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 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.
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 fieldspeat, 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.
We were driving from the Cliffs of Moher through typically Irish, rolling, green pastureland on our way to our next stay in Galway when we came across this. Are we still in Ireland? What sort of geological mash-up is this?
the Burren, up close
This is the Burren (in Irish, Boireann or “great rock”) Great rock, indeed. Weird rock, as well. The limestone “pavement” has been eroded into large rectangles, or clints, with long, narrow fissures, called grikes, between them where the softer rock has eroded away. So weird that the rock eroded along gridlines!
clints (blocks) and grikes (grooves)
Today we hiked in Burren National Park, our third of six national parks in the Republic of Ireland. I had to get out in it and see it up close. We chose a short loop-walk to the monastic site of St. Cronan. And guess what I discovered there. My first holy well! St. Cronan’s Well. Who knew?
Sure enough, there was a shrine to St. Cronan next to the well and faded strips of cloth hanging from tree branches overhead. [Serendipity] I felt like I had just won a scavenger hunt I hadn’t realized I was playing. Now I understand one reason people go in search of the wells; they’re spiritual geocaches. The thrill of the hunt may be what gets people out there, but it’s even more fun finding something you didn’t know was out there to find!
an easy hike to St. Cronan’s monastic site
well, maybe not such an easy hike after all
cow playgroup
“grass growing in turfs of earth…that lie between the rocks”
crossing the wall “in stile”
St. Cronan’s church
St. Cronan’s well!
a standing stone at the well
look carefully for strips of cloth hanging in the tree branches
In the 17th century, English Parliamentarian Edmund Ludlow, who served under Oliver Cromwell in Ireland, observed that the Burren “is a country where there is not enough water to drown a man, wood enough to hang one, nor earth enough to bury him…… and yet their cattle are very fat; for the grass growing in turfs of earth, of two or three foot square, that lie between the rocks, which are of limestone, is very sweet and nourishing.”
in the grike
He is absolutely right. Rainfall disappears quickly into the grikes between the clints and makes its way into the limestone aquifers below. There is essentially no soil on the limestone pavement for living organisms to establish themselves. What grass and trees there are grow in small plots of soil between the clints, yet the grikes themselves are a haven for all manner of tiny plants from Mediterranean to alpine to arctic in habitat, all living side-by-side. They are miniature, terrarium-like ravines in a network of barren rock; I could explore them all day.
Very interesting terrain. Not at all what I expected. This, my friends, is exactly the reason I travel.
