996 Ireland expedition

Just in time for vacation, I figured out a clever trick to make the inevitable last-minute work emergencies easier to handle: tell everyone that you're leaving one day earlier than you really are. Thus, when the inevitable crises arise, you've got a whole extra day to handle them. Worked like a charm. I was able to leave work by 3:30 with a clear conscience, and make my way to Mirabel. Took a taxi to Dorval airport to catch the Mirabel shuttle, and arrived an hour and half later and $30 poorer. The cost per mile of surface transport is offensive compared with air travel!

In the terminal, I helped a young mother carry her various burdens to the gate, and we had a good laugh about how babies tend to imply five times their own weight in peripheral equipment. She's certainly braver than I am... I wouldn't have wanted to travel all the way to England with Allie or Matt at 4.5 months old, but at least she was meeting her husband on-board the plane (they had departed from different airports) and would get some help that way.

Flew out on a Boeing 767 at 7:30, staring all the while out the window at a 747 in the adjacent gate. I still can't believe those behemoths can fly... they have a mass that you can almost feel when you look at them. The flight was dull and long, with very cramped seating, so to pass the time, I scored a second meal from the stewardess. The Hart motto ("Tantus cibus, scanto cron!" = so much food, so little time) proves itself once again. I met the young mother again on our way off the plane and, predictably, her baby was the only person who slept through the whole flight. Needless to say, Mom and Dad didn't catch a wink between them.

From the air, London (around Heathrow, leastwise) looked very different from Canadian cities. One particularly interesting area comprised tightly packed townhouses (rowhouses?), surrounding lovely "commons" packed with trees and bushes. The British do love their gardens! These townhouses were a strange color to Canadian eyes: orangey-red (clay?) roofs and ivory/beige whitewashed walls. I didn't see any of the famous London landmarks on the way in, but maybe on the return trip? At Heathrow, security was very tight, with guards everywhere, likely because of the IRA. I even had to pass my films through the x-rays a second time. [A look back from 2026: Films? What films? Nowadays it's all digital.--GH] No exceptions, no-how. After security, I walked what felt like several miles to the Ireland gates (British Midland and Aerlingus). That's not really a complaint, though, as it helped to wake me up and restore my circulation after all those hours of sitting.

Flew to Ireland on a Boeing 737, and had to check my suitcase... a bit of a communication breakdown there, as we'd all thought we could carry on two bags, just like on the overseas flight. Fortunately, the baggage couldn't very well get lost, so I wasn't going to arrive in Dublin with no toothbrush or clean underwear. [A look back from 2026: I now know enough to pack a couple days of clothing in my carry-on in case anything happens to delay delivery of the checked baggage.--GH] En route, I sat beside a dermatologist, Tom Russell, on his way to Ireland to visit his son at university, and chatted about all kinds of things, from travel plans to Quebec politics. Landing in Dublin, we got a bilingual announcement, and my first example of cognitive dissonance: expecting French after all these years in Montreal, I didn't recognize the Gaelic until the stewardess had already finished her speech.

At the airport, I confirmed our car reservation and (not wanting to have to deal with urban traffic while jetlagged) took the express bus downtown to Isaac's Hostel on Frenchman's Lane, just around the corner from the central bus depot. (Car to be picked up the next day.) Isaac's looked a bit seedy from the bus station, but much nicer once I turned the corner and found the entrance. Inside, lovely wood beams, trestle benches, stone flags, and posters everywhere, and a comfortable little enclosed courtyard out the side door.

The place was swarming with teens and 20-somethings, but despite the chaos, the clerks were friendly and helpful. I paid our room reservation (11 AM local time, 4 PM personal time!), but wouldn't be able to get into the room until after 2 PM because of house regulations and the need to clean the rooms with the minimal staff on duty. So much for the shower and nap I'd planned before Edna arrived! Instead, I settled for dumping my bags in their lockup room, a damp and moldy dungeon below the check-in desk, and returned to the airport to wait for her flight. At the desk, the clerk handed me a note from Sara (Edna's friend), who had arrived a day early and was waiting for us. It would have been nice to locate Sara to have someone to chat with while I waited, but since I'd never met her, it would have been a bit creepy with me asking every woman at the hostel whether she was Sara.

Impressions of Dublin en route to the airport: the downtown core north of the Liffey River is grubby and grey, worn-out looking and almost grungy. Dazed from lack of sleep, this wasn't a particlarly favorable impression. Farther out, you start to see some nice townhouses and actual vegetation: lots of beautiful, robust, huge horse-chestnuts, all in bloom and in full leaf, but most of the other trees still leafing out. Nevertheless, lots of the proverbial Irish green including—surprise!—some sort of short palm trees. (I'm guessing date palms because of the flowers, but I never confirmed this.) Not what I expected for a country so far from the equator. More opinions later on after we've explored the town and had some decent sleep and the accompanying attitude ajustment.

Dublin buses are different from Montreal buses, but also strikingly the same in some ways. Most are olive-drab double-deckers, but there are some traditional one-storey buses too, and a variety of other colors (independent companies). As elsewhere, the drivers only know two speeds: accelerate hard and brake harder. The airport driver often has a companion who takes change and dispenses tickets, in between clinging to straps or rails for dear life. The downtown streets are something of a maze, what with strange curves, random name changes, and well-hidden street signs (usually up on the second floor every few street corners) in Gaelic and English. Not unexpected, given that Dublin was founded long before civil engineering was a gleam in anyone's eyes, but it didn't bode well for independent navigation. As of noon, I've been up for 30+ hours straight, so I'm not even trying to cope on my own... when in doubt, I asked a native where to go and how, and that worked just fine. On the whole, I found it harder to get around than even a challenging city such as Montreal.

I met Edna at the airport around 3:30, her flight from Baltimore being an hour or so late, pretty much dead on my feet... coming up on 36 hours with no sleep, and only coffee to keep the neurons firing! Edna looked tired too, but we both perked up once we were together. We rode back to the hostel together in the midst of a downpour that made the city look considerably less drab. We finally got to see our room, have a shower and start to feel a bit more human. (We're determined to stay up relatively late and get onto Dublin time as soon as feasible.) Our accomodations form a strange setup: two large rooms, one a dorm, reached through a single doorway and sharing a toilet and shower. The bed was nice enough, but the shower was considerably less pleasant: no curtain, nowhere to hang clothes or place shampoo and soap, and a nonfunctional drain surrounded by mold. Note to future historians: I'm glad I brought my rubber sandals in which to shower... no telling what kinds of strange fungus were growing amidst the mold and peeling paint on the walls and floor! Nevertheless, a nice hot shower, the hallmark of civilisation, and almost as reviving as strong coffee. Culture shock number two: the toilets all seem to fill rather slowly, and don't flush properly unless you hold down the handle, so it took some time to figure out how to flush them properly and not leave evidence of our sins for all to see.

After becoming mostly human again, we met Sara for supper. She struck me as a pleasant person, but rather quiet and a bit gloomy. (Apparently, she'd had a bit of a rough and discouraging time in England before crossing over to Ireland, and was reassessing the whole concept of vacations.) We caught some sandwiches at a nearby deli, since we were too tired to explore far; besides, it started raining hard as soon as we got a comfortable distance from any shelter. We returned to our rooms to discuss travel plans for the next week, then Sara went back to her dorm room; she's on more of a budget than we are, and is taking the cheap way out wherever possible. Edna and I walked over to the bus station during a gap in the rain and bought a 10-unit calling card (a neat little electronic device you can use in payphones instead of cash) and called our Irish friend, Lucille Redmond, to arrange a meeting.

We met Lucille a few months back on the internet's copyediting discussion list, the same place where Edna and I had met, and she had expressed an interest in meeting us when we reached Dublin. I was far too tired to pretend to talk coherently, but fortunately, Edna was willing to pick up the burden and she arranged a get-together the next night. I was beginning to feel that we should look for a B&B or another hostel, as Isaac's was kind of scummy for my taste; fortunately, we were coming up on a long weekend, and Isaac's was already booked for tomorrow. On the way back, there was a half-stoned bongo drummer making an awful racket in the common room.

We survived day 1!

After a fine first night's sleep, we had breakfast with Sara at a local diner. Sara's already seen much of Dublin, so we found a B&B for our next night in town and set off on our own. First stop of the day was a tour of the "Book of Kells" exhibit at Trinity College. This book is an 8th-century illumination of the four gospels of the new testament, and sits amidst a fascinating exhibit on book production in the dark ages. The quality of the work is amazing, particularly given that some of the calligraphy would be hard to reproduce equally legibly on a modern laser printer, let alone with sharpened goose quills on scraped sheepskin. It must also have been fascinating to find pigments for the color illuminations: some of the pigments came from far across the world, and it boggled my mind to think how they got to Ireland after the collapse of Rome and before European civilisation had re-established itself. I guess that where there's a profit motive, people will find a way to sell things. We bumped into Tom Russell, my flying companion from Heathrow, partway through the tour.

Last stop on the tour was a trip through "the Long Room", a voluminous library some 200 feet long by 50 feet tall and lined with books as old as 400 years. I took a picture before entering, and was fortunate to do so because regulations allow no photos inside the room. The principle is sound (camera flashes damage old materials), but how can a camera with no flash do any harm? Unswayed by my logic, and constrained by Edna's unwillingness to distract the guard long enough for me to sneak a shot from inside the room, I'm hoping that my one photo will turn out. In any event, the library was a lovely place to visit... "book lover's heaven". [A look back from 2026: The photo turned out just fine.--GH]

We paused for lunch at the "Well Fed Cafe", an unfinished hole in the wall that nonetheless served tasty vegetarian fare. A brief bathroom break to inspect the graffiti revealed not much of interest in the guys' bathroom, but an interesting debate about abortion services in the women's room. (Apparently, there's a £1500 = C$3000 fine for circulating information about abortion services, which someone had done on the wall in deliberate defiance over the law.)

Next stop on the tour was Dublin Castle. Just outside the castle, we stopped for some coffee and got into a long chat with a local tour bus driver named Joe. He had a guitar with him, still in its wrapping from the music store, and took it out to play a few chords and joke about his skills (he'd never played before, but was determined to learn). Everyone had a good laugh at his expense, including Joe himself, who noted that "If you learn to laugh at yourself, you'll never want for humerous material." Good point! We chatted for a while about how safe Ireland is compared with North America, but he noted that there are still dangerous people out there. A few recent murders had shocked everyone in Ireland and made them reassess the safety of their favorite places; dramatically unlike in North American, where such events make up the "filler" between "more important" stories.

Refreshed and suitably caffeinated, we continued on to Dublin Castle, a pleasant first encounter with medieval Irish architecture. The outside was much more enjoyable than the inside (Georgian and eclectic?), though, which was somewhat garish for my modern tastes. There were a few spectacular spots nonetheless: the ceiling plasterwork was impressively ornate, and in the chapel, the stained glass display of the various apostles and gorgeous carved wood all over the walls were well worth a long pause. We also got a look into the castle's ancient history, with a trip beneath the walls to the (buried) old Viking keep that had originally occupied this site. Afterwards, we rested our weary feet for half an hour in a formal garden hidden behind the castle and reached through the parking lot of the local Gardai (police) station. The best moment of the castle tour: When the Brits conquered Ireland and ruled out of the castle, someone put up a statue of "Justice" on the main gate. Through poor planning or (I suspect strongly) someone's political statement, Justice faces the castle, not the city, so her back and her backside face the Irish. Also, the scales (balance) in her hand used to tip disconcertingly to various sides until they straightened it out. A nicely ironic touch!

After the castle, we wandered around a while in the downtown area. We found a street (Tailor's Row, if memory serves) with pleasant new townhouses, each containing a bas-relief (frieze?) of a scene from the Lilliputian section of Gulliver's Travels. Jonathon Swift was apparently born nearby. Speaking of Swift, we found St. Patrick's Cathedral not far away, where he once served as vicar (or some such post). St. Pat's is an impressive place, complete with huge flying buttresses that push in on the side walls so that the massive roof doesn't collapse and push them outwards with its immense weight. Unfortunately, it was too late in the day to get into the church and I was out of film, so no pictures to report on the place. Too bad.

We sat for a while and rested in front of St. Pat's, watching clouds in the blue sky, enjoying the cool grass and warm breeze, and watching a young puppy trying to figure out how to work its legs. A beautiful blue sky. After refreshing ourselves, we headed on to Temple Bar (a popular downtown street for meeting friends) to meet Lucille and Sara for dinner.

We arrived a bit early, just before 7, at the "Elephant and Castle" restaurant, then realized that we'd been so tired yesterday that we'd neglected to ask Lucille how we'd recognize her, nor had we told her what we looked like. [A look back from 2026: Back then, no cell phones, no Facebook, and not much in the way of Web pages.--GH] I checked to see if she was waiting for us inside, and made reservations for an 8 PM table when I couldn't find her. We sat across the street outside the place on a low stone wall to wait, and while we did, someone coming out of the restaurant spotted us: this was Deirdre Falvey, one of Lucille's friends, who had just made a second reservation for us (!) after noting that Lucille wasn't there yet to reserve a table. The waiter at the restaurant had remembered the two tourists who had made a reservation not five minutes earlier after asking for Lucille, and cleverly put Deirdre on our trail. We chatted a bit until we noticed someone leaning against the wall of the restaurant reading a book: Lucille, waiting for us to turn up and confident that we'd eventually find her. (Tip: you can always spot the solitary editor in the crowd by the inevitable book-in-case-of-emergency!)

Since we had some time to wait, Lucille took us back across the street to the "Old Dubliner" pub to treat us to some good Irish draft. We talked a bit, but the pub was packed to the walls with drinkers, and it was hard to understand what everyone was saying. We also met Lucille's friend Stephen Dixon, an expatriate Manchester Brit and Deirdre's covivant. Lucille's editing for an economics bulletin and teaching journalism at the local university. Deirdre is a designer for the Dublin Times newpaper, while Stephen works for the rival Dublin Independent. He told us of the troubles the local papers are having competing with much better funded British papers run by huge conglomerates (Rupert Murdoch et al.). Stephen's also a well-respected local sculptor, so we'll have to look out for his work next time we're there. He described the liberal tax policies Ireland has towards artists, and it sounds like the place to be if you have talent and need time and support to develop it.

After finishing our beers, we crossed back to the restaurant for a good, piggy meal and chatted for almost 3 hours. Truly pleasant companions, with a good sense of humor and charming as all get out, and we became fast friends by the end of the evening. Well, that's a bit of an exaggeration, but it certainly felt that way. When we explained where we were staying, Lucille expressed some alarm, as this was a relatively unsafe part of the city to be in late at night, and she prevailed upon Stephen to give us a lift back home in his car. It was a very strange experience sitting on the left and finding no steering wheel, and probably the subject of many "drunken tourist" jokes. ("But officer... I know it was here somewhere when I parked it!")  When we left the car, Lucille gifted us with some lovely enameled pins featuring traditional Celtic knotwork and animals from the Book of Kells style of illustration. We parted sadly, hoping to meet again if we returned to Dublin early enough at the end of our trip.

Home to bed, stuffed with food and ready to crash. Still a bit jetlaggy after our first full day on local time. Snore...

Our second traditional Irish "fry" breakfast: greasy eggs, bacon, cold white toast, and a bowl of cornflakes. Edible and even tasty, but oh! the cholesterol! (Good coffee, though.) Didn't remember to bring the local number for the Alamo car rental desk at the airport, so I resorted to the operator to find it for me. [A look back from 2026: again, no cell phones or Web sites, so you had to rely on humans for such tasks.--GH] There was a bit of difficulty understanding my accent, and while he looked for the number, he apologized fervently and kept up a running commentary about the best places to visit during our stay. Definitely not your typical phone operator, but perhaps in Ireland they value friendliness over voice-mail hell? When I finally got in touch with Alamo, it turned out that we couldn't pick up our car today (our reservation started tomorrow, and there were no cars in stock today), so we'll stick around Dublin for one more day. It's a bit of a grey day, but we're nonetheless prepared to brave the elements and head north by bus towards Howth (pronounced hoe-th) and Malahide castle. Fingers crossed that it won't rain too hard. [A look back from 2026: This is far enough in the past and soon enough after my divorce that I had very few pennies to my name, so no Goretex or equivalent in my hiking budget. As soon as I could afford it, I armored up with a good selection of waterproofs.--GH]

We joined Sara and took a bus to the castle. For the first time, we left the city proper and hit the countryside. Everything was a lovely green, with huge trees and lush fields everywhere. The rain, when it inevitably came, was light, intermittent and pleasant, and no problem at all as we walked through the woods to the castle. There was (English?) ivy everywhere, clambering up the tree trunks, giant sycamores and yews, and holly bushes in profusion, which was a treat; none of these are common in Canada. Dozens of black and white Irish magpies (about the size of large Canadian crows) flitting about the manicured lawns around the castle. The occasional immense wood pigeon (about twice the size of a mourning dove) passed overhead too.

The castle itself was lovely on the outside, surrounded by bushes and flowers, but inside, it's furnished in the traditional Georgian bad taste. As usual, no photos were allowed, but then there wasn't much that I'd want to photograph anyway. It's always interesting to see how others lived in different times, but antique furniture isn't my cup of tea. Sara and Edna enjoyed the inside of the castle much more than I did.

We had a pleasant walk back to the bus, in plenty of time to get on the next bus, but culture shock immediately set in... the bus whizzed right past without stopping. Apparently, you have to warn Irish bus drivers that you want them to stop; in contrast, you virtually have to threaten Montreal drivers to tell them you want the other bus at that stop. Naturally, it started raining as soon as the bus vanished around the corner. This wouldn't have been a problem except that it was 1 PM, we were all starving, and the next bus didn't come for 45 minutes. (Weekend schedule?) On the other hand, this did give us the chance to chat with a pleasant Irish grandfather who had locked his keys in his car and had to bus back home to get his spares. Eventually the bus arrived and we virtually flew to the nearest restaurant, "Hamburger Heaven". Tasty burgers at reasonable prices, and huge portions. Wrapped around our bulging bellies and feeling vaguely snakelike, we slithered off to our dens to digest our meals and nap while so doing. That night, the three of us were to share a room to economize on costs... insert mandatory joke here about how Geoff got to sleep with two women at once. (In my dreams!)

That afternoon, while Sarah napped, Edna and I headed off to St. Pat's cathedral for another look-see, but sadly, the closer we got, the harder it rained. St. Paddy was evidently warning the foreign heathens to stay at a safe distance! We stopped for a drink at the "Love of Coffee" cafe, and then, seeing that the weather wasn't improving, gave up on St. Paddy and headed home. Edna finally got wet enough to accept the offer of my spare poncho ("I'll look like a geek!" she protested), but eventually relented. So naturally it stopped raining shortly thereafter. On the way back, we scouted out a few promising pubs offering traditional ("trad") music. By the time we got home, Edna was no longer worried about looking like a geek. ("I look like my parents!" she moaned). Sara was duly amused.

That night, off we went bar/music hopping, after looking over our itinerary for the next few days. We stopped in at Sean O'Casey's, drank a bit, chatted, and listened to a good guitarist/vocalist. We were tired, though, and planning to head off early the next day, so we made it an early night. The dynamics of being room-mates then reared their strange heads: I was whiff enough from hiking around all day in a rain coat that Sara noticed and commented (ooops!), but she graciously headed downstairs to the common room so I could shower, change and decorously slip beneath the covers to avoid showing any skin. Ah! the requirements of decorum! Why the need for discretion? Our "ensuite" shower was a free-standing enclosure dropped into the corner of the room just like another piece of furniture. Convenient, but strange, and no privacy.

Morning reflections: As Stephen had noted earlier, the Irish are polite to a fault (at least compared to North Americans) and keep a polite distance until you "invite them in", but I notice that their warmth tends to leak around the edges of this politeness. As soon as you express an interest in their existence, the warmth then floods out all over. Nice. Even the kids and the teens seem unusually polite and respectful.

Yet another: Edna put on far more clothing than usual to go to bed last night, noting that this was a "room-mate thing": the rule is apparently that if you're not expressing sexual interest in someone, you should cover up. (Thus, I concealed myself 'neath the sheets until the lights were out so as to not offend Sara or propriety.) In the morning, I snuck out from beneath the covers and did my usual brisk exercises (in my briefs) before anyone else awoke. Although I fully understood Edna's point, it's an interesting irony that the safest time to show skin is probably when you don't have any sexual interest in the other person, and thus it's safe to not worry about inciting anything. To exaggerate, this would seem to suggest you're better to cover up in the presence of a lover and run around nude in the presence of strangers. (Of course it doesn't work that way, but the irony interests me nonetheless.)

We overslept today, waking up to an overcast, potentially drizzly day. We had set Edna's travel alarm for 7, so that we could get an early start with the car, but the alarm failed and we slept until 8 or so. Well, it is vacation after all... why rush things? I dressed and headed downstairs so the wimmenfolk could shower and dress in peace. Ah well, maybe next fantasy!

After yet another "fry" breakfast, off we went to the airport to fetch our beast of burden, a silvery-grey Nissan Micra with two doors, the smallest trunk ever built, and (as it turned out) a heart of gold. Sara suggested that we dub our loyal steed "Seamus", a fine Irish name and perhaps a subtle suggestion about the results of my driving skills on the wrong side of the road ("shame us"). The first obstacle was getting the car started... no luck whatsoever until the rental guy pointed out that the gearshift lever had been left in drive (evidently by someone unaccustomed to automatic transmissions). Seamus had already lived up to his name! After correcting the problem, the car started like a charm. No power steering, though, which made turning interesting.

Driving on the left side of the road wasn't so bad, particularly since I'd had three days to get used to the idea. It took a few hours to get comfortable with the view, but by the end of the day I was comfortable enough to sightsee while I drove. I continued to hug the left side of the road, so I scraped a few curbs, but nothing drastic. Traffic circles, ubiquitous in Ireland, were more problematic... the Irish insert these in mid-road wherever North Americans would use four-way stoplights and an intersection. Appparently, the strategy is to veer wildy to the left (clockwise), hugging the outer edge of the roundabout while looking for an exit to your left. I never did figure these things out on my first day, and got soundly cursed a few times by natives (not to mention shrieks of horror from my passengers). Ugh! Better luck tomorrow, I hope.
Our first chore was to get out of Dublin, which took a while. Sara and Edna navigated while I watched for cars and pedestrians, and we did just fine except for the length of the drive (since we were at the airport north of the city and heading south, we had to pass through the entire city to escape and get on the rural roads).

Our first touristy stop was county Wicklow and a tour through the Wicklow Gap and the lovely mountains surrounding it. The highway, on the other hand, was not so lovely and not in the least amenable to one's first day of driving. The secondary "highways" (to graciously and inaccurately use the local name) appear about 1.5 cars wide, with a shoulder ("margin") barely wide enough for one tire, and minimum-3-foot-tall hedgerows or stone walls on both sides. Typical travel speed for us was 30 mph, or up to 40 on straightaways, though the more skillful locals easily added 10-20 mph to these speeds. To preserve our nerves and avoid head-on collisions, we drove most of the first few hours with at least one tire bumping along the margin and bushes scraping the door. The hedgerows were lovely, and mostly covered with a bewildering variety of vegetation, but they made it rather difficult to see around corners, which led to many surprise encounters with cyclists, tour buses and other obstacles. Added a few grey hairs to all of Seamus' passengers, most notably the driver.

Our first encounter with the rural natives was a herd of cattle being shepherded down the road by a billygoat, udders whipping from side to side as the cows jogged along at a brisk pace. Much amusement was had by all, except the cows, who didn't like being pursued by a car and stopped at short intervals to threaten dire consequences should we approach their calves too closely. Add to this one randy bull, interested in making the acquaintance of all the cows, and the picture is complete, much to our additional mirth. We moved along at walking speeds for 10 minutes or so until the driver behind us grew frustrated, passed us, and revved his engine until the cows parted to let him through. We followed him through the gap, collecting a positively baleful glare from said bull (bloodshot eyes and a look like hay wouldn't melt in his mouth), and made it past almost two-thirds of the herd, when the bull suddenly realized that we had come between him and some of his harem. He rushed past in a mad flurry of hooves, flattening our passenger-side mirror in the process and leading to much mirth at the "bull snot" left on the mirror. Edna and Sara had never been this close to a bull before, adding to their mirth. (I had been that close, but safely behind a robust fence.)

Eventually, we made it past the herd and on to more safe driving. We stopped several times along the way to enjoy the scenery, most notably at a ruined monastery at the apex of the Wicklow mountains. (Paused for a pee break in the bushes, lovely and fragrant yellow flowers someone subsequently told us were called "wynne", but with wickedly spiky leaves. [A look back from 2026: In hindsight, they were probably gorse.--GH]) To reach the ruins, we had to cross a mountain stream on rain-slicked boulders, but it was pleasant exercise and not as dangerous as it perhaps seemed at the time. Then we hiked up to explore the ruins and enjoy the view, then back down again across the stream. Apart from the fact that this site was far from the ravages of the Vikings, who largely preferred to raid near large rivers or on the coast, it was hard to see why anyone would want to live up here: the view was beautiful, but with no central heating or indoor toilets and no convenience stores to shop in for food, it would have been a difficult life at the best of times.

Next stop was the Glendalough monastic community ruins nearer to the southern base of the Wicklow mountains. Another beautiful site, but swarming with tourists when we arrived, so we got as many pictures of them as we did of the ruins. This site was reasonably well preserved, and gave a good impression of how the monks lived. The touristy shops and restaurants in the village were all quite expensive, so rather than breaking the bank for lunch, we hit a local convenience store and stocked up on provisions: bread, cheese, peanut butter, tomatoes, and miscellaneous veggies and fruits. As we were too hungry by now to drive far, lunch was in Seamus in the parking lot, and although ad hoc, it was tasty and well appreciated after a morning of tense driving and windy hiking in the mountains.

Next, on to Waterford city. We found the town with no trouble, and found a nice B&B that we'd been looking for in record time, but they were full up for the night. [A look back from 2026: Nowadays, just about everyone takes advance reservations via their Web site. Back then, if you wanted to make a reservation, you had to pay for an expensive long-distance call after calculating the time difference so you didn't wake your host in the middle of the night or at 4 AM.--GH] The landlady was astonishingly helpful, though, and phoned around for us until she found a nice place. This was a brand-new hostel, "The Viking House", which turned out to be just about the nicest place we stayed during our entire trip. The only real downside was the beds, bunk beds too small to share easily. The desk clerk, also very helpful, referred us to Munster's Hotel for supper, and we had a fine meal. In my case, curried veggies washed down with Smithwicks stout (a dark beer midway between Guiness and Harp on the color spectrum, and combining all the best aspects of both). I managed to mispronounce the name horribly, though: it's "Smith-icks" to the locals, who were much amused at my attempted pronunciation. The hostel had indoor parking (so to speak), 5 floors up on top of a parking garage, one of the highest points in the city.

Off to bed again, with the expectation of a busy day tomorrow.

The Viking House Hostel was pleasant, but shared two oddities of Irish hostels: a "button shower", in which you have to keep hitting a button every minute or so to keep the water flowing, and an inefficient toilet that uses tons more water to flush away the evidence than do North American models. The first feature, so I'm told, is a water-conservation measure; the latter evidently isn't. (Given how wet Ireland is, water conservation didn't seem like it should be a priority.) Perhaps the difference is that toilet water isn't heated? In any event, both are tolerable differences once you get used to them.

Today's B&B breakfast was "continental", which means cornflakes and toast. At least there were no eggs and sausages swimming in grease, for which my arteries sang their thanks.

This morning we needed to do laundry, so we headed off in search of a launderette. "Duds and Suds" was clean, well-lit, and generally pleasant, if somewhat expensive (£3 = C$6 per load). The woman running the place was delightful, showing us how to work things and making sure that we understood, then offering to add additional tokens to the dryer if it stopped before the laundry was done. Everything worked nicely, and we had time to tour the neighborhood while we waited. The fragments of old city wall still standing amidst the 20th century buildings were fascinating, with strange plants growing in the cracks between stones and obvious signs of age in the ruins. The Viking/Heritage museum, a stone's throw from our car park, was largely disappointing, apart from a few interesting ancient artefacts (jewelry, swords, tools). We mailed a few postcards on the way back to the car... postboxes are few and far between in comparison with Canada, it appears. [A look back from 2026: Who sends post cards these days? They usually arrive home days or even weeks after you send them. Nowadays, it's all photos from a digital camera or smartphone.--GH]

Laundry and walking ate up most of the morning, and we picknicked with Seamus on the roof of the parking garage: peanut butter and banana sandwiches for me, strange cheeses and tasty tomatoes for the womenfolk, with sparkling Tipperary mineral water to wash it all down. Then off to the famous Waterford Crystal factory. It was going onto 1 PM when we arrived, and the tour was both late and expensive (£3.50 = $7), so we gave up on the idea and simply toured their museum. It was interesting, but I'm not a big fan of crystal, and the prices are truly outrageous. The factory is evidently having some financial difficulties, perhaps because they don't understand the concept of price elasticity of demand (i.e., if you lower your prices, people will buy more).

The weather was beautiful (hot and mostly sunny), so we headed to the next major stop on our trip, Cashel Rock and the associated monastic community. Cashel was indeed impressive. Obviously and flamboyantly ruined, but enough of it was intact that you could get a decent feel for what the settlement had been like way back when. On the way up the steep hill, we passed a charismatic old fellow playing the accordion and singing... both rather badly, but we pitched him some coins anyway (perhaps hoping he'd take some more lessons). Up at the ruins, we once again bumped into Tom Russell, my seatmate on the flight into Dublin. He swore he wasn't following us, but you know these Americans... could well have been the CIA checking up on Edna's movements abroad!

During the tour, I learned why the high crosses have the circular tops: it's because the original pagans in Ireland included many sun worshippers (given the rarety of sun in Ireland, not surprising), and St. Patrick incorporated the circle in the standard cross to represent the sun and attract these worshippers. Clever! The ruins had a truly impressive sense of mass... the word gravitas springs to mind, but I don't know whether that applies to nonliving things. The cathedral particularly impressed me... huge, airy, imposing. I took lots of pictures, and I really hope they turn out. Tom and I took turns photographing each other with our respective travel companions, then he left to head east again. The view from outside the ruins onto the surrounding plains was also spectacular.

Next, we headed off to Tipperary, source of our lunch-time libations, minus pouring any on the ground. [A look back from 2026: Years later, an Irish colleague told me that when you die and head upstairs o see St. Peter at the pearly gates, he summons two angels to hold you by the ankles upside down above a barrel filled with all the alcoholic drinks you'd spilled during your life. They then dip you head first into the barrel, and if you can't drink all the alcohol before you drown, you go to "the other place".--GH] En route, we traveled along a typical secondary road, with winding lanes scarcely wide enough for two cars and the walls and overhanging shrubbery forming an impenetrable tunnel. The walls range from stone and earth to vegetation, and various combinations of the three, and the overhanging branches are scooped out as if by an icecream scoop—presumably by the highway department or by "erosion" caused as the roofs of tall trucks shave off the branches. The result is that you continually live in fear that you'll round a corner and meet a truck, bus, or cyclist. I imagine there's a great opportunity for broad humor involving dedicated public servants with pruning shears, hastily mounting ladders set in mid-road so they can prune back the trees, hoping nobody happens along at 40 mph to remove the ladders.

The Irish seem to vary somewhat in their respect for lanes, with two broad patterns emerging: some hug the left side of the road, brushing the walls or shrubbery but leaving plenty of room to pass, while others straddle the center of the road and merge into their own lane only once they can see the color of your eyes. The latter would feel right at home in Quebec, except that Quebec roads are too broad to make this behavior as fearsome as it is in Ireland.

We stopped through Tipperary en route to Limerick, and needed some advice to escape the town successfully: there were no obvious signs to indicate which road we should take. Stephen had mentioned that Limerick is the Irish equivalent of Newfoundland (i.e., the place everyone mocks), complete with "Newfie" jokes, and perhaps that's why the locals don't want anyone to know how to get there. Fortunately, a friendly woman at the tourist info center set us straight and off we went, back into the tunnels. We stopped a few times for photos, including a sign noting that it was only 20 km back to Tipperary... definitely not a long way, despite the song!

Speaking of signs, a few more words: In cities, street signs are well hidden above eye level, occur erratically at random (not consecutive) street corners, and generally do their best to elude detection or helpfulness. Add to this the fact that street names often change every few blocks and it becomes easy to get lost without a good map and an equally good sense of direction. Highway signs aren't much better, and follow the Quebec principle: hide them at roadside, and point to exits and turns in such a manner that anyone travelling at a reasonable speed will be long past the ability to turn when they realize that the sign was the desired turning point. Eventually, we got in the habit of slowing down whenever we spotted a sign hiding in the distance and suspected that it might prover useful. On the other hand, street and road signs are charmingly bilingual (English and Gaelic), something Quebec could learn from, and we began to get some faint feel for how to pronounce Gaelic this way after five days of travel. "Hazard" signs are also quite entertaining. Herewith a quick traveller's guide to their meanings:

• "loose chippings" = "loose gravel" or unpaved, thus a potentially slippery surface
• "soft margin" = "unlike elsewhere, there actually is a margin here, but don't trust it"
• "dangerous bend" = "yes, you're still on a secondary road"
• "slow down" = even the Irish will be cautious here
• "dead slow" = get out and scout the land ahead of you to be sure it's really safe to round the bend.

It's still green everywhere, more green than you can imagine and in more shades. Flowers also bloom everywhere, from the ubiquitous bright yellow wynne to various unidentified blue, red, orange, purple, white, and other blossoms, not to mention the familiar daisies and dandelions. Palm trees here and there, huge sycamores and horse-chestnuts, giant yews (not the tiny shrubs we have in North America), and lots of green grass. Oddly enough, not many shamrocks. I always wondered why the Irish symbol was the three-leaved clover instead of the four-leafed lucky clover; it turns out that the symbolism is intended to remind everyone of the trinity.

I noted with interest that the Irish mostly use stone fences to wall off their houses from the street, just as they use stones to define their fields. The obvious parallel with North America is that we use wood or wire for both purposes. Neither would be practical in Ireland, because they'd (respectively) rot or rust. That's my cultural anthropology lecture for the day, but it's interesting to wonder what effect this has on the way people think about their tools and raw materials.

Another odd point: In addition to letting their sheep and cattle roam largely unfettered, many yards have horses grazing contentedly alongside the street or even (oddly enough) along major highways. This, with some exaggeration, is like the ubiquitous "dog in the yard" or "cat on the porch" in North America. Nice to see, though, since the three of us all love horses. It's obviously still late spring because calves, foals, lambs etc. abound, roaming happily beside mom. Strange birds (crows and magpies mostly) gossiping all day and night too.

Tipperary was nothing special, bordering on dull: it could have been a country town in any other country except for the obscure street signs. Conversely, Cashel could have been any medieval town if you ignored the cars and modern amenities below "the rock of Cashel", an imposing medieval structure atop a high bedrock hill. It's easy to ignore the modern stuff if you look at the town just so, from the right perspective. Limerick was another very modern town except for the imposing King John's Castle along the banks of the Shannon River. Almost the reverse of Cashel: focus just right and the castle disappears into the modern background.

I was a bit worried as we neared Limerick because the tourist info lady in Tipperary had warned us that we'd be arriving in the peak of the rush hour. Of course, from her perspective, a town of 80,000 (my guess) might seem capable of producing intimidating traffic, but coming from Montreal, home of the four-lane parking lot amusingly called a "street" or "highway", we didn't notice much in the way of traffic... just a few more cars than usual, mostly headed the wrong way to cause us any trouble.

Barrington's House Hostel, where we'd be staying, sat alongside a small tributary of the Shannon, with ducks and the occasional great blue heron fishing by the edge. Our hostel was concealed around the corner of a dingy, dull-grey, depressing concrete industrial/bureaucratic building of some sort; as we drew closer, we at first thought that the grey building was the hostel or that we'd gotten the instructions wrong. When we saw a driveway, we pulled into it to turn around or collect our thoughts and lo and behold, there was the hidden hostel: a cheery bright yellow, with an entrance surrounded by a flower garden full of blossoms. The facilities were similar to those of the Viking House, save that the bottom half of the bunk bed was large enough for two.

After dumping our bags, we did a quick tour of the downtown area and settled on "The Green Onion Cafe" for our meal. A lovely dinner (Spanish sausage in tomato sauce and on linguini for me), topped off with a bowl of Bailey's Irish Cream ice cream split three ways. A pleasant end to a nice day.

Home to bed relatively early (ca. 11 PM) to prepare for tomorrow, as we were fairly tired after all the running around. We've begun to wonder if Lucille would adopt us and if our bosses will let us telecommute via the internet. [A look back from 2026: How quaint it is to remark on something that is now just taken for granted.--GH]

Today's breakfast was simple and homemade, thus (hooray!) not fried. A crisp Granny Smith Apple, a bowl of Alpen eaten dry (we didn't remember to buy any milk the previous night) and half a KitKat bar... after all, chocolate is the essential fifth food group required for balanced nutrition. Then, off to King John's Castle on the banks of the River Shannon. Saw a great blue heron and a few ducks in the small river that ran past the front of the hostel.

The castle was impressive, in good shape and with imposing round corner turrets/towers. Another building with gravitas, and much more of what you expect a castle to be: not a Georgian mansion with thick stone walls, but something that might once have been a real defence against Viking raiders. However, as the last two castles had proved to be somewhat disappointing, we passed up the tour of the inside and saved £3.50 (about $7). Instead, we walked around a bit and then stopped for coffee and to plan our day.

Next stop on the tour was Bunratty Castle, on the banks of the interestingly named Ratty River that feeds into the Shannon estuary. (Not clear whether this was because of a large rat population or because the river was particularly bad-tempered. I'm guessing the former, as it was fairly tame-looking river.) The castle certainly looked like a castle, but more like the mansion variety, and I wasn't really overcome at first glance. Nonetheless, we stopped for a closer look and some of the building's character began to emerge. The entry fee (£4.50) was fairly steep, but included a tour of the Heritage Village spread beneath the castle, which was designed to represent a traditional Irish village. We hemmed and hawed over this for a while, but Edna really wanted to see the village, and besides, we'd skipped the last few tours, so Sara and I agreed to go in. A good decision as it turned out.

Bunratty Castle was head and shoulders above the other castles on the tour, and not just in height. The surrounding village re-creation was very nicely done, and comfortably avoided the Disney World syndrome, with lots of lovely greenery (tall, leafy trees; blossoming flowers) and lots of little animals scattered hither and yon (chickens, geese, sheep and their babies). The castle part of the tour was impressive: the great hall of the castle displayed the antlers of an Irish elk (basically a giant, prehistoric moose); the turrets, 100+ feet above the village, provided a lovely view of the surrounding countryside, particularly if you clambered up a tiny stone ladder to the ultimate summit; the one, tiny dungeon cell was reached by a passage so tiny that I almost didn't fit through it; there were arrow slits in all walls to let archers defend the place (as opposed to the more familiar Georgian paned glass); and the bedrooms with attached "toilets" (holes in the wall that let the debris rain down on the courtyard) were an amusing and authentic touch.

After finishing our tour, we had lunch immediately beneath the castle walls, at Durty Nelly's, a 376-year-old pub directly above the Ratty River. There we had our first dose of Irish Stew, which was greasy but nonetheless very tasty and filling. We dined on the second floor, in a repurposed dovecote. The room itself was charismatic and atmospheric, with low ceilings, heavy beams, wood shavings on the floor, stuffed animals, and lots of antiques. On the upper floor, there was a dovecote that had been there from time immemorial, presumably to provide materials for pigeon pies for travellers.

After lunch, off we went on the road again in search of Heritage Sites. First on the list was Knappogue castle, which we inspected from the outside only: the guidebooks didn't mention anything spectacular for us to see, and by now it took something relatively special to get us to pay the admission fee for Yet Another Castle. (The admission fees everywhere are a bit of an annoyance, but to be fair, someone has to pay for the preservation of these monuments and the maintenance of their staff.) Besides, after Bunratty, this place would likely have been a disappointment.

Next, we stopped off at the Craggaunowen Project, a heritage site intended to show pre-medieval Irish life, including hill forts and a crannog (a fortified man-made island in the middle of the lake). There were several varieties of interesting cattle of various sorts in pens around the visitor center, plus a strange warning sign: "leave the site before dark because of dangerous feral animals". This left me with the impression of vampire cows taking off their "friendly" costumes at quitting time and stalking any tardy visitors who chose to disregard the warning. Since we were running a bit behind schedule, and the admission price was a bit steep, we gave it a miss and bought a souvenir booklet instead. Next visit, though, I'd like to do this tour.

Onwards through Ennis, which had no specific attractions to hold us. We'd missed the traditional music festival because our guidebooks had provided the wrong date, a week earlier than the true time. We ended up in Lisdoonvarna that night, within striking distance of the Cliffs of Moher and the musical town of Doolin. Sara stayed in the Kincora Hostel, a clean and lovely old place, while Edna and I ended up in a comfy B&B misleadingly called the Moher View, about a kilometre down the road from Sara. Finally, we had both shower and toilet in our ensuite. We met Sara for dinner at the Roadside Inn, just down the road from the hostel, and sat in the inn's "snug" (a private little nook off to the side of the main dining and drinking room). Sara brought along Sheila, an architecture student from Pennsylvania who she'd met at the hostel and who was returning home via Ireland after a study term in Italy.

Since traditional music was advertised for that night in the bar, but not for several hours yet, we mounted Seamus and struck out to see the lie of the land. We made it as far as the outskirts of Doolin area and the nearby coast, but wind and rain had descended, so we headed back before we got ourselves into any trouble. Nonetheless, before returning, we caught a glimpse of the nearest of the Aran islands (Inisheer) as a low blur against the rain, and spotted an interesting turreted castle down a long slope towards Doolin. We headed downslope for a closer look at the beach, and watched waves crashing onto the strand from below the castle. If possible, we'll hit the beach tomorrow to see if anything interesting had washed ashore.

As the rain continued to wash in from off the ocean, we headed back home for a shower before the music started. We'd wanted to catch a glimpse of the famous Moher cliffs, but had to wait until tomorrow. The shower was private, but although the water was nice and hot, it had very little water pressure and proved disappointing. I begin to despair about finding a good, North American-style shower in Ireland! The room itself was tiny, only about 3 feet wider than the bed, but it was pleasantly appointed and very comfortable, and had a nice view of the hills on two sides.

Towards 9:30, we headed off to the Roadside Inn for music and beer, both of which proved disappointing. There were only two musicians (guitar and accordion), and though the music was pleasant enough, there was no singing and no drumming. The Guinness wasn't as good as in Dublin, and the Murphy's Stout was too watery to be really good. Smithwicks is still the champion beer in my books! After an hour or so, we headed back home to prepare for our next expedition. [A look back from 2026: Many years later, there was a better selection of beer, but only if you avoided pubs owned by the Guinness corporation.--GH]

It had been a few days since our last "fry" breakfast, so I tried one again. The usual stuff, but this time I'd planned ahead and smuggled in my box of Alpen cereal from our last provisioning stop. Edna was happy with the cornflakes and I had some good cereal for a change. Heck, the fiber may even help unclog the cholesterol from my long-suffering arteries. Here's hoping! (Irony note: there appeared to be a nationwide heart disease campaign going on during the time we were in Ireland. No sign at the B&Bs that the message is getting through.) Sara slept at the Kincora Hostel again, so no idea what she ate.

We broke our fast today with three fellow travellers sitting at a single large table. One girl, who declined to name herself after our introduction, was from Cleveland, and she told us a fair bit about herself; she had recently quit her job at a pharmaceutical wholesaler and was touring Ireland and then the Middle East. Her grandparents were Irish, one of whom was a Joyce (the family name, not the female name). The remaining couple, Ray and Violet with no surnames, were from the Skerries, north of Dublin, and appeared far too tired to say much. Ray admitted to biking down as far as Limerick on previous trips, and we complimented him on his bravery and the fact that he was still alive. (Biking in the Irish countryside is not for the faint of heart.) Violet, more taciturn than Ray, said nothing more than her name.

First stop on the day's itinerary was Ballinalacken Castle, the place we'd seen yesterday night in the rain. We went to pick up Sara at the hostel, and I watched a game of hackeysack while Sara went in to roust out Sara... the players were as inexpert as most of the folks I've played with, suggesting that the sport is universally difficult, or at least for tourists. Ballinalacken Castle was locked up tight, with a prominent "private property" sign, so rather than trespassing, we prowled around outside the property for a time. After seeing what we could see, we strolled a short distance up the "Burren Way", one of several cross-Ireland hiking trails. This particular one runs past the castle and (presumably) on to the Burren, which we'd see later in our trip.

Our next stop was the Cliffs of Moher, a major tourist site and well worth the stop. The cliffs look to be a thousand feet high, but are probably less (addendum: the guidebook suggests only 700 feet). The cliffs are spectacular, eaten away by the wind and pounding waves so far below that you can barely hear them, and plunge almost straight down to the waves. The white flecks on almost every solid vertical surface turn out to be Kittiwake gulls or the residues they create, with no other species clearly in evidence. We hiked both ways along the cliffs, first to the right of the visitor center to reach O'Brien's Tower, a lonely place at the top of the cliffs. You could climb up the tower another 100 feet for a better view, but it didn't look necessary. We also walked back and to the left of the visitor center to see the other cliffs and view the place from which we'd come. O'Brien's tower looks even smaller and lonelier from this vantage point.

In all, we spent about 2.5 hours hiking along the cliff face, marveling at the view and being astounded by the complete lack of common sense of many tourists. Despite warnings everywhere that the cliff edge had been collapsing unexpectedly of late, dozens of people climbed the fence (a wall of vertical stone slabs) so they could lie down at the edge and peer straight down the cliff face. Having seen the tremendous cracks running through the rocks, and evidence of recent mudslides ("mass wasting"), we stayed well back from the cliff edge other than in one or two places where we had no choice.

Back to Lisdoonvarna to reprovision for lunch. Another cross-cultural note: In Dublin, we observed that you could visually distinguish between the natives (no raincoats or umbrellas, take cover only in the worst downpours) and the tourists (rain gear, backpacks, a less preoccupied look); in the countryside, another difference is that the natives all walk confidently with their back to traffic, while tourists face their impending doom. As good Catholics, I suppose that the locals aren't unduly worried about meeting their maker prematurely, although I personally wouldn't want to try this experiment and risk justifying my behavior to St. Peter.

Lunch was on Corkscrew Hill, a series of challenging switchbacks running downhill towards Ballyvaughan and the start of the Burren. We paused for lunch at a strategic lookout point with a lovely view, halfway downhill and just before the worst of the curves. There was a cool breeze, and my two frail southern flowers wanted to eat in the car; I kept them company. Lunch was shallots, sliced tomatoes and processed cheese on small bread rolls, the whole washed down with Coke. A veritable gourmet feast! Apple tart and chocolate for dessert completed the culinary phenomenon.

When we'd done with lunch, off we went, cautiously rolling downhill towards more civilized roads. To our right, sweeping expanses of barren rock marked the edge of the Burren, a rocky wasteland that was next on our tour. We paused briefly in Ballyvaughan, a pleasant small town with a sweeping view of Galway Bay, for a bathroom break and to watch some cows munching seaweed on the tidal flats, which is apparently a thing. Before touring the Burren, we headed north to Bellharbor, where our guidebooks claimed that seals commonly find their way ashore. Not today, however. It was pleasant country nonetheless, and offered a tantalizing view of the fringes of the Burren.

The Burren itself is a vast expanse of wind- and rain-swept shale and limestone, thrust upwards some time during a recent plate tectonics incident, then scraped clean by the glaciers some 10,000 years ago. The shale seems relatively rare, and produces scattered pockets of acidic soil and acidified pools of water. The more abundant greyish-white limestone has been etched by flowing water so that it resembles hot taffy dropped suddenly into cold water to congeal: long cracks run for hundreds of feet parallel to the slopes, and sometimes extend so deep that you can't see the bottom; elsewhere, the rocks are eroded in sinuous patterns from limestone dissolving in the rain, or else appear crumbly, where mixed shale and limestone dissolve at different rates. At first glance, the place appears entirely devoid of life, in marked contrast to the green fields and hillsides near Ballyvaughan, which lie close at hand. [A look back from 2026: We were there in a dry year. When I returned several years later, there were green plants everywhere.--GH]

Looking closer, every nook and cranny in the rock seems to hold something living, and there's an impressive array of plants clinging tenaciously to the least foothold in the rock. (Apparently, more than 2/3 of all of Ireland's flora species can be found here. Could well be from what we saw.) Despite the passage of 10,000 years, there's little soil to be found anywhere... the limestone generally dissolves before it can form the fragments that would become soil, and the shale, which doesn't dissolve, isn't abundant enough to form much soil either. So most of what grows here either lives in tiny ponds filled with moss or lives directly in cracks or on the rock, completely without soil. Despite the strong, steady wind, we began to detect various traces of animal life. We saw no evidence (e.g., scats, bones) of anything large, but a few species of butterfly shelter in the cracks in the rock, a few fuzzy 2-inch caterpillars creep about, and there are many snails (black and white spirals the size of a thumbnail).

At the start of the Burren, there's a clear dividing line between the lush fields below and the Burren. We left that boundary behind and moved deeper into the wastes. En route, we stopped to visit a wedge tomb ("Inisheen") and a dolmen ("Poulnabrone"), both stone burial structures created from a few vertical slabs of rock on three sides and a stone roof. They weren't impressive on the scale of Stonehenge, but nonetheless conveyed a powerful sense of age. The wedge tomb dates back to 500 B.C., and the dolmen is some 2000 years older, and it's interesting to speculate what brought primitive peoples up here to bury their chiefs or other VIPs. (I'd guess that it was the lack of large animals to disturb the bones.) The lid of the dolmen was longer and broader than me, and about 8 inches thick, so it must have taken considerable ingenuity or many very strong workers to hoist it atop its supports. Did I say "primitive peoples"? Maybe not so primitive after all.

We returned to Lisdoonvarna for a rest, then drove off to Doolin for dinner, beer, and music. Dinner was a lovely "hamburger" (more like chopped steak) in mushroom sauce and accompanied by candied carrots, sweet corn and fresh soda bread. The beer was, of course, Smithwicks. Most pubs offer very few choices on tap, it seems; usually Smithwicks, Guinness, and Murphy's or Harp. There's the usual assortment of bottled beers, but you can get these in North America, and that's not why you go to an Irish pub. Besides, I'm not remotely bored with Guinness and Smithwicks yet.

Dinner was at McGann's, a charming little place that filled rapidly to overflowing by the time the music started. Sara's guidebook claimed that "Doolin is why you visited Ireland", and it wasn't lying: tonight, we had a guitarist, banjo player, and fiddler, all very good, plus some singing. Unfortunately, the pub was so full that it was hard to see and hear the musicians. Sara, who was bothered by the smoke, went for a stroll and found a better place, Mac Dairmidh's (McDermottt's). We joined her there, and the music was even better: to the previous list, we added a tin whistle, an extra fiddler, and a bodhran (the Irish drum). Lovely! I'm half convinced that my own special Ireland souvenir will have to be a bodhran. After a few more songs, we headed home just before closing time (around 11) to avoid the rush.

Driving home after dark was "fun": the narrow roads and invisible signs are even more challenging after dark, particularly if you're tired. On the other hand, the headlights help wonderfully... I just wish they'd work as well by day. Fortunately, there are no tour buses or tractors at 11 PM, and you can see cars coming from far off because of their headlights; similarly, pedestrians and cyclists can see you and adopt appropriate defensive postures. One more nice point: no cows or other critters were abroad at night, having an earlier curfew than the tourists.

Tomorrow, we're heading off through Galway City towards "the" Connemara, and there's a bodhran factory nearby, at Roundstone. Should I be weak?

If possible, we're hoping to end our day in Spiddal and take a ferry to Inishmore, the largest of the Aran islands. We'd like to spend the night there, weather permitting, but the ferries don't always run in bad weather, we don't want to get trapped, and the weather isn't looking promising.

Another potentially deadly Irish fry breakfast at the Moher View, but this time I asked for scrambled eggs instead of fried, and skipped the bacon and sausages entirely. My heart feels better already! We hit the road relatively early today, heading off towards Galway and the Connemara region. Passing through Galway was like visiting any other moderately big city, and nothing attracted our attention strongly enough to demand a stopover. We did pause briefly in the harbor area to photograph Galway Bay, looking back south from whence we'd come.

From Galway, we continued west to the village of Spiddal, which sits in the middle of a gaeltacht (Irish-speaking region). There were still a few bilingual (Irish and English) signs, but there was dramatically more Gaelic in evidence; in particular, the road signs were no longer English (or even bilingual), and we traveled by instinct much of the time. We alternated the radio between the nation's Gaelic-only station and a lovely tape by Mary Black that Edna had picked up in Bunratty. (Beautiful... I'll put a copy on my wish list once I'm back home.) We all agreed that the Gaelic sounded more like a cross between Swedish and German than like the lovely, softly accented English we've grown accustomed to. Strange difference!

We stopped for coffee and gift shopping just outside Spiddal at the crafts shop. I lusted after the bodhrans, and eventually decided to buy one later at a less-expensive shop. On the other hand, I had no trouble resisting the £180 (C$360) Aran sweaters... they're truly lovely work, but cost more than I spend on clothing in two years, so they're not easy to justify. (Unlike a bodhran, of course!) We cancelled our original intention to loop briefly through Connemara then spend the night in the Aran islands because the weather started looking too nasty: windy and rainy, and we had too much of Ireland left to see, so we didn't want to risk being stranded for a day or two if the ferries stopped running because of high seas.

Instead, we headed west to Cararoe, ostensibly an island, yet joined to the mainland near Casla (west of Spiddal) by a relatively thick land bridge. We stopped briefly to have a look at island/coastal life, and to visit a coral beach. Edna had also read a book about the place ("The White Horse", by R.A. Macavoy) set in that area, and really wanted to visit. The island was astonishingly rocky, so there were stone fences seemingly everywhere: if you picture the island as a mud puddle dried up and cracking in the sun, the fences would be as numerous and prominent as the cracks in the mud. We also noted with interest vast piles of turf (peat and other bog plants) drying beneath tarpaulins beside every house. Ireland really doesn't have enough trees to reliably use wood as a fuel, and turf is the fuel of choice. Burning turf gives off a smoky, sulfury, spicy-sweet smell that is very pleasant, and that hangs everywhere in the air where they use turf as fuel (i.e., rather than hydro). It's strange at first, but very pleasant indeed once you get past the initial strangeness. It's definitely one of the aspects of Ireland that I'll miss.

The beach on Cararoe was a treat: lots of blackish, seamed rock covered with living shells (cockles?) and uprooted kelp, but with pockets of sand everywhere. On closer inspection, the sand here turned out to be coral, some crushed almost beyond recognition by the pounding of the waves but much of it still easily recognizable, particularly at the high tide mark. I collected a bag full for Matt and Allie. There was no animal life in the tidal pools apart from the cockles, which was a bit disappointing. We didn't stay and explore for too long, as the wind was quite fierce and indeed too much for my companions. As the only hardy northerner, I could only explore for a little while before I got guilty at leaving them behind, patiently waiting in the car.

Onwards to the Connemara! Initially, Connemara was a bit disappointing, as it was every bit as barren as the Burren, and we'd been expecting something far more spectacular from the guidebooks. One interesting feature was the scattered but frequent presence of large boulders ("glacial erratics"), and the patches of browning grass trying not to sink into large patches of peat. There were many areas where the peat had been cut out in rectangular blocks. Sara commented that she's read that turf is being harvested faster than it's regrowing, which only goes to show that the Irish are no different from any other people: we did the same with our trees some time ago, and the trees grow back far faster. On the other hand, energy is very expensive in Europe, and it's unfair to ask people to freeze in the dark just to save peat, so the Irish have a challenging dilemma to resolve. [A look back from 2026: By the next time I visited Ireland, peat burning had been largely outlawed in an effort to preserve the remaining peatlands, which are a unique and endangered ecosystem.--GH]

Thinking a bit more about it, it occurs to me that the southern Connemara is more like the inverse of the Burren: instead of the Burren pattern of rock everywhere, with occasional outcroppings of vegetation, Connemara is vegetation (peat) everywhere with occasional stranded rocks. There are no trees to speak of in either place. Unfortunately, I don't have any good photos of this part of the country or of Cararoe because the lens on my camera, which had been acting a bit wonky earlier in the trip, finally gave up the ghost. I suspect that I've lost several photos from earlier in the trip too, which could prove outright unpleasant. (Assorted curses omitted.)

The southern Connemara is lovely in a bleak way, but deeper in, towards the northern end, the country grows more interesting still, with large mountains (the 12 Bens) and lakes, and occasional small "forests"... more like what we'd call "stands" of trees. Sheep graze everywhere with their lambs, but there are no cows and calves as elsewhere. At first, I imagined that the ground's too soft, although the presence of the occasional distant horse contradicted this guess. Perhaps the vegetation is wrong for grazing cattle? The sheep wander freely at roadside, but seem smarter than some of the other sheep we've met: they stay well away from cars, which is a good thing for them and for us. Although there are too few people hereabouts to build the ubiquitous stone fences (the Connemara is Ireland's wilderness frontier), the road still twists and turns like one of the serpents St. Patrick is supposed to have chased off the island. Maybe he just turned them into roads? In any event, this improves the visibility greatly, and makes driving a far more relaxing experience.

Midway to Clifden, our destination for the night, we came across a donkey who was stopping cars. This furry highwayman had the "ambush the tourists" routine down pat. He was so cute that cars would stop and open their windows to feed him, and he'd stick his head in and refuse to move until he'd been fed. In our case, the raspberry cream cookies were a definite hit. It took a fair bit of persuasion (bribery with an apple) to force his head back out the window so that we could drive on, and we all had a good laugh over his brazen behavior.

Clifden turned out to be a pretty, but very touristy town: in fact, with the mountains and trees, it was much like Ste-Agathe in Quebec, north of Montreal, though there were far fewer trees. We booked into Leo's Hostel, which sits just above the estuary, dropped off our bags, then headed for the hills. Leo's is definitely low-rent, both in cost (£6 = C$12) and in style, but was clean and comfortable nonetheless. Before dinner, we drove up the upper and lower Skye Road trails, which together form a loop along the steep slopes above the Clifden estuary. We drove for an hour or so high above the Atlantic in driving wind and rain, with waves crashing against the shore far below. Probably a good thing that we'd skipped the Arans this time around. At the top of the Skye Road, we were about as high as we'd been on the Cliffs of Moher, but the slopes were more gentle (maybe 60 degrees) and clad in vegetation. The weather kept us mostly inside the car, but the view was still lovely.

Dinner that night was at Fogerty's, expensive but good. Then, home early to bed to prepare for tomorrow. Our goal was to take a pony trek through the mountains if the weather cleared, then to start bending our course "homewards" to Dublin.

Leo's Hostel was run-down and dumpy, but the bed was nice and firm and the shower was decent... besides, at £6 per night, we weren't expecting the Hilton. We woke up early, very well rested, and made an early start on our day. Breakfast was Alpen, filling but not fulfilling, so we headed out for coffee and I had a plate of scrambled eggs on toast to round it out. Alarming to think that this diet could be habit-forming!

The storm had blown over, and with pleasant weather, we took the beach road so that we could inspect the Atlantic from closer than the previous night atop the Skye Road. The view was nice, but it was still too cold and windy for Sara and Edna to want to explore, so we didn't get out and walk around. We returned to town by 9 AM, and headed for the launderette. At £3.75 for a load, it was expensive, but not much more so than at our self-serve launderette in Galway, and the owner did the laundry for us. A very fair deal.

Laundry was scheduled to be done by noon, and while we waited, we hit the gift shops. The prize of the trip for me was a hand-made bodhran from the shops of that Irish master of the craft, Malachy Kearns. I was disappointed to have missed him earlier on our trip (we bypassed Roundstone), but fortunately, there was a regional outlet in Clifden. I was quite pleased by my purchase, as I paid £10 less than I would have paid in Dublin for a smaller model, and I shipped it home to avoid risking damage in transit. In all, it cost me £50 (C$100), which is a tad steep, but acceptable for such a special souvenir. Now I have to learn to play the thing!

We picked up our laundry early, and drove on across the Connemara in the direction of Leenane, where we'd been told to expect good pony trekking. We stopped at the well-recommended Glen Valley House and Stables, which we found with no trouble, nestled amidst the northernmost of the 12 Bens, just up the hill from a fjord-like inlet. The current horse tour was just leaving, so we settled down to wait and have lunch. The tour leader told us he'd be back in about an hour.

It was noon, and we were mostly on schedule, so we decided to wait. We finished off the last of our provisions (peanut butter, soda bread, apples, cheese, carrots, tomatoes) for a picknick lunch... in the car once again, because it started raining hard as soon as the horses rode out of sight. After the rain, a small brown and white dog approached us: all of 5 pounds worth of terrier-like beast, shaped a bit like a cross between a dachshund and corgi. (If we hadn't seen others of this breed around, we'd have thought it was a mutt of some sort, but apparently not.) A sweet little fellow, quite happy to collect his share of pats and scratches and to mooch some scraps when the affection proved insufficient to keep body and woof together. The wait dragged on for more like an hour and a half, as the previous tour was taking longer than expected, and as it was getting late, we were on the point of leaving. In addition, the sun had gone away again and it started raining fairly hard. Started to look like horse riding wasn't the best option.

Just as we were getting ready to give up and continue driving, the horses appeared. The sun re-emerged and things were looking promising when the next hurdle appeared: Shane O'Neill, our guide, apologized that his Dad had gone to town with much of the tack in the car, and had ended up with a flat tire. As a result, he'd left the car in town. Shane had to construct a bridle and bit for one more horse so that we could all ride together. We chatted while we waited, and Shane struck me as a pleasant companion. Quite good looking and charming too, so when he galloped off to get his housekeys, I kidded the girls about staying overnight at the B&B if we ended up still here late in the day. They were not amused.

Finally, around 3:30, we set off on our ride. I rode on Charlie, a bay gelding who was a cross between a Connemara pony and an Irish draft horse; Edna rode Flash, a similar cross; Sara rode Sky, a Welsh cob; and Shane rode Tom, a lovely old Irish draft horse. The weather was too bad to ride down by the sea (windy, with unpredictable downpours), so we stayed on the O'Neill family land, in a deep valley between two mountains. Mostly we walked, but there were a few painful bouts of trotting... I'd evidently long-since forgotten how to "post" properly, and got quite a beating on my derrière. My companions had trouble too, though, and having led a more sedentary life, ended up far more bruised than me. The O'Neill lands are lovely, with forests and streams in addition to the spectacular mountains. There's plenty of squishy peatland, but the Irish Forestry Authority had planted much of the area with European larch, black spruce, and (so far as I could tell from horseback) jack pine. Purely lovely country, and no bugs anywhere. (They come out later in the year, Shane reported.)

We got back to the barn just as a tremendous downpour was beginning, and got the barn door shut just as it began to hail. By the time the horses had been unharnessed, we were basking in the sun again, and ready to hit the road. We headed east and then south again to return to Galway, this time passing the eastern flanks of the 12 Bens. Lovely country.

Oops! Forgot to mention a brief stopover at the Kylemore Abbey, a lovely old building on the shores of a lake. Lots of photos, of course. Since most of the abbey was closed to the public (it's still being used by Benedictine nuns), we just looked around the outside and avoided the paid tour.

Our next destination was Athlone, but we didn't make it that far. Everyone was far too tired after a day in the fresh air, so we stopped in Ballinasloe instead, after driving for almost an hour beneath a double-rainbow that spanned the sky from horizon to horizon. Awesome, and a nice omen for our second-to-last day in Ireland. We stopped at an unnamed B&B on the eastern edge of town, which turned out to be a lovely 18th century house: the landlady didn't know its age for certain, but did know that the ceiling stucco work in the restaurant ("Peace and Plenty", by the famous Francini brothers) had been installed in 1801. Wow! A lovely place to spend the night before our last full day in Ireland.

Finding the airport was easy (just a few kilometres down the road), and the only snag was that the car dropoff outside the airport wasn't yet open at 6AM. I dropped Edna off at the check-in counter, and after she'd signed in, she wandered down to the rental desk to ask that they send someone to take our car. After I had checked in with British Midland, we did a bit of duty-free shopping en route to our separate gates. We planned to meet at Heathrow for a final beer, but unfortunately, Edna went through a different terminal and couldn't get back to meet me at mine. Fortunately, I'd given her my flight number, and she was clever enough to find me at the Air Canada counter. We said our goodbyes by phone, which wasn't nearly as nice as in person, but at least we got to say goodbye.

The flight out was on another 767, but a different model with much nicer seating arrangements. As a result, a much more comfortable flight. I had lots of time to read a book that I'd brought along (Steven Brust's 500 Years After; recommended for fans of Alexandre Dumas). Midway through the flight, had a good chat with my seatmate, one Steven Burton, who worked for a biotech firm (purification of drugs) and who was headed to Montreal to initiate some large contracts. We both enjoyed a glimpse of the arctic icepack as the flight angled northwestward from just south of Greenland.

Mom, Dad, and both kids were waiting for me at the airport, and it was really nice to see them after almost two weeks away. Had a good chat in the car home, though by now travel was catching up with me and I wasn't at my intellectual peak.

So what's the verdict on Ireland? A thoroughly lovely place that I'd love to come back to and explore in a more leisurely fashion. The big cities, especially Dublin, were disappointing: too North American and too expensive. The smaller cities, even when somewhat touristy, were much quieter, more affordable and more like the sort of place you'd want to stay for several days. Much of the country around Galway, and from Galway to Dublin, was too close to what I'm familiar with to be very memorable, but the Cararoe area, the Burren, the Connemara, and Wicklow were unforgettable. I'd happily spend a week or so at each, hiking and getting to know the people better. We missed the annual Ennis traditional music festival, but Lisdoonvarna and Doolin are good places to hear really good music and make for an easy trip to Moher. We missed the Aran Islands, Cork, the Ring of Kerry, and the Dingle peninsula, not to mention the whole north of Ireland, but that means there will be plenty to do on our next trip.

Nonetheless, it'll be good to get back home. I missed the kids and the rest of the clan, and I'm probably due for a nastier surprise than I'd anticipated from Mastercard. But this travel stuff could prove to be addictive. [A look back from 2026: Yup.--GH]

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