Peace Bridge

Posted on June 13, 2019 by Cindy

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.

The Troubles

Posted on June 11, 2019 by Cindy

Free Derry, a Catholic-proclaimed no-go area for the British Army

I typed in the title to this blog and then stared at the empty screen. How can I explain to you what I’ve seen in Derry?

If you’re over 30, you’ve likely heard the words IRA, Belfast, and violence in the same sentence. But have you been following what’s happening in Northern Ireland over the years? I wasn’t. It was something I was going to look into one day, but never did—until now.

Before this trip, I couldn’t find a source on Northern Ireland’s Troubles that was intelligible to the uninitiated. They were heavy, scholarly works, and I couldn’t follow the morphing of paramilitary groups on both sides of the conflict as they split, tweaked agendas, and modified methods.

I knew Belfast wasn’t the only city in Northern Ireland to have troubles, but I didn’t realize how bad it was in Derry. On our first day in the city, we walked to the grocery store—right through the Bogside, the heart of the historic unrest. The murals were everywhere. I didn’t understand them, but the pain was obvious.

During our week, this is what I learned. It’s not comprehensive, but it’s a start.

In the 17th century, Scots were planted in Ulster to establish an English/Protestant base in an Irish/Catholic country. Protestants were given the political upper hand and managed to keep it, although greatly outnumbered by Catholics, through four centuries.
In the 20th century, the Catholics were still stuck in the bogland because the Protestant government thwarted every effort they made to improve their lives.
- Unemployment was as high as 20%, yet new factories were built elsewhere.
- The Protestant-controlled housing authority made it almost impossible for Catholics to obtain new housing because voting laws granted only one vote per residence. Multiple generations under one roof had only one vote. Business owners and owners of multiple properties (Protestants, for the most part) were awarded one vote per residence or business.
- Gerrymandering was rampant to prevent Catholics from diluting Protestant voting precincts.

Essentially, Protestants controlled Northern Ireland’s parliament and government agencies and were attempting to frustrate Catholics to the point of emigration—either to the Republic or abroad. By the 1960s, Catholics were still here and still fed up. They began to organize non-violent demonstrations patterned after Gandhi and Martin Luther King, Jr. To the shock of the world, their peaceful protests were met with bullets.

In 1972 the atrocities in the Bogside reached a peak on Bloody Sunday. Fourteen unarmed protesters were shot and killed—and many more wounded—while fleeing from British soldiers or helping the wounded. Official reports claimed they were armed. Early investigations found the deaths justified.

In 2010 a twelve-year investigation found that none of the victims was armed, and none of the deaths was justified. David Cameron, UK Prime Minister at the time, apologized to the families of the deceased on behalf of the British government. There are many more investigations in the works, and many more wounds to heal.

As difficult as it is, it’s time to own up, forgive, extend a hand, and move forward in peace. Northern Ireland has suffered long enough.

Derry-Londonderry

Posted on June 8, 2019 by Cindy

Derry or Londonderry? Irish or British? Nationalist or Unionist? Catholic or Protestant? It’s complicated.

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.

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.

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.

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

Slipping over the border

Posted on June 7, 2019 by Cindy

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.

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?

Glenveagh National Park

Posted on June 5, 2019 by Cindy

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.

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.

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.

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!

Getting out

Posted on June 4, 2019 by Cindy

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!

Let’s see what tomorrow brings.

If I lived in Ireland…

Posted on June 1, 2019 by Cindy

…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.

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

Posted on May 31, 2019 by Cindy

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!

Benbulben

Posted on May 30, 2019 by Cindy

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?
Check out those folds!
grass like corduroy
one of many casualties of the storm
into the woods
the mountain beckons
Goodbye, old friend, until later…

Irish fjords

Posted on May 25, 2019 by Cindy

The day before we left Galway, I got my hair cut. That’s always a potentially traumatic experience on the road, but I found someone I liked. She gave me her mobile number so I could text her at home on a Sunday to make an appointment, for crying out loud, what’s not to like? So while we were chatting as she snipped away, she asked me where we were off to next.

“Westport,” I answered.

“Oh, Westport!” she gushed. “That’s where we go when we want to get away from Galway.” Get away from Galway? Why? We love this city. “Be sure to stop at Killary Harbour on your way. The fjord is beautiful.” Fjord? In Ireland???

Yes, Ireland does have fjords, it turns out. Three of them. And one is Killary Harbour. I thought fjord was a Scandinavian word for a long, narrow inlet or bay. According to my research assistant, however, a fjord is not just a foreign word but also a geological phenomenon. During an ice age, as the rapid accumulation of snow and ice compacts and forms a glacier in a river valley, the weight of the glacier eventually causes it to slide down the valley toward the sea. The V-shaped river valley is carved wider and rounder, into more of a U-shape, by the glacier. At the end of the ice age, the warming climate causes the glacier to melt and the ice effectively recedes back up the valley as the glacier gets smaller.

When the glacier starts to recede, moraine—that rocky rubble that the glacier has been chiseling off the valley floor and walls and pushing down the valley—is deposited at the lower end and forms a sill or lip to the basin that it’s carved out. Seas rise as glaciers melt, and eventually they rise higher than the sill and flood the basin, creating a fjord. Non-fjordal inlets are the more V-shaped, river-cut valleys that weren’t rounded out by glaciers and don’t have sills that a glacier would leave behind. And there endeth the lesson, as Sean Connery would say.

We didn’t have time for a boat trip into the fjord, but we did stop at a lay-by to watch the boats go by and absorb the beauty.

Get a load of those rhododendrons! I stood mesmerized in a sea of deep pink. My guess is we passed through at peak bloom. Now that, my friends, is beautiful countryside and another serendipitous moment, all because I needed a haircut.

Spinning Compass

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