Peace Bridge

view of the River Foyle, between banks

Today we walked across the Peace Bridge, a beautiful foot and cycle bridge built in 2011 to commemorate the 1998 Good Friday Agreement that brought an uneasy, but workable, peace to Northern Ireland. The bridge connects Derry’s west and east banks.

The west bank is the historic part of Derry with its walled city and the Bogside. It’s predominantly Catholic and Nationalist, but not completely. (Nationalists want Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland to unite into one island nation.)

view of the west side, from the east side

The east bank is the newer part of the city and is mostly Protestant and Unionist, but not exclusively. (Unionists want Northern Ireland to remain part of the United Kingdom.)

view of the east side, from the west side

As you can see, the bridge connecting east and west is hugely symbolic.

I love the contemporary design. To me it says this peace is new and fresh. Forget past injustices, anger, and failed treaties. We are living in a different era now. Our eyes are on the future.

So, Marcus and I are walking across this bridge that is shared by east and west, pedestrians and cyclists. The deck of the bridge is curved and has two different surfaces. There’s a wider, paved path, and off to one side a narrower path made of metal slats that run contrary to the overall direction of the bridge. We discuss the two paths as we walk. Is the narrow path for bikes or pedestrians? we wonder. We decide it’s for bikes and the wider, larger path is for pedestrians because there are more of them. So we keep to the wide side, which is important to cyclists so they don’t have to brake or stop for pedestrians, and important to pedestrians so they don’t get run down by a bike.

Part way across the bridge, I notice our pedestrian side is getting narrower. The bike strip is intruding into the pedestrian space, effectively dividing it into two pedestrian paths. Eventually there is not enough room on either side of the bike path for two people to walk side by side. What do we do now? I wonder. Should I walk on one side of the bike path and Marcus on the other? Or should we walk single file on the same side? Either way, it would be impossible to have a conversation. I find myself getting annoyed. Why would the designers of the bridge intentionally divide the majority of its users and put them at a disadvantage?

Aha moment: Was this invasive cycle path design deliberate, to make a point?

By the time we get to the other bank, the cycle path has shifted all the way to the other side of the bridge deck, and we are once again enjoying a nice, wide pedestrian path…from a different vantage point.

Maybe I’m reading too much into this, as I’m sure most people just ride or walk wherever they want without a care in the world. Even so, that kind of peace of mind is priceless.

If I lived in Ireland…

Burtonport, County Donegal

…this would be my backyard. I just love this rugged terrain. Big, wide rocks almost submerged in the wild grass, scrubby gorse, vibrant rhododendrons, and dainty wildflowers. The front yard would be neat and trim, like any self-respecting Irish cottage. And the back would be mayhem.

This is the view I’d see out my back window each day. I’d stand and gaze at it for awhile, cup of coffee in hand, and then, unable to resist any longer, I’d grab my jacket and go out in it. The moodier the weather, the more dramatic the landscape. And on sunny days, I’d eat a picnic lunch in those ruins.

We had a nice little walk today in the almost-rain along a rails-to-trails path in Burtonport (Ailt an Chorráin—don’t ask, my Irish is not that good), County Donegal. We were in between cottages, having checked out of our snug little stay on the north shore of Donegal Bay, near Slieve League Mountain. Up next, a remote little village in the northwest corner of County Donegal, near Glenveagh National Park—our last Airbnb in the Republic.

peat or turf bricks

This is what peat looks like after brick-sized slices have been cut out of the bog. They’re left out on the grass to dry in the sun, then stored to use in the fireplace during the winter. From muck to fuel. Very resourceful. We’ve grown accustomed to the smell of a peat fire, but it does take a bit of getting used to. It smells a wee bit medicinal to me. (Have you tasted a peaty whisky? Tastes a bit like Bactine smells, doesn’t it? Yeah, not to my taste.) Most Irish people love a good peat fire because that’s what they’ve grown up with, as we love the fragrance of a good wood fire when the weather turns cool.

Despite my momentary fantasy, there is no real threat of me moving to Ireland. As beautiful as it is, I could never live here. Too cold and too damp for my blood. I’m beginning to wonder why I brought short-sleeved tops on this trip. My forearms haven’t seen the light of day since we left Florida. I really thought it would be over 60° by now. Today: a whopping 56° and incessant rain, which makes it feel cooler. There are flood warnings. We’re holed up in our new cottage, waiting for the weather to improve. We just may have to see the national park in the rain. Ah, well, the moodier the weather, the more dramatic the landscape, right? Yeah, well, don’t quote me on that.

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.