Nora Roberts's Travelogue of Ireland:
County Clare—September 5, 2004
We set out this morning to travel first to the ruins of Dysert O'Dea, its church and round tower. The sun goes in and out, and you don't know from one minute to the next if it's going to be warm and sunny or cool and cloudy. It's a lovely drive in any case. We don't think we've been here since our first visit to Ireland, but remember the place as soon as we see it.
And I remember my boys being here with us, in the rain we could seem to escape on our first trip to Clare.
At the church, surrounded by a burial grounds, is a particularly marvelous arch carved with faces. It's breezy as we wander around. I hear birdsong, some Italian from a little family in the neighboring field that holds, I think, the ruins of the friary, and the very annoying mooing of a cow.
There are some gorgeous old headstones here, some covered with moss or lichen, as are the stone walls that serve as boundaries. There are views of green hills in every direction. We walk on, wanting to see the high cross in the next field and climb up the steps worked into the wall, then down again. I see the cow now, who's very unhappy to be separated from the herd who are grazing happily in our field. We follow the cow path to the cross, and it's a sure bet the cows have passed here not long ago, and that the grass must be very tasty. The pies are enormous and fresh.
The cross is simply brilliant, built on stone, carved, I think originally in the 1600s. The sun's come out, warm and pretty, and now I see why our cow has been separated. There's a little calf in with her. Days old at most.
As I walk over to the fence to have a closer look, a farmer is making his way down to them. The calf struggles to its feet, and I'm charmed and delighted to see it begin to toddle. Until I hear another, younger farmer call out to the older to ask if she's walking yet. His response is she's got trouble with at least one of her legs, and indeed I see she's keeping one up. I don't ask, as I'd been about to, how old she is. I don't want to know, as I think she won't be around very long.
But the farmer smiles over at me, says hello and remarks on the lovely day.
We drive on from there, stop by a ring fort on the edge of The Burren. The sun's gone in again, and I need my jacket.
Then it's on to the moonscape of The Burren. This area never fails to grab me with its weathered limestone slabs and scattered stones, its dolmens and great rocky hills. You come out of the green into this vast desert of rock and rough grass, and feel it's more ancient than time.
At one of the pull offs we're stopped when yet another trio of Italians ask us if we know where is the dolmen. I know they mean the bigger one, the one most photographed here--and the one we recall our Ruth ran out to see in the pouring rain when they were here with us.
We give them direction, then I see they're about to take a picture. I offer BW to take a shot of all three of them. They're handsome--two men and a woman, a couple and a friend or relative, and so delighted with the offer. We are so kind! Could we take one with each camera? I enjoy the brief meeting, and their enthusiasm for the area that enthralls me.
We drive the coast--a way we've never gone before, and end up at the gorgeous, wild, windswept point of Black Head. Galway Bay and The Atlantic spread out, pass the rock strewn beach, and the other side of the road climbs up, up, up, with those wonderful, pocked limestone slabs. I know right off this is the spot for the sorcerer in my embryonic trilogy. Through the clouds and distance, Galway and the islands are shadows and shapes. What a spot. I can climb up those rocks, and the wind is brilliant and fresh. Bits of heather grow here, and little purple spears of wildflowers, flashes of yellow, as someone survive to bloom here, as they do in the stingy soil of The Burren.
It's simply thrilling.
We come to the Cliffs of Moher, the back way from what we're used to. Stunning, just stunning, the way they drop off into the water, hacked off by some ancient axe. The land goes from barren, rocky, unearthly, to green fields and hills. Breathtaking.
We go onto Doolin from there, another spot we haven't been in quite some time. A blink of a town famed for its music. We stop at a pub, have some wonderful soup and chips, provided by a woman whose west county accent is as thick as the slabs of brown bread we enjoy. Some old woman comes by, claiming to be a Canadian, and dumped by the Irish actor, a drunkard, she was traveling with. She works up tears a couple times as she tells me her sad tale of being near broke and needing bus fare for Dublin. It's likely bull, but I give her a ten.
We toddle on into Ennis where BW is able to get the shirt he's after, and I'm not. All too small or too large for me, at least of the type I want. A little wander, then it's back home, in the warm, cloudy air.
A bottle of champagne is waiting, compliments of the management.
God bless them.
Nora
Index | Photo Album | Burren ...
© 2004 ADWOFF and Nora Roberts
All Rights Reserved