Day Three: Saturday 29 May
Over breakfast at the next table in the Mount Vernon dining room, an American couple, on a whirlwind tour of Clare, plan their day’s activities.
She: ‘So where are we going today?’
He: ‘Ennistymon.’
She: ‘I thought we were there yesterday.’
He: ‘That was Ennis, today it’s Ennistymon – a different place.’
She: ‘Don’t you just love the cute names they all have?’
Ennis had failed to register on the Oregon woman’s Richter scale of Irish towns. This is at odds with the story on the front page of The Clare Champion under the headline: ‘Ennis a world-class tourist destination’. The article was about the fact that Ennis has been named as one of the world’s ‘great places’. It is on a par with Grand Central Station in New York, Nôtre Dame Cathedral in Paris and the Spanish Steps in Rome.
I drive into Ballyvaughan to start the second stage of my walk, parking on the Black Head road beside a bird hide. With a morning spring in my step, I watch a limpid sun rise slowly in the sky and, passing the hide, decide not to play peekaboo with the birds. I prefer my birds flying rather than laminated, so instead I let them see me flying over the limestone, warbling as I go with my rucksack bouncing on my shoulders, pacing my stride to the beat. My senses are tingling with the rhythm of the sentimental tunes from last night and ‘Nancy Spain’ plays in my head:
No matter where I wander I’m still haunted by your name.
The portrait of your beauty stays the same.
Standing by the ocean, wondering where you’ve gone,
If you’ll return again …
A lone heron in slow flight glides to land as if in appreciation of my singing. With forensic thoroughness, it picks and wades carefully through a messy tangle of shingle and seaweed. Holding its pose on lanky wire-thin legs, it then lifts, blowing briefly sideways in the wind before a swift gear change allows it to take off with a quiet ease looking like a miniature bit part from Jurassic Park.
Seen from the coast, the Burren hills have a beguiling radiance, music-softened (in my head at least) by the ethereal strains of the night before. The ground is richly decorated with spring sandwort, sea thrift and burnet rose. Several skylarks are out and about. A herd of jet-black cows grazes in the sun. Chewing ruminatively, two horses – a mare and a foal accompanied by a donkey – stand on a grassy spit of land that looks out to Farthing Rocks. It is turning into a crystal clear day and the glowing sun brings out the best in the shiny pewter stones.
An hour’s walk across boulder-strewn pavement and ankle-high grass suffused with bloody cranesbill, early purple orchids and gentians brings me to the townland of Gleninagh. Concentrating on the flora, I had not noticed that a billowing bank of cloud had scudded across the sky. Magpies, skylarks and two great-black-backed gulls vie in the air space. I step up my pace, and a brisk twenty-minute walk takes me to a spot where a high bank falls about 30m from the road. It is an out-of-the-way little-visited but attractive sheltered spot. Chinaman’s hats are embedded on the jagged, honeycombed rocks. A marine snail, better known as the common periwinkle, blazes a slow course along a slime trail. The high sides of the banks are festooned with a breadcrumb sponge and dripping velvety green moss the colour of Chartreuse liqueur. On a dark, pyramidal rock in the water, a cormorant stands, wings outstretched like a heraldic creature, while two others sail around it, gently riding on the incoming waves.
Just beyond this point I am forced on to the road as the steep, slippery and rocky drop into the sea deters me from trying to negotiate it. The positive effect of ten minutes of tarmac brings a bonus as masses of creamy mountain avens grow profusely along both sides of the road. Four women greet me with wide grins and trekking pole salutes. Hard on the wheels of a tour bus two kamikaze Kawasakis bank around the corner while I cling to the grassy verge holding tight to clumps of dryas. The elevation of the road provides a viewing point for gazing down into the sea where I pick out two black guillemots with striking red legs diving for fish and molluscs.
Holding a white and lonely vigil, Black Head lighthouse marks the point where my route swings sharply south. Across the wide expanse of ocean, the Aran Islands are visible. I reflect on Paul Valéry’s ‘long vistas of celestial calm’. A herd of beefy cows swish tails at me. They watch while I take a nip from my hip flask of Burren ‘tea’ to round off the 4 inches of baguette I have eaten and help wash my soup down with some authority.
Farther along I come upon a dancing wheatear, glowing in its cinnamon-grey, black and white plumage. Flying low in short spurts, it hops from clint to boulder perching every so often, looking around with a nervous demeanour and a trilling song. I have often been intrigued by its name which has nothing to do with wheat. The white flash above its tail comes from the Anglo-Saxon ‘whit-ers’, meaning ‘white arse.’ The bird’s name was later bowdlerised to something less offensive.
The afternoon sun is now casting cloud shadows on the hills. Black Head and the area south of it, Murrough, is where the Burren coastline meets the lines of tourists. A couple of redfleeced and red-faced Dutch visitors ask me to take their photo. It is an area rich in erratics streaked with lichen and intricately detailed drystone walls with exquisite fretwork. I clamber over several walls, dislodging and, swiftly obeying the Burren Code, replacing stones. As I ponder the power of the sea and the fact that these waves have travelled thousands of kilometres, I feel the salt on my lips, skin and hair. A mixed collection of ponies and donkeys graze quietly with a look of dull misery in their eyes. The limestone is part of a Special Area of Conservation with long, smooth, clear stretches of clints and overflowing fern-filled grykes.
After two hours of steady tramping I throw off my rucksack at a sheltered cliff spot and watch the waves in two-metre-high breaks of foamy spray rolling in, then retreating rapidly in swirls. Around the coast small cottages are dotted at intervals. My eye follows the swerve of the coastline towards Fanore still some distance away and the finishing point for today. It is a good place to watch the froth and backwash of the sea and listen to the elemental sounds. Lying on a soft clump of grass, I fall into a contemplative reverie letting the noises drift over me: the relentless suck and surge of powerful waves, the quiet sigh of the wind slipping through the rocks, bees burring, and a raven cawing above me, circling and looking down on the splash zone. This is a place to enjoy the tempestuousness of the sea. Like many parts of the west of Ireland, it is, in the words of Praeger, somewhere ‘you can listen to the sea shouting on the rocks’.
Up and down sand dunes filled with marram grass and sea holly, and along a high, narrow clifftop path, the final stretch leads to the wide curving expanse of Fanore beach. A handful of dog walkers cross it; three teenage girls paddle-giggle and then shriek their way out to the dissolving white wave crests. Two hardy body boarders successfully ride the frothing surf. It feels good to walk on floury sand after many hours of pavement, rocks and stones, although much more energy is required to walk on sand, compared to the limestone. My boots sink 5 or 6cm, leaving deep footprints along the strandline. Halfway across, I examine some delicate blue freckled seashells and watch the wave-trains rolling in rhythmically, then intermingling and overtaking each other. Globules of foam break loose on to the beach running along the sand. Two ringed plovers scamper around in circles. Listening carefully, I hear a low whistling across the grains of sand but cannot make out the tune. It sounds as though someone is blowing into a half-filled bottle.
The dune system at Fanore is classified as a European Special Area of Conservation and to protect it Clare County Council has fenced off areas at risk from trampling. Fanore beach, with its rash of attached caravans, marks the final stage of day three, but one further obstacle remains to be surmounted: a wide river flowing down in a temper tantrum across the sand, and running out to sea. The Caher River is several centimetres deep and as I do not want to end my day with wet socks and boots, I remove them and wade across, arm
s outstretched cormorant-like. I had not expected so much seaweed and stones underfoot, and slip several times before accidentally dropping my boots into the river.
Day Four: Sunday 30 May
Failte go Fanoir says the stone slab (erected by the St Patrick’s Day Committee in 2005) as I pull into the car park at the beach under a sky rinsed of cloud. The final stage of my coastal route takes me from Fanore along a lengthy stretch of pavement to Doolin. The Irish Cycling Safari minibus drops off its customers and ten lycra-clad, fat-bottomed bikers prepare to set off on their own Burren exploration.
I follow a rocky staircase that quickly takes me down to the seashore at Craggagh, passing large erratics shaped like rugby balls and small metre-high stone cairns. Unlike the smooth, flat type with neat, rounded angles, the pavement here is pitted and fissured, and has a scarred effect. Walking on the limestone is a delicate art because some clints are not firm, but even greater care is needed on the slippery, shattered pavement. Steps must be carefully placed and although it is hard to find an even gait, I eventually achieve a steady pace. Three schmoozing fishermen enjoy their rock-angling on this sun-spangled morning. From Poll Salach another wide stretch of pavement takes me through stimulating place names that communicate a sharp visual image: Cahermaclanchy, Ballyvoe, Ballycahan and Teergonean.
At Ballyryan a queue has formed at a hot-food bar. With clipboards, sketch pads, paint boxes and picnic baskets, a group of eighteen artists attempts to capture the texture of the rocks and clints on a weekend painting school. Heads down, hands capped behind their backs as though attending a prayer meeting or graveside oration, they listen to their tutor all ‘depth of field’ and instruction on the intricacies of horizontal dimensions.
Rock pipits dance around playfully and brown butterflies emerge as I make my way back to the seafront where recumbent cows gleam in haughty languor. The walking is now more stable with light scrambling to tackle some higher cliffs. The sea comes into a little cove and foams run up against the cliffs cascading over rocks. Two climbers below me search for handholds. I play a one-sided game of see-saw with an enormously unsteady clint and pause to look up at a giant erratic that looks as if it could topple into the sea at any moment.
I lunch perched on a boulder looking out to the Aran Islands with their low, slightly humped profile. The middle island, Inis Meáin, resembles the shape of an upturned currach. Save for the cry of the gulls and lapping water, there is no noise. Cranesbill, primroses, heath spotted-orchids and banded snails decorate the ground. I have gained some height through climbing and find myself in the company of fulmars. With their stiff wings like airfix model aeroplanes, they glide gracefully, banking, riding effortlessly on the updraught before swooping down. I admire their skilful movements. One treads air for a few seconds, glides close eyeing me suspiciously with a look and a brisk ack ack ack ack that I translate as ‘Have you permission to be here?’ I decide not to advance any nearer to the cliff face because fulmars are known for spurting a foul-smelling oily substance at intruders.
Within minutes, I come to a grassy section filled with scores of bright purple orchids. Standing tall and singly, or in groups of three or four, I attempt a head-count of extended families: 50, 100, then 200 and up to 500 – and although my census is unscientific – I discover a staggering number growing at this secluded spot. Zigzagging up a grassy slope, I negotiate a headland and confront more stone walls. Struggling to get a foothold, I fall back several times. I had come across holes in the walls called sheep creeps and silently wonder as I battled awkwardly over so many, how useful it would be to have a ‘walker creep’.
Half an hour across a mix of flat grass and clusters of Polo Mint style limestone brings me to Doolin harbour which has an edge-of-the-world feel. I arrive weather-beaten, stomach-rumbling, salivating and tramped out. Muscle-fatigue from the pavement bashing is setting in. I have collected toe blisters. For the second consecutive day I take off my boots and socks, and dangle my sore feet into the clear and surprisingly warm Atlantic. A sign warns ‘Dangerous Bathing’. Necklaces of foamy waves roll in. Two opportunistic black-plumaged jackdaws pick around a fishing box that is the property of Red Sail Exports Ltd. A gentle breeze gathers pace and dark clouds festoon the sky. A solitary heron looks for a fish supper. The goddess of the coast is looking after travellers and the threatened monsoon has not yet reached the west coast. I gaze out to Crab Island with its small stone coastguard hut. The Jack B ferry arrives from the Aran Islands efficiently discharging its cargo of rucksacked passengers. Doolin is overrun with backpackers, coach parties fresh from the Cliffs of Moher experience, Aran Island day trippers, and exhausted Dutch and German tourists. A twenty-minute amble along the Shore Road leads into the centre of the village. Apart from having to dodge the tour buses, walking again on the tarmac is a pleasure. The terra of the road is more firma than the pavement.
Doolin Nightcap
As I began my coastal odyssey in a pub, I feel it appropriate for symmetry’s sake to round it off in another one. Doolin offers a varied choice with banjo, mandolin, concertina, tin whistle, fiddle, accordion, guitar or any combination of them. The place is deluged with music, cascading out of the downpipes and the guttering, and flowing along the street every night. At weekends there are often two or three separate sessions. The Rough Guide to Ireland has described most of the music played in Doolin as ‘amplified garbage’.
To test this view, I arrive just in time in Gus O’Conner’s (established in 1832, according to a sign over the door), where an early-evening session featuring The Burrenmen is getting underway. Sure enough the music is piped into every room and amplified through large speakers. Three musicians seated around a table in the centre tune up on guitar, accordion and concert flute. A selection of jigs opens the proceedings: ‘The Old Grey Goose’, ‘The Cliffs of Moher’ and ‘Spot the Wallop’. Four New Englanders beside me, weighed down with craft and knitwear bags, applaud politely. Both couples are celebrating their ruby wedding anniversaries and clink thin-stemmed Irish coffee glasses. They discuss going for a ‘peet-sa’ but decide to stay and enjoy the music.
The Burrenmen have lost their lead singer, Tom, owing to a Sunday afternoon alcohol over-indulgence. He hangs his head silently, then opens one eye and closes it quickly. Several times his head tilts back before slumping sideways. Suddenly he wakes with a start, looking around, taking a gulp of beer and nodding off again. A petite blonde comes up to him, punching his stomach.
‘Open your eyes,’ she shouts several times. ‘Tom … Tom … open your voice box and give us a song.’
The bearded accordion player slaps Tom on the thigh and shouts: ‘We’re gonna dedicate this next reel to you – “The Teetotaller’s Fancy”.’
The Americans burst into laughter. One of them, Dick, whispers loudly to his wife, ‘I think he’s had too much strong licker.’
Dick is having such fun he decides to phone his friend in Boston to make him jealous. His wife shoots him a thirty-year weary glance.
‘Hey Joe, Kay-ad Mayllion Failties to you – that’s a million welcomes in Irish. You should get over here quick. We’re in Toolin in Kerry … fact it’s called O’Callaghan’s Bar and this is where the action is.’
‘Doolin,’ the barman shouts, frowning at his geographical stupidity and foaming at the mouth, ‘and it’s in CLARE.’ Then, sotto voce, ‘D for dickhead and we’ve a right one here. And it’s been O’Conner’s for a hundred-and-sixty-four bleedin’ years.’
The Burrenmen take a break. I pore over the map retracing the route of my energising journey. The infinite variety of terrain included limestone, grassland, tarmac, beach, sand dunes, walls, rocks, stones and pebbles. The sea is an integral part of life here. I had spent long hours and days walking alone with the sea as my only company, its daily dramas the perfect distraction. As I look back on my journey along the Burren littoral and its headlands, I ponder some valedictory thoughts about the history, flowers and animals. Reflecting on the highlights, I think of
how the land and sea, shaped by the forces of nature, fit jigsaw-like together. In my mind, I freeze-frame memorable moments: the playful seal colony gathered in a watery corps de ballet at Muckinish, the wheatears and rock pipits that accompanied me, the aerial display of the fulmar, and the slow movement of the mist. Add to this the lilt of the New Quay concertinistas, the bewitching beauty of the Ballyvaughan songsters, and The Burrenmen minus their songster.
These are amongst the sweetest sounds: the music of what happened, the sensation of being alive to small events. Raising my glass, I drink a symbolic toast to Our Lady of the Fertile Rock and to my American friends’ marital longevity. Through the crowded atmosphere, a selection of reels reignites interest. ‘The Maids of Holywell’ and ‘The Duke of Leinster’ flow from the group’s table. Sadly there are no songs. The lyrics to The Burrenmen’s folk tunes are unsung. As I have discovered, though, music runs through the veins of Clare men and women, a permanent soundtrack to their lives, but the coast itself has been my songline – the crash of the waves, the siren call of the wind, the whistling sand, the gulls’ cry, the happy clunk of the clints have all been a part of the intermingling of landscape and music. ‘Come West Along the Road’ brings my journey to a fitting conclusion as I mull over a strenuous and melodious weekend tuning into ceol na mara, ‘the music of the sea’.
Burren Country Page 15
