When we first arrived in Great Britain, we were surprised to see couples sitting in cars in car parks (parking lots, in American English) eating lunch, often from styrofoam takeaway (takeout, in AE) containers. Why would people eat in their cars???
Well, we’ve gone local. Yesterday we found ourselves eating a picnic lunch in our car in Wells, England. Why? We couldn’t find a picnic table from Glastonbury to Wells, two beautiful towns in the lovely Somerset countryside. Couldn’t find a park either, or any other green spot to look at while we munched. So we found the first parking spot we could, and had our lunch as shoppers pounded the pavement around us. Maybe it’s time to go home…before we start saying to-mah-to. ;o)
The day promised to be wet and windy, like 25 mph windy. But despite the horizontal rain we had in the early morning, it was relatively calm and dry as we checked out of our Airbnb and started our trek to Northern Ireland. We thought we’d squeeze in a sight or two, as long as the weather held. Our first, Horn Head, was only ten miles north, on the northern coast of Ireland, but by the time we got there the wind had picked up again. Or maybe we were just more exposed on this cliff 600 feet above the Atlantic. I was afraid to stand too near the edge, the wind was that strong. And then the rain started. I opted to shift my vantage point to the warmth of the car.
Lough Swilly with Inch Island midstream
An Grianán, one of those cool, circular Stone Age forts on a hill overlooking Lough Swilly, was our second stop, an easy forty miles closer to our destination. Lough Swilly is another one of those Irish fjords [Irish fjords], this one much longer and wider than Killary Harbour.
The wind at the top of the hill was ferocious. Jackets whipped liked sails in a tempest. Hair plastered to faces making it difficult to see. The temperature plummeted. I watched tourists trying to take photos in the elements. I just didn’t have it in me to get out of the car. Marcus found a parking spot overlooking the lough, and that’s where we enjoyed our English picnic. [Going local] One of the best views on a picnic so far, and no chasing sandwich wrappers and napkins across the car park.
As we drove down the hill from the fort, I entered the address of our Derry Airbnb into the SatNav (car navigation system). ETA: 15 minutes. What? That can’t be right. We’re still in Ireland. I looked up and saw a line on the road about fifty feet in front of the car, where the pavement was darker and smoother. I laughed. “I bet that’s the border.” Sure enough. No border control, not so much as a sign, just more cow pasture and white cottages. The few cars we encountered on this little slip of a farm road now had UK plates.
“Welcome to the United Kingdom!” I said to Marcus.
Anti-climatic? Not at all. I hope that’s as much of a border as there will ever be between these two countries. And is it too much to hope that one day there is no border at all, physical or otherwise?
Derry or Londonderry? Irish or British? Nationalist or Unionist? Catholic or Protestant? It’s complicated.
Ferryquay Gate
There is so much extraordinary history here, part of which is my own personal history. About 20 years ago my sister, the family genealogist, discovered that our paternal grandmother’s parents emigrated to New York from Londonderry in the late 1800s. Until that time, we had no idea we had Irish blood. My great-grandparents’ surnames were Fife and Gilmour. You won’t find either of those on keychains in Irish souvenir shops. So how did they get to Ireland?
the city walls are one mile in circumference and 12 to 35 feet thick
First, let’s get this Derry-Londonderry thing straight. Which is it? The name of the original Irish settlement was Doire (DUR-a), meaning oak grove. The English, after they arrived in the 12th century, called it Derry. And in 1613, when King James I granted a charter for the development of a British city here, he tacked on the London part to acknowledge the London guilds who were financing the project. Today it’s called Derry-Londonderry, or Derry, or Londonderry, whichever satisfies your political outlook. I call it Derry because it’s less of a mouthful and easier to type.
Apprentice Boys Memorial Hall
So why would a British king want to build a new city in Ireland? As the Protestant king of a country that just a century before had been Catholic, and was still immersed in an often bloody religious reformation, his territory of Ireland was a bit too Catholic, uncivilized, and hostile for his taste. How better to tame them than by planting some proper, loyal, Presbyterian Scots amongst them? James started in Ulster in the north, the most resistant of the Irish provinces, with what became known as the Ulster Plantation (for the planting of settlers, not crops). We call them Scots-Irish in the US. In Ireland they’re the Ulster Scots.
St. Augustine’s Church, within the walls
In a remarkable feat of early urban planning, the London-backed The Honorable The Irish Society (that’s not a typo) built a beautiful walled city for the Scots in just five years, the only completely walled city remaining in Ireland today. Why was it walled? To keep out the unruly, and justifiably angry, native Irish whose lands had been confiscated to build the city. The British took the best, high ground on the River Foyle, relocating the Irish clans to the surrounding bogland.
St. Columba’s Cathedral
So how did James expect to assimilate the staid Scots with the wild Irish with a 12-to-35-foot thick stone wall between them? Well, in my humble opinion, that was just the beginning of the Troubles between Protestants and Catholics in Derry that surfaced again and again for 350 years, at times most violently. But that’s a story for another day.
the Guildhall
I believe my great-grandparents are descendants of the Ulster Scots. Based on a tip from a local genealogist, my sister has found the Irish parishes they were from and will continue to trace their branches of the family tree as far as she can.
Ebrington Square, former army barracks on the east side of the River Foyle
So am I Scots or Irish? I’m sure in the 250 years, from the time the Scots settled in Ireland until my great-grandparents’ emigrated to America, there was a little assimilation going on. Don’t you think? I would say I’m both, but then again it’s complicated.
Derry Girls, a mural tribute to a hugely popular Brit-com
Well, in distance anyway. 26.2 miles along the County Mayo Greenway from Achill Island to Westport, where we are staying. We’ve never ridden that far before. Yay, us! But, man, is my tush sore!
We had reserved bikes the day before when the weather forecast promised no rain. But on the day of the ride, as the owner of the bike shop drove us out to our launch point, it started to rain. How was I going to do a four-hour bike ride in the Irish rain? Irish rain, as the locals call it, is that fine, non-stop rain that you can barely perceive is falling. It’s more like a hovering mist, or a cloud descended to earth. It penetrates everything, makes you wonder when it was that you were last dry, and sends you scurrying for the nearest pub with a fire going in the hearth. Miracle of miracles, the rain subsided during the 45-minute van ride and the black clouds kept their distance for the remainder of the day.
the bog
a fixer-upper with a view
roadblock
tide’s out
Why do I love these guys so much?
We couldn’t have done it if it hadn’t been such a level ride—love these rails-to-trails conversions! Well, level until we were seven miles from the finish line. Newport must have been the town where railway service ended, or diverted to some place other than Westport, because the ride from Newport to Westport was relentless downhill plunges and uphill struggles while simultaneously navigating 90° turns—nothing a train could ever negotiate. Think about it: It’s impossible to gain downhill momentum for the uphill climb when you have to turn a corner at the bottom of the hill. So, I have to confess, there may have been a hill or two or three that we walked, but in our defense, the terrain was so hair-raising in parts that signs insisted cyclists dismount and walk it. We didn’t need to be told twice.
a wee swally for a job well done
All in all, it was a great ride, and we’re very glad we did it. After all, knees can be replaced, right?
We were having lunch in a pub on our first day exploring Killarney when I overheard snatches of a weather report on TV: Storm Hannah…drenching rains…hurricane-force winds. “Here?” I asked Marcus. I know it rains a lot on the Wild Atlantic Coast, but hurricane-force winds? We checked it out online when we got back to our cottage in Kenmare. Sure enough, the next day was going to be a good one to be indoors. Sounds like a day off.
the unspoiled Beara hills
When you travel for three months, you need to take a day off from sightseeing at least once a week. Laundry needs to be done, bills need to be paid, yoga needs to be practiced, and, if we’re going to continue to enjoy our travels, downtime needs to be savored. Every now and again, you just need a break.
the Wild Atlantic Coast of Beara
One of my tasks for the day was to map out the weather for the next few days. I had three day-trips in mind, so I checked the forecast for each location. Two of the three were going to be ugly the following day, so by default the Beara Peninsula was our next destination.
Eyeries
There are three fingerling peninsulas that jut out into the Atlantic on the southwest Irish coast. From south to north, they are the Beara; the Iveragh, where the ever popular Ring of Kerry is; and the Dingle, which is growing rapidly in popularity with tourists looking for a little less traffic than Iveragh offers. There wasn’t much in the guidebook to recommend Beara, but it started popping up in conversation with the locals we’ve talked to about our itinerary. “Are you going to visit Beara then? Ah, it’s grand. Very unspoiled and quiet.” I began to sense that it’s where the Irish travel to get away from the tourists. After spending Easter Week in the resort town of Cobh, Beara sounded refreshing. But most importantly, on the day after the storm it was the only place on the west coast where the sun was expected to shine.
as the Greeks would say, many sheep upon the water today
Hannah ushered in a cold front, and the day after her visit the temperature as we left Kenmare was 40 degrees. No sweat (literally), as long as it’s not raining. We drove down the north side of the Beara peninsula, along the Kenmare River—a collection of cute little fishing villages linked by the longest, windiest road in Europe, so they say. The river is more like a long bay between two peninsulas. We could see the Iveragh Peninsula across the way. I could imagine all the Ring of Kerry tourists, climbing down off their tour buses and gazing back at us from the other side. I waved into the haze.
the southwestern tip of the Beara Peninsula
But the most amazing views of the entire drive were at the far end of the peninsula. We rounded a bend in the road and descended a steep hill toward the village of Allihies. Nothing but mountains, farms, and the Wild Atlantic. We were blown away.
It was a gloriously sunny day, and I wanted to be outside. I had read about a cliff walk in the nearby town of Ardmore. There are no two words in the English language more compelling together than “cliff” and “walk,” are there?
kayakers in Ardmore Bay
We stopped in the town of Lismore first, walked around a bit and had lunch. Then we drove on to Ardmore. It was 3:30 in the afternoon by the time we got there. We drove to the spot that Google Maps identifies as the trailhead. A hotel? We drove into the long, narrow car park, but couldn’t find an available spot. Obviously we were not the only ones wanting to get outside on this beautiful day. We wiggled our way back out and snagged a spot on the street where a car was just pulling out. Score!
and other sun seekers
We were walking back toward the hotel when I spotted a sign pointing up the hill that read “Cliff Walk.” How fortuitous! We trudged up the hill.
As is typical, we’ve found, there were no further signs. We saw a local woman walking her dog and asked if we were on the path to the cliff walk. She looked at us, confused for a second, then said, Yes, they’ve plowed up a field, but you can take the next street.
Kinda vague: Field? Street? Maybe it will be obvious when we get there. We walked on.
at world’s end?
We spotted several plowed fields, multiple streets, and a castle-looking building that appeared to be at world’s end. Perhaps it’s on a cliff! We tried to get to it, but every street led to a plowed field that blocked our path. “If the next street doesn’t lead to a cliff walk,” I told Marcus, “we’re giving up.” Twenty minutes later we were returning to the car.
As we came back down the hill, I had a thought. “I’m just going over to the hotel for a minute.” I had seen something at the end of the car park that I want to check out. There was a path marked “St. Declan’s Hermitage.” No mention of a cliff walk, but maybe… I started down the path, and, sure enough, it led beyond the hermitage to some cliffs overlooking the Celtic Sea.
I ran back to get Marcus. It was 4:30 by this time. We had no idea how long the path was. Should we just call it a day? Of course not! Have I taught you nothing? [Backtracking in the Wicklow Mountains]
cliff diving
I would like to say that, confident in our decision, we walked with abandon, but that’s not us. At every bend in the path we stopped to reassess: What time is it? Should we turn back now? Is it getting dark? (We have an obsession with time, and a tendency toward overthinking.)
just to the next ridge…
Fortunately, every bend revealed something intriguing that propelled us to the next one until we had completed the entire walk. It took us 35 minutes to walk out, but only 15 to return. And we still had hours of daylight ahead of us.
The Deep Creek loop, just inside the Great Smoky Mountains National Park near Bryson City, North Carolina, is a great hike that takes you past three small waterfalls. Each fall is not remarkable in terms of height, but is pretty in its own way.
hellbender salamander
These hellbender salamanders, known locally as “snot otters,” are found throughout western North Carolina. This one is approximately 15 inches in length, but they can grow to about 30 inches. They have a frilly skin that ruffles as they move through the water, earning them the additional nickname “lasagna lizards.”
Indian Creek Falls
undercut
Love these undercut banks along the trail! There’s a lot going on here, a veritable forest in microcosm. Looks like the perfect home for woods fairies!
Juney Whank Falls–you gotta love the name!
fill ‘er up!
The rain held off (barely) while we hiked, but started up when we sat down for a picnic lunch afterward. Fortunately Marcus brought a tent with him. Roughing it in the Smoky Mountains!
We hesitated to spend the $15 per person admission price for this museum just south of Bend. $15 is not much for a quality museum, but you never know how good a local museum is going in. (I’ve long ago given up trusting online ratings.) But there was this ominous note on my typed travel itinerary: “Do it!” In red font. With the exclamation point. Can’t remember what motivated me to add that, but you can’t argue with that kind of message, so we went. And it was worth every penny.
Here’s what we liked.
Outstanding exhibit on the history of Oregon’s High Desert, including the portion of the Oregon Trail that ran through it. This is where the oxen and mules started to die from exhaustion and lack of food and water. Families who brought more than one wagon had to consolidate their belongings into one. Out went the cast iron stoves, furniture that had been in the family for generations, and other large items they had hauled for thousands of miles. Some families had to dispense with even functional, daily items like pots and pans and clothing. The High Desert was where the Oregon Dream began to fall apart for many.
abandoned dreams
Rescued animal presentations. Tumbleweed, the porcupine, was happy to share his lunch hour with us, eschewing the non-seasonal apple to chew on the more autumnal choices of pumpkin and parsnip. Does he know something we don’t know?
Tumbleweed
The river otters were absolutely delightful! They began a dizzying game of Follow-the-Leader throughout their newly constructed habitat—under the water, into their den, out the back exit to their island, back into the water, rolling onto their backs, diving underwater, then heads back up to see if the wildlife presenter was ready to dispense with some of the smelt treats she had for them.
Is it time for lunch?
Roaming through the 135-acre property, we came across several High Desert habitats: desert (of course), cultivated farm, stream, pond, forest—each habitat diverse and beautiful in its own way.
pond habitat
Also loved the exhibit on prehistoric buzzsaw sharks (What???) Never heard of these guys before. Artistic renderings of these ancient fish, based on fossils of their buzzsaw-shaped jaws found in Idaho, Australia, and China, are incredible. The exhibit on the WPA art projects—architecture, paintings, sculpture, literature, and theater—was fascinating as well, especially to consider how deeply the people of Oregon were affected not only by the training and employment of artisans during the Depression, but also by the enjoyment derived from their works.
Dual sculptures, Blanket Stories, by artist Marie Watt emphasizes the importance of storytelling in past and current American cultures. First she stacked blankets donated by Oregon residents in a column almost reaching the ceiling, each with its own story written on a tag attached to the blanket. Fascinating to read about the people who created them or the mysterious circumstances by which they came to be in the possession of the donors. Then she carved a rendering of her blanket column in pine, reminiscent of a Native American talking stick used in council meetings.
people starting to line up along the red carpet to see the stars
We drove into the Basque province of Guipúzcoa to see San Sebastián, or Donostia as they call it in the Basque language. It’s really quite the cosmopolitan city; in fact, there’s an international film festival going on there now. It’s a beautiful oceanside city just a hop, skip, and a jump from Biarritz, France.
We did a little shopping, ate a few pintxos (the Basque equivalent of tapas), drank a little txakoli (local white wine), and thoroughly enjoyed just wandering all over the city.
Getting to Salamanca was easy because we are staying across the river from the Old City. This is a university town and I like to sleep at night, so we opted for a hotel away from all the fracas. And what a good decision it was!
To begin with, it was so nice to have a lot where you can park for free. And the accommodations were so clean and spacious – plush linens, a king-size bed, two sinks in the bathroom, and a fantastic view of the old city! Thank you, hotels.com! We were a little concerned about the prospect of breakfast, however, since we couldn’t fix our own and breakfast is often ignored in Spain. We opted out of buying breakfast at the hotel (coffee, tea, and a few rolls for about $20 each). We called room service and asked how much for just coffee and tea: $6 for the both of us. And it came with churros. (More on churros later when I have a chance to try the national drink: hot chocolate, which always comes with churros for dipping.)
It turns out that there is a feria, or festival, going on in Salamanca now. All throughout the Old City food booths sponsored by local restaurants are offering their signature tapas and beverages at a nominal cost. Normally we avoid crowds, but we were hungry, so we headed across the ancient Roman Bridge to get to the old city.
The food booths were everywhere, but most were closed as it was still siesta (yes, they still close most businesses from about 1:30 until 4:00). We explored the city a bit, found the center – the Plaza Mayor – and sat and had a snack while we watch the sound check for a concert setting up on a stage at one end of the plaza. After watching many of Ben’s sound checks, we were amused at this one. It took them forever to check the mics for each instrument, and when they were done with the individual checks and put them all together, there were several instruments you couldn’t hear.
the feria food booths
We got bored with that and took off through the city again. This time most of the food booths were open and we enjoyed several. When we could hear the music start up again in Plaza Mayor, we went back. The music was great, after tweaking the monitors a bit! It was traditional Spanish music (everyone knew all the words) with a bit of Gypsy or flamenco influence – very strong on the fiddle and accordion, as well as acoustic Spanish guitar. People were clapping in the syncopated rhythm that is so characteristically Spanish, and many were dancing. We had a great time, and didn’t get back to the hotel until around 11:00 – the latest we’ve been out so far. Maybe we will adjust to the Spanish clock after all! Regardless, it was wonderful to go back over the river to a hotel where we had the quietest night’s sleep since we’ve been in Spain. zzz….
