Nora Roberts's Travelogue of Ireland:
Ring of Beara—8/27/04
We set out to take a southerly route that would nip us back into Cork around a good part of the Ring of Beara. The day's cloudy, without a hint of the sun the weatherman promised, so it adds a nice moodiness to the ride. We go along the Kenmare River awhile, where contemporary houses have been built on the hill. I'd say these are large homes by Irish standards, but it's their gardens that are jaw-dropping. Huge ornamental shrubs planted cheek-by-jowl the way I like best. Dahlias that must be four-feet tall madly blooming, deep purple lobelia like hedges, fuchsia dripping over stone walls.
The area is full of inlets and coves, with gnarled knuckles and knobby knees of land poking out of the water. And the rough mountains backing it. This is just the spot for a large portion of the trilogy I've got circling in my head. And the thick, green woods we wind into caps it.
We drive through the green tunnel of forest, the sort of color and light that relaxes every muscle in my body. We curve and curve, skimming by hedgerows on my side, close enough to make me close my eyes and hope the god of tourists is watching.
We pause at an overlook, over water and hill, and there's a little spotted dog napping on the roadside. He stirs himself to come over to me for a rub and a chat. I wish he'd go home, and tell him so. I don't like him hanging out near the road. But he stretches out again, as if to say he knows what he's doing.
At some point, we've gone off the track--not unusual--and are threading our way down a skinny road. Just ahead of us, a car's stopped to ask two men at the roadside directions. Even as we slide up, they grin at us, and one points and says: Follow that car! So we do and make our way right again.
The hills and rocky ground is full of purple heather, yellow gorse, little waterfalls. When we're high enough to see fields, they're bisected with tall, scruffy trees that look to be lined up with a ruler. We come to a little harbor with bobbing boats, pass through the village of Eyeries, rightfully known for its charming painted houses. Pinks and purples and yellows and greens, cheerful and bright all through the town. It's there we cut across the land, stopping to visit a stone dance.
We park across the roadside from a little field with two horses. One, a paint, has its head over the gate. I walk up and he allows himself to be petted. I step back, and he pokes his head over more. So all right, another rub for you. When I finally walk on, he kicks with some annoyance at the gate. I wish I'd saved the core from my breakfast apple.
Through another gate, another field and lovely old stone circle. As I'm studying it, I don't see, until BW points out, the donkey having a lie-down a few feet away. The guard of the dance gets to his feet to mosey over, looks at me with his sad eyes. He gets a rub, steps closer yet. I spend my time in the dance with the donkey, who appears to have taken a shine to me. He approaches BW, gets a pet, then turns back to me. It's love.
Another couple come onto the field, and we start to leave. The donkey steps to the woman, who seems a little surprised and uneasy. So he deserts her to follow me like a puppy all the way to the gate. I'm sorry to leave him behind.
We drive on into Castletownbere, a good-sized fishing town on Bantry Bay. Lots of pubs and restaurants, considerable foot traffic though it's misting rain now. We have our lunch in a tiny place with crowded tables. I finally get some chips.
Poke into a market for a soda and some crisps to have in the car--emergency rations, just in case. We've come this way to have a look at the ruins of Dunboy castle, tucked well back on a little road through the woods. First up is the big shell of Puxley Castle. Apparently he was a mining baron, and the IRA burned him out in the 1920s. It's high on a hill overlooking the water, and fenced off from the public. Too bad, as it's a big, gray stone, eerie place. I'd like to have gotten a closer look.
But we travel down to the end of the road, park by a little inlet. Out of the woods, down a slope come a group of girls on horseback. They go straight into the water, some of them over their stirrups. And they're having a delightful time of it. In and out with the horses, calling and giggling. We leave them behind to climb up the same slope, and walk over the rough ground to the ruins of Dunboy. All that's left of this castle--overcome in the early 1600s by the Brits in a siege--are its low walls. You can see its size from them, and its shape. And I climb what's left of its zagging old steps to a mound, I see its stunning view of bay and woods. It's a good spot. The siege lasted weeks, and must have been horrible, but it's a good spot now, low and sturdy over the gray waters of Bantry Bay.
Our plan is to cut back again, into Kerry through Healy Pass and the Caha Mountains. We go wrong, backtrack, find our way. It's misting rain again, but the land here calls for mists and fog. It's awesome, like another planet with its rough, high rises and jutting gray stone. White dots become sheep as we get closer. Some of the outcroppings are thick spears slicing up through the ground, some are level as tables, worn from weather. There are dips and chasms--I wonder if there are caves--and everywhere enormous formations of rock as the mountains rise up to vanish in the fog. The narrow road ribbons through them, and the clouds smoke overhead. This land is far from gentle, not at all polite. It's wild and tough, and I imagine it could be mean. When we come to the top, and the overlook between the counties, I have trouble looking down. The road looks skinny as a thread, and the car or two making the journey smaller than Matchbox toys.
And this I see, is the spot I need for the climax of the projected trilogy. This exactly, the hard, treacherous beauty is the spot for bloody battle.
The ride home from there is calm and pretty after the otherworldliness of the pass. The sun even comes out strong enough to cast shadows--for about a minute and a half. It's misting again by the time we turn into our little gates.
We end our day with a drink in our room and discuss dinner. We want Italian, and after some research find Kenmare has one Italian restaurant. Its name is Gaelic--An Leath Phingin--I have to look that up. We toddle on into town--I've weedled BW into going in just early enough for me to hit one shop. A little more Christmas shopping in the bag. And I find a football (soccer to us Yanks) jersey for Logan. Adorable! Grandda doesn't like the one that comes in Kayla's size, so we'll find her one elsewhere.
It's raining hard now, so we rush down a few doors to our dinner spot. It's two levels, and the first is small, crowded with a half dozen tables. The walls are stone, the lighting charmingly dim, and the air smells gorgeous.
We've made a booking, which turns out to be lucky for us, as before long we see people being turned away. At least twenty more who come through the door after us are told they're full for the evening. Once we sample the food, it's easy to see why.
Before we do, our ears are assaulted by an American woman at the table beside and behind us. She and her husband have hooked up with a Brit couple who ate beside them. The Yank female is loud, and never stops talking in a voice just short of a shout. I learn more about her than I care to, that they're from the Carmel area, that they've been in Ireland since the beginning of August, what she thinks of Barcelona and Madrid (Madrid's staid, iho) How they travel, where they travel, where they're going and when, and on and on and on. The little room throbs with her loud and steady yakking. In contrast, the Brit couple converses with them in polite, muted tones. By the end, I prefer being British.
When they finally leave into what's now become a downpour of rain, I imagine the entire restaurant sighing with relief. BW enjoy our meal--tortellini for him, pizza for me--in the comfortable and normal chatter of the restaurant. The food's just wonderful--and we decide we'll come again before we head to Clare, and make sure we book well in advance.
We thought we might end the evening with some music in a pub. But the rain's hard, and the two closest aren't doing traditional that night. So we go home, ask to have the fire lit, get out of our damp clothes and watch the day's Olympic highlights. It was a pleasure to watch the American boys sweep the 200.
Today is a lazy day. I'm going to work out shortly, take a swim. Have a facial later. Then we'll see what we're up for.
Nora
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