After a day in a crush of tourists we were keen for some quiet time, and we followed the coastline looking for a small harbor or disused pier. The rain had swelled the waterways, large and small, and we followed this stream to the shore.
Despite the volume of water rushing to the sea it was low tide and the few boats in the harbor rested on their keels.
The cozy little town of Spiddal lured us with charming traditional buildings and a pretty little library.
As usual, the propane ran out in the middle of making coffee and while it was raining. After many years of swapping propane tanks Jack’s become a speed demon at the tank changeover.
Spiddal lured me for another reason, a labyrinth. My sister introduced me to labyrinth walking back on Block Island, Rhode Island, and I’ve been keeping my eyes out for others ever since. When I spied this one on the map a few months ago I marked it and hoped our route would take us close enough for a stop.
While Jack napped I slowly walked the small labyrinth and appreciated the changing views from the churchyard and out to the sea.
The pathways were narrow, little more than a foot’s width, and just following the twists and turns amounted to a meditation in itself.
My focus alternated between the closeup and the long shot, and for the twenty minutes or so that I walked I felt at peace.
I think if we ever find ourselves living in a house with a garden I might build a labyrinth. Pretty to look at, and a beautiful way to meditate.
This labyrinth is nearly hidden behind a church and next to the graveyard. I think the setting epitomizes the Irish landscape: a church, a garden, and the sea.
An unfamiliar sensation woke me shortly after 6:30am. It was the sun, not seen for days and certainly not in the morning when the warming rays make it so much easier to jump out of bed. And jump I did, throwing on my clothes as quickly as I could, because if there’s one thing I’ve learned about Ireland it’s that you don’t waste a minute of good weather, for surely the gods could change their minds at any moment and it’s back to the drizzle and damp. Or lately, pelting downpours and ferocious wind.
Escape Velocity parked alongside the sea wall, sheltered from the wind.
I happily walked Bunowen Pier snapping photos in the morning light until the dark clouds rolled in and chased me back to the van as the rain resumed in earnest.
It’s laundry day, and we drove about an hour in the gloom along the coast to an outdoor launderette. We love these conveniences where we can park right beside the machines. It’s almost like doing laundry in a house; no schlepping involved and the clothes go right back in the closet.
The rain stopped unexpectedly while we navigated another of Ireland’s one-lane stonewall-lined roads toward another quiet pier at the all but abandoned Cartron Harbour.
We’re always mindful that we aren’t a nuisance to local fisherman, so I asked the gentleman getting out of his car if he thought it was okay if we stayed the night. He not only assured us we’re fine on the pier, but he regaled us with local lore and shared his photos of the fine fish he caught in these parts. We hope we ooh’d and aah’d appropriately.
Our friend’s brother returned from picking blackberries along the shoreline and wanted to take a closer look at Escape Velocity. We’ve learned during our various journeys that the freedom of self-contained travel with no set schedule or destination is a dream shared by many. We’re always happy to evangelize our chosen lifestyle.
After Tom and John went home we put on our hiking shoes and set off along the rocky path around the point, grateful for the break in the weather.
We wondered when this rock wall was built and how they managed to move and place these giant boulders.
When we turned the corner we could see the Aran Islands on the horizon, just as John told us we would.
Escape Velocity is a speck in the middle of the picture.
Jack returned home while I tramped through the brambles picking berries for tomorrow’s breakfast.
We expect rain again soon and throughout the night, along with high winds. We’ll have a cup of tea and watch the tide come and go and come again.
Long ago, we mentioned to an Irish friend that we planned time in County Mayo. “There’s not much there,” he warned.
We beg to differ. After spending more time here than expected, thwarted by the weather and waiting for the parish priest to return, we’ve come to appreciate the varied landscape and the way of life.
We take every blue sky opportunity between storms to drive the back roads and see what we can see. One day we watched as a farmer trained his sheep dogs. Amazing herders, they are.
Turf is still used for fuel in many places, although there are new regulations underway to ban the burning of polluting solid fuels like coal, wood and peat briquettes, and new houses are built without chimneys. Turf cutting is also being banned to halt the destruction of the fragile environment and because newer mechanical methods of cutting reduces the carbon sink properties of the bog. Nevertheless, we see turf drying wherever we go.
Mayo is flat as a pancake in parts and quite hilly in others and on dry days we find the landscape breathtaking.
As usual, we haven’t done any planning or research so as we crossed into County Galway this stately building took us by surprise and precipitated a quick detour.
It’s Kylemore Abbey, home to an order of Benedictine nuns. We didn’t visit but stayed long enough on the grounds to appreciate how beautifully the building nestles into the forest at the foot of the mountain.
The clouds were rolling in and we knew there was a storm coming. We wanted to fit one more stop into our day before we sought shelter.
I had spied this food truck on the map and if I know my man, I know he’ll be pretty excited about a crab sandwich. I assumed there’d be nothing for me, but luckily there’s another truck across the car park with delicious spicy roast sweet potato tacos. Win-win.
We would love to have stayed at that pretty place overnight but it wasn’t permitted so we dashed into Clifden hoping for a supermarket resupply before the rain started. We didn’t make it. It rained so hard even the local shoppers were reluctant to run to their cars. There was a backup at the exit as we all waited. And waited. And waited. One by one they gave up and dashed to their vehicles. Except us. Our van was parked up the hill in another car park and we kept hoping for a wee break in the downpour so we wouldn’t be sodden when we got home. A campervan festooned with dripping clothing is not a pleasant place to be.
We did eventually get a break and made it back to the van with minimal dampness and drove to our planned sheltered parkup. The storm rolled in as predicted and we battened the hatches and hunkered down.
We’ve posted dozens of gloriously sunny photos while simultaneously complaining about the weather. You may have found this confusing. It’s Ireland and we expect rain but it turns out this is the wettest July on record. We were lulled into complacency by a near perfect June, and July took us completely by surprise. Shorts and T-shirts we unpacked on the solstice got packed away again by the Fourth of July.
We’ve not only had rainy days but some hellacious storms as well, when we’ve had to seek shelter from fierce winds and squall lines. The weather affected our intended counterclockwise circumnavigation such that our track is looking like an ornery child’s scribble.
Whenever we get a few hours of blue sky we dash to the nearest point of interest and do our best to make the most of the sunshine. That’s how we still manage to snap some beautiful photographs despite weather that even the Irish are grousing about.
What’s shocking to us, as sailors and perpetual weather watchers, is that we can have clear blue skies with barely a hint of a puffy cloud one minute, and mere moments later we’re socked in with low dense clouds and rain that might be light or heavy, for ten minutes or three hours. There’s just no predicting it.
The next three shots are time-stamped one minute apart. That’s how quickly it changes.
Luckily, as sailors we’re practiced at hunkering down and finding bad weather things to do. Longtime readers know I like to spend time on family history research and while I’ve had no luck scaring up anything useful on my own ancestors, we find ourselves this rainy July in County Mayo, birthplace of my son’s paternal great-grandfather. That’s a good enough place to start.
As I was poking around an old churchyard one drizzly day, a local man asked what I was up to. I told him who I was looking for and he directed me to a different cemetery.
“Keep walking down the road past the cemetery,” he said, and he gave me directions to the home of the custodian of the historical cemetery records.
“She’ll help you out,” he assured me.
I followed his directions and met this beautiful lady. Her name is Rose and when I explained my mission she sat me down in her kitchen and produced the burial records.
As we looked for the right people, we talked about the family. She knew them all and gave me the rundown on who belongs to whom, who went to America, who stayed here. She told me where to find the existing graves, then on impulse put me in her car and drove me all over the townland pointing out the ancestral homes, the church, the school they attended.
I spent a delightful couple of hours in Rose’s company and learned a lot about the McDonnell clan. She thought the original marriage and baptism records were at the church but said the priest is away until next week. That’s my week sorted.
Back at the cemetery Jack was amusing himself watching Formula 1 and I broke the news that we’ll have to hang around for a few days until Father Stephen returns on Wednesday.
No worries. The soggy weather continued and we found a quiet parkup by a lough, and I visited the local library, too.
When Father Stephen returned I met him at the church, the same church where Drew’s great-grandfather was baptized, perhaps in this very font. (The mosaic floor, of course, is new.) I was too excited to remember to photograph the priest in his vestment, but after he changed he took me to the residence where he keeps the parish records in a small anteroom at the entrance. He had other churches to visit, so he left me alone with the records, invited me to stay as long as I liked, and asked me to lock the door when I left.
I wish I’d had the same luck with my own family but I’m happy I was able to see where Drew’s Irish people come from. And so is he.
We’re eager to move on. There’s more of County Mayo to explore and it looks like there might be a break in the weather.
Sharp-eyed readers will note that we haven’t posted for a long time. This is my fault (Marce.) It fell to me to write about the event below, and I struggled to find an approach that expressed our true feelings about the experience while avoiding offending anyone. The effort led to complete writer’s paralysis and delayed any continued blogging about our experiences in Ireland.
When we sought guidance from Irish friends the advice most often given was “just skip it.” We could have done that but Jack and I both feel that the blog is a chronicle of our life rather than a travelogue, or at least that’s what we meant it to be from the beginning. It’s for us, not for our readers. In the end, I came to the conclusion that worrying about what our readers may think is exactly the wrong approach.
And so, perhaps a little more truncated and diplomatic than I would normally be, here’s a story from July. And this should remove the roadblock and get the blog rolling again.
7 October 2023
We waffled a lot about whether to duck back into Northern Ireland to experience Orangemen’s Day on July 12th. We strive to remain neutral in political issues in the countries we visit and we’re concerned that attending a march will imply support. On the other hand, we reasoned, who doesn’t love a parade, especially one with fifty bands? It was the promise of marching bands that convinced us to go to Ballinamallard. That and the need to swap out a propane tank with UK fittings.
We made a reconnaissance run the night before the march in search of the VIP viewing stand or any obvious place to watch from, and the food booths. We found nothing except a few Union Jacks and a couple of benches commemorating the recent coronation.
By the time we finished our second cup of coffee on the 12th the Ballinamallard football club car park was beginning to fill up with marchers and musicians. The weather, predicted to be cloudy but mild, was instead windy and damp, with intermittent rain showers.
We circled the area for B-roll shots of the preparations and found that not only did most of the participants completely ignore us, but many of the older men pointedly turned away from our lenses. This was a first for us. In every place we visit, most people we ask to photograph respond with a big smile or a thumbs up. We were starting to get the impression that this is not the kind of celebratory parade we Americans grew up with, for example on the Fourth of July.
We walked into town and found a spot along a low wall across from the grocery store and beside the church. It seemed as good a place as any and we could sit, always a bonus.
When the parade started we were focused on the musicians and it was only later that we realized the bands aren’t the point of the march, but rather each band heralds the officers of their lodge of the Orangemen.
It was a long and rather joyless parade. The bands were not the kind of marching bands we expected but rather usually made up of one or two instruments (accordions, flute and drum) and the same few tunes were played over and over, all in march tempo: Jesus Loves Me, Battle Hymn of the Republic, Nearer My God To Thee, Tipperary. One rogue band offered the only levity in the hours-long event by playing Sweet Caroline, a song Jack pointed out was written by an American Jew.
There was no viewing stand, the bands didn’t “perform” in the way we expected and we came to understand that the march is a show of strength as much as a celebration of victory at the Battle of the Boyne as it’s billed.
Scanning the spectators I’m pretty sure we were the only tourists there. And unlike everywhere else we’ve been no one asked us where we were from or welcomed us or thanked us for coming. It may have been my imagination but I felt that we were considered with suspicion rather than interest. We have never felt more like outsiders.
When the last Orangemen passed, we had no desire to follow them to the grounds where there would be prayers and speeches. We couldn’t shake our disappointment. Our expectations and the reality couldn’t have been more different and we trudged back through town to the van where we had lunch and waited until the traffic cleared enough to extricate EV from the car park and head south.
We’ve been watching the weather and timing our progress because we want to visit what most travel sites consider the #1 destination in County Donegal: Slieve League (Sliabh Liag), a nearly 2000’ (600m) mountain that forms some of the highest sea cliffs in Europe, much higher than the more visited Cliffs of Moher.
Slieve League in the distance
There are two approaches to the cliffs, a rough and rocky hike that sometimes traverses knife-edge ridges, and a less challenging but still steep walk after a nail biter drive up the other side of the mountain. Either one ends in a dramatic view of the sea cliffs, so there’s little point in going if the weather promises wind and rain. For you armchair thrillseekers, search for “Slieve League Pilgrim’s Path” on Google Maps and choose Street View and you can virtually hike the trail. Hats off to the energetic person who wore the 360° street view camera rig so less adventurous folks can share the experience.
The day after next looked like the best we can hope for, some sunshine but still a little too windy to feel comfortable doing the longer cliffside hike. We settled on an early assault to the mid-mountain car park, then the hike up the rest of the way before the weather turns foul again. I found us an abandoned harbour parkup nearby where we can spend the night and be within a few miles of the mountain.
We turned off the usual 1-1/2 lane road onto a narrower single lane leading down towards the water. As we approached our turnoff we could see that the entrance to the harbor was completely blocked by an enormous piece of road equipment. Closer still we saw the entire intersection blocked by a paver, a compactor, and a couple of dump trucks. My heart sank. I wanted so much to spend the night on the old wharf and I had no plan B.
The machines were idle but as we approached — there was nowhere to turn around — a couple of road workers appeared and I jumped out of the van to meet them. They told me they were resurfacing that bit of road and would be done in a few hours. I told them we wanted to get down to the concrete wharf to spend the night. In unison they all turned to look down at the abandoned harbour.
“You want to spend the night there?” one of them asked, incredulous.
“Sure,” I said. “Why? Isn’t it safe?” I was wondering if they knew something about the tidal range or upcoming weather.
“I don’t know,” our informant said skeptically. “There was a murder here last night.”
I chuckled nervously, thinking they were pulling my leg, or more likely, that I had misunderstood the strong accent.
“No really!” he said, and they all pitched in. Apparently someone died at Slieve League, but to be honest, I couldn’t be sure if it was a murder or if someone had jumped or fallen off the cliffs. Eventually they all agreed that we would be perfectly safe down on the wharf overnight and they guided Jack into a small space next to their gravel pile while they maneuvered the giant paving machine away from the entrance to the old harbour so we could squeeze by. They warned us we’d be boxed in until they finished their work but that was ok with us. We got settled and by dinner time we were alone in this quiet corner of Donegal with a view of our goal tomorrow.
I spent a few minutes online trying to find the story the road crew shared and found a brief mention on a news radio website, and a press release from the police asking the public to report if they’d seen anything suspicious. Apparently the authorities didn’t know if they were dealing with a murder or just a missing person. There was no body.
It was windy and rainy overnight but we were mostly sheltered by the steep hill beside us, and our only concern was whether the rising tide would sweep over the rocks in front of us. It didn’t and the next morning brought a little sunshine and blue skies, as we’d hoped.
We always seek out these old harbours and would love to have stayed longer but we want to take advantage of the good weather and knock Slieve League off the list. We topped up our water tank with a tap on the dock and headed toward the mountain.
Just as we turned onto the mountain road we were stopped by this sign. There was no roadblock, no police standing guard. Just the sign. We pulled over to reassess and I popped online for answers. As I looked for local news sources we watched a half dozen or so vehicles skirt the sign and continue up the road only to return a few minutes later, presumably turned back by the Garda.
Online news sources were limited to a few sentences, most just copying the initial press release from the Garda. I figured the police didn’t want to alarm the public so I resorted to social media where I found all kinds of info about suspects arrested then released, a house in a nearby town searched, a blood spattered car, an anonymous phone tip, and the ongoing hunt for a body.
While this kind of news barely breaks the surface in America, it’s completely unheard of here and most of the lurid details I found on social media weren’t reported in the news. This is an area largely dependent on tourism and nobody wants to frighten away the visitors.
Until they either find the missing person or a body, the mountain will remain closed. We figure it’ll be a day, maybe two, so we rejiggered our tentative route, and plan to circle back when the dust has settled. We are nothing if not flexible. And we hope for a good outcome to the search.
The Donegal coastline is ragged and rugged and there’s a calendar-worthy lighthouse on nearly every headland. The one at Fanad Head looked like a winner with a car park that can accommodate larger vehicles, but we discovered when we got there that to get any closer to the lighthouse — in fact to get on the grounds at all, even for a photo — would cost what we consider a hefty entrance fee. “It’s worth it!” the clerk in the gift shop told us. We passed.
There’s a photo op around every bend along the coastal road they call the Wild Atlantic Way, and while neither of us is a beach person we do like to be near the sea. In this corner of Donegal we notice the color palette has changed to more muted blues and greens, reminding us of tropical places, except for the brisk air temperature.
Old harbors are some of our favorite places to stay overnight, the closer to water the better. After finding that our chosen spot is now posted “Strictly No Overnight” we made our way to another quiet outpost on Carnboy, an old pier that doesn’t look much used by boats but seems popular with the caravan and motorhome set.
Jack wrangled Escape Velocity up off the road to a grassy knoll just wide enough to accommodate us and where we had an elevated view of the boat strand and the sea beyond.
Again we were struck by the pale watercolor hues. The rocks are also different from what we’ve seen, more rounded, worn down, older looking. Between the rocks and the muted colors I’m reminded of the town of Bedrock in the 1960s animated TV series The Flintstones, and even now I refer to this spot as “that Barney Rubble place.”
We had fun clambering over the rocks, taking photos, imagining what kind of boats might have come here and from where. We were intrigued by the sign advising to prevent exotic diseases from entering Ireland by disposing of kitchen waste properly. This is normally a bio security function at an official port of entry, but there are no officials nearby and I couldn’t hazard a guess as to the nearest foreign port.
We thought maybe we could walk to the little island at low tide the next day but by morning the wind had kicked up and we decided to move on to a more sheltered spot. I know I say this about many of our parkups but this one really is one of my favorites so far. It was like living in a beautiful watercolor painting.
Our mechanic needed the van overnight to do the service and repairs so we booked a night in a nearby cottage where we took long hot showers, did four loads of wash, and spent most of the day watching old movies on TV. It was a nice break from the van, and there was even a clothesline in the garden where I could dry the laundry in the sunshine.
John did a first rate job replacing the worn parts that were flagged in our MOT inspection, plus did a full service. He also gave us tons of tips on places to go in Donegal. He warned us with a wry smile that we’ll love it so much we won’t want to leave.
County Donegal is an interesting place. It’s part of the province of Ulster, most of which constitutes Northern Ireland, but since partition it’s also the northernmost county of the Republic of Ireland, or “the South,” as they say here. Partition cut the county off from Derry, its traditional economic and administrative hub, and geographically it’s also almost completely cut off from the rest of the Republic. It’s remote, wild and rugged. Their motto is “Up here, it’s different.”
The border between the North and the South, though it’s nearly invisible, reminds me a bit of the Iron Curtain that once divided Germany along idealogical lines. When I lived in Berlin it was inconceivable to me that Germany would ever be reunited yet less than five years after I left the Berlin Wall was torn down with sledge hammers and a groundswell of frustration. I know the two situations are completely different but I often wonder if there will ever be a united Ireland.
We’re eager to start exploring, and as usual, have no planned itinerary. We’re continuing our counterclockwise coastal approach, which seems to be working for us so far. Our daily decisions rest as much on the need for food or fuel and where we can stop overnight as what we want to see. And of course, we usually gravitate toward the water.
It’s funny that we never even heard of Martello towers until we visited our first one in Hoy last year and now we check out any that we see on the map. We just add them to the list of things that attract our attention along with megalithic sites, castles, old harbors, wood fired pizza, and any café with eggs Benedict on the menu.
We made our way slowly up the west coast of Lough Foyle then turned northwest to Culdaff Beach and one of the most scenic little libraries we’ve ever come across.
This memorial plaque was on a bench overlooking the sea. My Morse code is a bit rusty but eventually I made it out. “Don’t piss in the bidet Darling x”
Good advice.
We like to alternate a parkup at sea level with a higher elevation view, which also gives Jack the opportunity to pretend he’s driving a Porsche over the twisty mountain roads.
Then it’s back down to sea level and a peaceful night along Trawbreaga Bay.
Our good weather gave out along with our supplies and after stocking up at a local supermarket we took shelter in a cozy café for eggs Benny.
We spent the afternoon working off the calories hiking through a charming community park. We’ve both noticed how kid-oriented and family friendly Ireland is. There are playgrounds everywhere, public toy bins at the beaches, and this park even has little play houses at each picnic site complete with a table and chairs.
We ducked back to Derry for a day to retrieve an order from Amazon and while we were there we took care of something we both take very seriously — voter registration. Because we live outside the country we need to submit paperwork each year in order to receive our ballots. In a bit of a clumsy analog-digital mashup, we have to print the forms, fill them out and sign, then scan and email them back. Now that I’m a member at Libraries NI it was easy for us to duck in to the Derry branch and use a public computer to print the forms.
It was story hour behind me, and I did my work while listening to the same nursery songs my kindergarten teacher mother sang to us when we were little. Some things never change.
Derry/Londonderry is a walled city and also a divided city. We know there are tours with strong political commentary but we chose to take a short walking tour of the city walls that we hoped would be neutral. As outsiders everywhere we go we often ask people we meet if they like their government, and it’s always interesting to hear how the grassroots perspective compares to what we read in the international press.
Northern Ireland is different. We learned right way that 25 years of negotiated peace has not dimmed the ancient conflict that still simmers just below the surface. I was having a friendly chat with the parking warden where we overnighted and casually asked if she’s originally from Derry. She stiffened, nearly imperceptibly, and said, “Yes, but I’m from Waterside,” letting me know she’s Protestant and I knew I should have said Londonderry, not Derry. It can be a linguistic minefield.
From atop the city walls we could see the high fence surrounding the last remaining Protestant enclave in the majority Catholic west bank of the city, where the curbs and streetlight poles are painted in the colors of the Union Jack and there’s no doubt which side they’re on.
The day after our city wall tour we walked to Bogside, the Catholic neighborhood that was the locus of the beginning of the Troubles, from the Battle of Bogside in 1969 to Bloody Sunday in 1972. Here the streetlight poles are painted in the colors of the Irish flag.
Walking along Rossville Street had a cumulative sobering effect and I couldn’t help but wonder how much of the partisan fervor seeps into the consciousness of the children who live here. As much as I understand intellectually the nature of the political dispute, I’m at a loss to fully comprehend the depth of the hatred and distrust of each side for the other, framed as it is in sectarian terms. The five-part documentary series Once Upon a Time in Northern Ireland (available on PBS or BBC iPlayer) captures the complexity and sometimes futility of the conflict, and the lingering after effects on those who were directly or indirectly caught up. It’s at once a vivid retelling of events and a thoughtful reflection on the fragile truce of today.
We turned to walk up William Street where a historical photo shows what happened on this spot fifty years ago, and more recent graffiti reminds us that the struggle for human rights isn’t over.
We walked up toward the walled city and back to Escape Velocity parked along the river, the dividing line between ideologies and for us, we hope, neutral territory.
Our Magilligan Point beach parkup is quickly becoming one of our favorites. Unlike most beach locations, it’s small, quiet, level, and close to the water, and although we’re right off the road there’s very little traffic.
During the day cars stream in and out of this tight squeeze on the beach. Sometimes people just take a few photos, but some visit with the people in the motorhome that was already here when we arrived. We are out of the way so it doesn’t bother us, but we wonder if we’re intruding on a designated meetup spot of a group of friends or family.
In the afternoon another motorhome arrived and the driver looked us over as he squeezed past us to where the dirt road gets rutted and potholed and a flat and level parking spot is harder to find. He got settled, then walked up to the resident motorhome, confirming our suspicion that this is a regular gathering of friends and we had plunked ourselves right in the midst, claiming a prime spot. We wondered if we should vacate the premises.
We’re always mindful that we’re guests in any country or community that we visit, and we want to be both friendly and unobtrusive so as not to wear out our welcome. This is especially important traveling in the campervan because we’re parking on public land, not paying for a hotel or B&B, and we know that an influx of tourists in motorhomes can overwhelm the resources of small communities. We needn’t have worried.
It was a beautiful day and we had our door open to the sea as we drank our morning coffee. The driver of the new motorhome came over to chat, found out we’re American, and before long we were welcomed and included in the circle of friends.
We continued to do our thing, which included another walk to the point and the Martello tower, then back along the beach where luckily no red flag was flying.
Later we saw a line of classic cars drive toward the ferry and we hustled down to the dock to see what was up. It was an Austin Six club on their way to Donegal for a few days.
One of our motorhome neighbors spent 25 years as a policeman in America, then retired back home to Northern Ireland and now drives an ice cream truck most days at Downhill Beach just for fun. He has two trucks, a classic pink Mister Whippy and a newer Mister Softee. We told him we’ve enjoyed several ice cream trucks along the coast but we hadn’t been to Downhill Beach to visit his.
We were savoring an afternoon coffee at home when Mister Softee drove right up into the parkup and Sean’s wife Patricia served us all an ice cream cone. Now that’s what I call home delivery!
Our other motorhome neighbor and one of the frequent visitors had gone fishing for the day, and our Mister Softee friend shared a photo they sent. Turns out the fellows caught a 5’ shark and we were all abuzz waiting for the heroes to return.
Where’s the shark? we asked. They told us they dropped it off at the restaurant across from the ferry dock to be butchered into steaks for the grill, then motored across the Lough to a pub in Donegal to celebrate their good fortune. By the time they returned to the campsite they were three sheets to the wind which only enhanced the elaborate detail in the telling of how they caught a shark on a line meant for smaller fish and how they wrestled it into their small fishing boat.
Later, in the course of conversation, we asked if anyone knew a mechanic nearby who could address a few issues in our van. Within an hour a mechanic showed up with a diagnostic computer and all the menfolk were crawling around the van, peering at the engine and offering advice. John, the mechanic, is the nephew or cousin or something to one of our parkup neighbors and we liked him immediately. In no time we concocted a plan. John will order parts and let us know when they’re in, and Jack and I will explore the area until we get the high sign.
This has definitely been one of the best parkups ever. Beautiful spot, daily entertainment and a warm welcome from a group of friends, free ice cream, and a bonus mechanic. What more could you want?
