Slibh Liag

Slieve League Mountain

Slibh Liag, or Slieve League in English—Mountain (Slibh) of Flagstones (Liag). The highest cliffs in Europe at 1972 feet above the sea—yes, higher than the Cliffs of Moher, which, gorgeous though they are, are only a paltry 390 feet above sea level. The cliffs here are the entire mountain, and, just so you know, the vertical layers of rock really do peel off in flagstones.

We waited through two days of soggy weather in County Donegal* for a good hiking day. And then, on the way to Sliabh Liag, I twisted my ankle doing something as simple (stupid) as walking off-trail at some minor ruins (so minor there were no trails) that I really had no interest in seeing to begin with. I was just passing time. The ground was very uneven and the grass so long I couldn’t see where I was stepping. The sprain wasn’t bad, and we were able to hike a bit up the mountain with the help of supportive hiking boots, but not along the ridge to the summit as I had hoped.

As the Irish might say: Come along with us so and enjoy the walk. It’s a grand day to be outdoors!

* Bonus Irish/history lesson, for those of you learning Irish along with me: County Donegal is named after Donegal town, or Dún na nGall (dune-na-GALL), which means Fort (Dún) of the Foreigners (Gall) because the town had a Viking fort back in the day (8th century?).

When we were in Cork, we met a retired teacher of the Irish language who was fascinated to hear where we were going on our three-month tour of the island. When I mentioned Donegal, I pronounced it DON-a-gull, like the Americanized surname. He quickly corrected me, out of habit I’m sure, and explained the meaning of the name. I am so glad he did because 1) I find the historical derivations of the names fascinating, 2) the breakdown helps me understand the names of other places we are visiting, and 3) saying it the correct way is so much more fun.

We’re deep in An Gaeltacht (the Gaelic/Irish speaking part of Ireland) now. Go on, give it a try!

Connemara

view of Ballynakill Harbour and Barnaderg Bay from Diamond Hill

Connemara, the wild, remote wilderness of Irish-speaking Galway. Just the name conjures images of The Quiet Man, which was filmed not far away in east Galway. We looked forward to seeing what glories Connemara National Park had to offer. Reading up on it before we got there, we didn’t see anything mentioned other than a walk up Diamond Hill. Well, there had to be more than that. It’s a national park, for Pete’s sake, and one of only six in the country. We’d just go and see what else they’ve got.

Diamond Hill surrounded by typical Irish grassland

We asked at the visitor center and found that the hike up Diamond Hill really is all they have to offer. No exhibits in the visitors center. No informational plaques outside. Just a walk. 

An interesting note: No matter how taxing the hike, the Irish (and Brits too, we observed when we were in the UK) called them walks, as in a walk in the park. You can ascend 1200 feet over two hours (e.g. Diamond Hill) and it’s still called a walk, although they do acknowledge it’s a “strenuous” walk. That’s one difference between Americans and the Irish. In the US we’d be plastering bumper stickers on our cars saying “I climbed Diamond Hill.” In Ireland they tell their friends “I went on the loveliest walk this afternoon. It was grand.” I just love their understatement!

We opted out of the strenuous part of the walk, but hiked up far enough to get great views of Ballynakill Harbour and Barnaderg Bay, and it was still a good stretch in the fresh country air.

We started to encounter marshy wetlands.

And as we walked, we gradually began to realize something about the park that we hadn’t seen mentioned. The area surrounding Diamond Hill is all bogland. We noticed the reed-filled ponds and the lumpy tufts of grass that we had seen in Killarney National Park’s bog. After gaining a bit of altitude, we saw fields below us where peat was being harvested—the telltale plateaus of turf where vertical slices of peat were being removed like slivers of dark chocolate cake, one layer at a time. The water running in the streams was brown from the tannins leaching out of the peat. And much of the walk was on boardwalk to prevent people from walking on the bog and destroying the fragile habitat.

The color of the landscape changed from vibrant green to rusty brown.
multiple layers of turf in peat fields
peat, or turf, on the banks of this tannin-brown stream

The walk was a series of “aha” moments as we put it all together. Why hadn’t they said something about the bog, talked it up, showcased it for unenlightened visitors, used this beautiful park as an educational opportunity? Perhaps it was another case of Irish understatement. Just get out there and walk in it, and you’ll see what you see. Isn’t it grand?

Connemara ponies

This Connemara pony and her foal grazed amid the midges, annoying flying insects that will suck the blood out of your flesh and the wits out of your head. The mom’s tail was moving non-stop to keep them at bay, and her foal took refuge under her fan. Smart little lad!

Even Connemara lambs have horns. This one can’t be more than a few months old and already has quite a bit of growth.