Once upon a time there was an Irish giant named Finn MacCool, or Fionn mac Cumhaill as he called himself in his native language. Finn wasn’t a Jack-in-the-Beanstalk kind of giant. He didn’t eat little children. Nor was he an ogre. He was pretty much a happy-go-lucky kind of guy, just very large. Finn used his hunting and warrior skills to fight evil, for the most part, but occasionally also took care of a few items on his own agenda, as is a giant’s prerogative.
When Finn was a boy, he trained under the druid Finnegas. Finnegas had spent seven years trying to catch the Salmon of Knowledge, a wonder of a fish that lived in the River Boyne and had become all-knowing by living off the hazelnuts of a holy tree. Whoever ate the Salmon of Knowledge would gain from it all the knowledge of the world.
While Finn was under the druid’s care, Finnegas finally caught the fish-of-all-fish. He told Finn to cook it for him, which he did while Finnegas eagerly anticipated his eye-opening meal. But while cooking, Finn burned his thumb and instinctively put it in his mouth, thereby tasting the fish and receiving its knowledge. Far from being angry, when Finnegas saw the light of knowledge in Finn’s eye he made sure Finn polished off every last bite of the salmon. Finn was able to call upon this knowledge in future confrontations with his enemies.
Finn decided to build a path of stepping stones across the twelve miles of water between Ireland and Scotland so he could easily cross without getting his feet wet. One day as he was working on it, he heard that a nasty old giant named Benandonner (definitely one of the ogrey kind) was looking for him. Knowing Benandonner was up to no good, Finn asked his wife Oona to help him hide. Oona dressed Finn as a baby and put him in a cradle. When Benandonner showed up, Oona told him Finn was away but was expected back at any moment. She offered Benandonner a griddle cake she was making. Unbeknownst to Benandonner, Oona had baked griddle irons into some of them. Benandonner took a bite, broke his teeth, and howled like a baby. Oona made fun of him, calling him weak. She fed a cake (without metal in it) to her “baby” who, of course, gobbled it down quite easily. Benandonner, afraid of what the father of this monster-child must be like, decided to clear out before Finn got home. He fled across the causeway to Scotland, destroying it as he went so that Finn couldn’t follow him.
The Giant’s Causeway is a geological wonder of over 40,000 interlocking basalt columns created by the slow cooling and shrinking of lava flows under the sea over 60 million years ago. It is like nothing I have seen before.
This crazy, curious landscape, and the engaging legend the Irish created centuries ago to explain it, is what brought me to Northern Ireland. The rest is icing on the cake.
After we crossed the border into Northern Ireland, we drove the few miles of farm road to Derry and parked the car in front of our new home-from-home for the week. Well, we did use it once or twice during the time we were there. One gorgeous day, we took to the road to find the church where my great-grandfather was baptized. Cumber Upper is a wee, bucolic town just ten miles south of Derry.
“Miles?” Marcus asked. “Why are you giving me the distance in miles? You’ve always given me distances in kilometers.”
“For some reason, Google Maps is now giving me distances in miles,” I replied.
That should have been our first clue.
On another day we had to drive to Derry airport to return our second rental car and pick up a third. (For car insurance coverage through our credit card, we can only rent a car for 30 days at a time. Before the 30-day period is up, we have to return one car and rent another; otherwise, we’d have no coverage.) This was another ten-mile drive, but this time along a major thoroughfare.
“Why are these drivers riding my bumper?” Marcus asked. “I’m driving the speed limit.”
I looked in the sideview mirror. There were several cars queued up behind us. One guy passed us and honked, albeit politely. What gives? City drivers! we decided. Always in a hurry to get places.
At the end of the week we checked out of our Derry apartment and started our 60-mile drive to our next destination on the County Antrim coast. We weren’t far into the trip when traffic started piling up behind us again.
“I won’t drive over the speed limit,” Marcus insisted. “I’ve been told by several people that the police here won’t hesitate to pull over a rental car for speeding.”
Why didn’t we have this problem “down south”? I pondered. Why is it just since arriving in Derry? “Hang on a sec. Let me check something.” I pulled out my phone and googled: Are the speed limits in Northern Ireland in mph? Answer (from Wikipedia): Speed limits in Northern Ireland are specified in miles per hour. Those in the Republic use kilometres per hour.
Oh, my! We’ve been driving 60 kph (37.5 mph) in a 60-mph zone! 80 kph (50 mph) in an 80-mph zone! Neither Fodor’s nor the road atlas we picked up, both of which cover both countries, thought to mention this. It’s a wonder people haven’t been making rude gestures as they pass. Obviously, Irish drivers are very patient and kind.
And we thought crossing the border was seamless. Who knew?
Cumber Upper, Co. Derry, where my great-grandfather was from
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?
Fifty-eight degrees outside, no rain, although it’s pretty overcast. No wind to speak of. We’re going to Glenveagh! And just in the nick of time. Tomorrow our Glenveagh weather window slams shut as we head into Northern Ireland, and it’s bye-bye to the Republic until it’s time to fly home in a few weeks. We spent two long, wet days trying to keep ourselves busy in an area where there’s not much to do indoors. But we are very fortunate in our extended travels to have time to sit and wait for the weather to improve. I’d rather bide my time indoors than hike in the rain.
Glenveagh is our fifth national park of the six in the Republic. We won’t get to the sixth, unfortunately. We bypassed it in County Mayo on our way through. A bit too remote to get to easily and nothing much to say for itself.
no boundaries
Many of the loughs (lakes) and rivers here in Ireland don’t have banks per se. The land adjacent to them is relatively flat and is therefore easily flooded, especially after a good rain. Lough Veagh, on the day we visited, occasionally nudged our path from the visitor’s center to Glenveagh Castle.
a wet, woolen blanket of moss and lichen
The moss and lichen were so full of rainwater from the past two days that they dripped steadily where they overhung the rocks.
the gate to the castlethe Adairs’ humble abodeview from above and behind
Glenveagh castle was built in the early 1870s by Irishman John George Adair whose money came from risky land speculation in the US. After making his fortune, he and his American wife settled in Ireland. They fell in love with the landscape around Lough Veagh, after visiting the area, and started buying land. The castle was meant to rival Queen Victoria’s Scottish castle Balmoral, although it’s much smaller.
icing on the lake
By late afternoon, rain was threatening again. As the wind picked up, it smoothed the surface of Lough Veagh like icing on a cake.
So good to get some fresh air and stretch our legs today—finally!
Fifty-six degrees outside, non-stop rain, wind gusts up to 20 mph. Day Two of sitting out the rain.
No fire today. We almost depleted our host’s supply of coal yesterday.
I’m getting antsy. Time to get out of the house. We need one thing at the store. We plan our day around it.
We drive to the store. Buy what we need. Nothing new on the shelves since yesterday….
We check out the weekly farmers’ market even though we don’t need fruit or veg.
We discover a 2€ store (like our dollar stores) on the corner. We walk up and down the aisles looking at everything. We buy a pack of ginger snaps.
Back outside in the rain. We ask a vendor at the farmers’ market if he can recommend a good pub in town. The Shamrock Inn. Great. Thanks. Cheers!
People in Donegal are very friendly, much more so than anywhere else we’ve been. Every local who strays into the pub greets us. We see a guy get off a bus outside the pub and come in. This guy—let’s call him Paddy—is obviously a regular. Everyone in the pub knows him, and he has his regular seat at the bar. (The guy who had been sitting there got up and moved as soon as he saw Paddy come in the door. Maybe we should call him Norm.) Paddy tells Marcus that he lives in Dunfanahy, a slightly larger village ten kilometers away. Apparently their pubs don’t open until 3:00, so he takes the bus over to avail himself of a pub that opens at noon. Every day? We don’t ask, but I’m guessing the answer is yes.
Paddy informs the pub that today is Clint Eastwood’s 89th birthday. Marcus proposes a toast to Clint. Toasting all around.
After about an hour of chit-chat, Paddy gets up. Time to catch the bus back to Dunfanahy. He walks over to our table and presents us with a bag of Tayto crisps (potato chips). He tells us they are the best in Ireland, and he wants to give us a gift from Ireland. I almost cry, it’s so genuine and sweet. I sniffle into my Tayto bag and think of my great-grandmother who lived just 40 miles from where I sit but emigrated in 1851 during the Great Potato Famine. What would she make of Taytos?
We go home and fold a load of laundry. Immediately the walls of the cottage start to press in.
But! Today is Friday, and the pizza restaurant opens at 5:00. I check email, again. Play a couple of games of solitaire. At 5:00 we’re standing at the door with raincoats on.
There’s a parking spot right outside the restaurant, welcoming us. A sign at the curb: Trad Music tonight 6:00. Traditional Irish folk music. This is a really big deal, and not just for tourists. The Irish love their trad music. We walk in and score the last empty table in the place. Marcus orders pizza and beers while the pub fills up with locals. SRO. We settle in for some good ol’ Irish craic (fun). Things are looking up!
Fifty degrees outside, non-stop rain, wind gusts up to 25 mph. We’re in Falcarrick (Falcarragh, in Irish, meaning The Crossroads, and that’s about all it is) in northern County Donegal for three full days. Our solitary goal: to spend one day at Glenveagh National Park. The other two days are weather buffer. Turns out, we may need them.
Day One of sitting out the weather: Marcus made a nice coal fire in the fireplace to keep us toasty all day. Removing slippers and socks for yoga practice is now possible. Yoga in front of the fire. Sounds cozy, doesn’t it? By the end of our practice, I am sweating profusely. Does this qualify as hot yoga?
A day off every now and again is a good thing. Even though we just took one three days ago, also because of the weather? In the deluge in the southern part of County Donegal. Waiting for an opening in the weather window so we could hike Slieve League. We eventually prevailed, but it was our last day in the area. That’s cutting it a little close. If the weather hadn’t cleared, would we have hiked it in the rain? I don’t think so.
And now we wait in northern County Donegal. I pay the bills. Do laundry. Start this blog. Send some emails. Read a little.
Marcus goes out for pizza. He drives ten kilometers to the only pizza restaurant in northwest Donegal. It’s only open Friday through Sunday. Today is Thursday. On the way back he stops by the grocery store, which is smaller than most 7-Elevens. Buys some steaks and salad fixings. Cooks at home.
Overall, Mother Nature has been very generous with us on this trip, as long as we’re patient and don’t demand perfect weather on any given day. She appreciates a window and has, so far, complied. The rain is now blowing sideways. It looks like we may lose this one.
…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.
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!
See the sign in the grass to German pilots during WWII?
Eire, meaning: This is neutral Ireland, not England. Please do not bomb us.
Don’t know what this was…
…but Marcus had fun playing with it.
Watch tower from the Napoleonic Wars on right ridge.
Get a load of those horns!
lighthouse
the mountain
Love the coves!
Love the caves!
reflection of clouds on the water
lake + ocean
Those colored jackets on the trail in the center are as far as we got.
* 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!
We’re now in County Sligo (SLY-go), William Butler Yeats country. We enjoyed an excellent exhibit on his life and works at the National Library in Dublin. A prolific poet and playwright, he was one of the founders of the Abbey Theatre in Dublin, still going strong more than a century later. In 1923 he was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature. That’s some kudos.
Although born in County Dublin and raised in both Dublin and London, Yeats spent his childhood summers at his mother’s family home in County Sligo, a place he came to consider his “country of the heart.” His dying wish was to be buried in County Sligo, under the watchful eye of Benbulben, his favorite mountain. And he was, in the cemetery at St. Columba’s Church in Drumcliff, six kilometers from the foot of the mountain.
Today we walked a trail that circled the forest at the western foot of Benbulben, and I too was blown away by this stunning mountain. It changes appearance at every angle, and each vantage point tells a different story.
For this blog, I had to pare down the number of photos Marcus took of the mountain, for the sake of brevity. Of the 73 he was happy with after his edit, I selected an essential forty. Still too many. It was painful, but I ended with a strong sixteen.
Marcus will take thousands of photos on an extended trip like this one. On each little excursion, such as this walk, I will pull myself away from the beauty I’m taking in to ask him if he got a shot of this rock or that stream, the little path running up to the fold in the mountain? But I can tell by his smile that he’s already got it. We see things the same way, for the most part, but sometimes he sees things I miss. And vice versa. I always eagerly await his next batch of photos so I can immerse myself all over again—and possibly discover something from an unexpected angle. And he anticipates every blog, reliving our adventures and perhaps encountering a perspective he hadn’t considered before.
This blog will become a treasured memory of a delightful day spent outdoors in an exquisite country. And the photos will pop up on our screensavers in the years to come, eliciting gasps of recognition and compelling us to take time out from whatever it is we’re doing to sit and take it all in again. We’re not only capturing images, both visual and emotive; we’re preserving moments in time to be enjoyed again later.
This is why we travel.
southern view of Benbulben
rounding the end
western view
from Storm Hannah in April: the entire root structure of this line of trees peeled up and back
Is it just me, or does her color scream mid-life crisis?
