Author Archives: Marce

Since we got to Derry/Londonderry we’ve been more or less following the Wild Atlantic Way, a tourist route that runs along the rocky west coast of the island. We’re now getting to the area most visited by tourists — and tour buses — and many of our decisions are made to avoid the crowds that high season and good weather bring.

We feel no need to stick to a line on the map and we often seek out quiet outposts for the night.

On any day without rain it’s rare to find a beach that’s not crowded but here we are at Kilgobbin Bay Beach on Dingle Peninsula. Not only did we have the place nearly to ourselves, but the beach was bordered by some of the most colorful rocks we’ve seen so far in Ireland. If we were still on the boat I’d have relocated a few choice ones to our saloon, but sadly the campervan can’t accommodate a rock collection.

We’ve grown accustomed to one-lane driving and luckily there’s little traffic in remote areas and we rarely meet someone coming head-on, but even the official Wild Atlantic Way route is also often one lane but with enough passing places to squeeze by another vehicle safely.

Still, there are areas you hope to goodness someone isn’t barreling toward you from around the bend with no passing place in evidence.

We don’t think there are nearly enough places to pull off to take photos but we take advantage of most of them. Sometimes there are food trucks or vendors or buskers. We loved this man’s music but he was selling CDs. What are you supposed to do with a CD?

We found a quiet beach parkup just before another storm blew through. Our weather has definitely improved but the squalls are still fierce and require some planning.

By morning the sun was shining again. This is the Ireland we came for.

We mentioned before that it can be challenging to visit cities where motorhomes are discouraged or safe parking is hard to find. We heard about a park ‘n’ ride outside Galway and took advantage of the opportunity to leave the van in the company of others of its kind while we took the train to the city.

For once it didn’t rain and Galway was a delight, colorful, artsy, often whimsical.

We stopped in the visitor’s center for a map and a walking guide but we made no attempt to see all the sights. It was fun just to share the joy of a dry day with fellow tourists.

Galway embraces the new and modern but celebrates its history, too. Here’s a look at the original castle walls under the floor of the Aran sweater market.

We tried following our walking tour map but there were too many distractions to keep us on track.

Ah! A cheese shop! Maybe we can get something besides cheddar? But no, the shop was closed and we could only peer longingly through the door at what might have been a very big sale for the proprietors.

I don’t play chess and I don’t collect anything, but if I did I’d consider chess sets. They always catch my eye wherever we go and these are particularly fanciful.

By the time we left the park it was well past lunch time. Jack couldn’t pass up the Irish stew.

We finished the day with a visit to the museum and loved seeing these posters of Irish musicians.

I wish we could visit more cities as easily as this. One quick stop on the train and we were back home again. It looks like the bad weather is behind us. Maybe we’ll have summer after all.

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.

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.

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.

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.