Author Archives: Jack

Having reconnoitered old town Luang Prabang we at least had a clue where to accomplish our least favorite chore when entering a new country, namely buying new SIM cards and untangling all the package deals. To that end we were queuing up at a tiny kiosk, our third, when the couple ahead of us turned and said, “Well, that was easy.” I said, “Don’t I know you?”

Turns out we did. We’d had a nice conversation with Simon and Karen at the morning meet and greet in the hotel at the Thai border but we were relegated to different boats for the journey to Luang Prabang. We instantly recognized each other as fellow travelers and we picked up right where we left off. It’s like that sometimes. Serendipity, that is.

Soon we made plans to climb the 100 meter Mount Phousi, 355 steps guaranteed, with a 24m gilded stupa called That Chroms at the top. Nirvana for a sunset junkie and I like to think we qualify.

We met right across from the Royal Palace in the middle of town.

The stairs started straight up and disappeared from sight under the trees.

At first newbies were stopping precariously, to pose for “before” snaps on the concrete stairs.

It became a slow and steady with occasional gasping rests kind of thing.

It just might be that we’re in better shape than we thought because sooner than we imagined possible we caught sight of the golden stupa.

I didn’t count the steps, after all they were guaranteed.

It was beginning to get crowded up here on Mount Phousi but the sun still had a good way to travel before anything colorful might happen.

We found a good seat and started our sunset vigil, something quite familiar to all sunset junkies.

This is the time the smart chronicler jumps in and says, “sometimes the magic works and sometimes it doesn’t.” I think mystical, quite mystical covers it.

Simon, like all good pathfinders, found an entertaining alternate route down the backside of the mountain.

Feet soundly planted on terra firma our thoughts turned to nourishment.

How about dinner at a place that features a tasting menu of typical Laotian food?

This is the kind of impromptu social interaction that we’ve been missing since losing our cruising community.

With one last look at That Chroms lit up on top of Mount Phousi at night, we laid plans to explore Kuang Si waterfall and called it a night.

It was one of those rude awakenings. You know the kind, with alarms buzzing and you’re sure that someone has made a terrible mistake. Let’s see, it’s still dark and foggy outside but somewhere in the back of my groggy mind a faint memory surfaces and I realize that we are really meant to be up now and showering.

I’d had the foresight to line up the hotel shuttle to schlep us up the incredibly steep path to breakfast on top of the mountain.

Having just finished repacking we heard the beep beep of the shuttle. I threw the duffel in the back and marveled again at the steepness of the path as we chugged up the mountain almost all the way to breakfast. We walked this way last night for dinner. That’s when I decided the shuttle would be better.

A couple of our slow boat shipmates were already eating and we started to see a few more stagger in. With military like precision the slowboat van showed up on time and breakfast was over.

Today will be our longest and reportedly the most interesting run on the Mekong, necessitating an early start. Crew used the 20 foot long bamboo poles to push us back off of shore.

We relaxed into the zenlike flow that only a river can provide.

Soon we were gliding through the exotic Laos scenery.

The fog burned off revealing craggy mountains and unusual rock formations that disturbed the swiftly flowing river current.

Our guide mentioned that if you see a person squatting beside the river, they aren’t fishing, they are panning for gold!

I started noticing many straw hatted people apparently doing just that. Huge construction projects at turns in the river are common and often created pinch points due to their encroachment out into the river.

Turns out they’re Chinese projects and they’re not making reclaimed spoil land but they’re using large machinery to sluice for gold. I suspect that Laotians don’t get much of that revenue.

For our part, we were thoroughly entertained just watching this gentle landscape slide past, but then again, we’ve spent weeks at sea watching the beautiful ocean waves roll by our Escape Velocity.

As we got to know our fellow passengers we realized not everyone finds boat travel as scintillating as we do. One pair, a mother and daughter on a year-long travel odyssey before a planned move to Ghana, brought art supplies and games along to while away the hours. They were often joined by a young English couple who work remotely, he as a writer of children’s books, and she as a remote teacher of English as a Foreign Language. Another couple lived in Berlin for many years and now in New Jersey, so we had lots in common with them. Our group was rounded out by a Norwegian-Thai family with two sweet little kids. Marce and I enjoyed talking to everyone but more than anything we were focused on the river and the journey.

I began to notice strange boxy, man made concrete structures mounted on top of rocks in the river.

They look like small stairs, maybe for times with high water.

Growing up in Pittsburgh with three rivers heavy with barge traffic, I like to think an old river rat like me could figure this out. Then it dawned on me. They are water depth gauges, and when you see all the rocky obstructions it’s no wonder. Water vortexes, overfalls, and standing waves are our constant companions on either side, as we motor past. During part of the year they can’t even run the boats due to the lack of water.

We stopped at another village necessitating another scramble up a steep slope but Marce and I were quite comfortable where we were, soaking up the river scene, thank you very much.

Back underway we came across a brand new high level bridge across the Mekong that abruptly ends against the face of a mountain. There is no tunnel yet. It’s part of a controversial hydroelectric plant under construction that will dam the Mekong about 25 kilometers upstream from our final destination, Luang Prabang. The project is a joint effort between Lao PDR, Vietnam, and Thailand. Our guide suggested that most of the power will go to Thailand.

For now it’s possible to navigate around the enormous structure but no one seems to know what will become of the river when the dam is complete. We’re glad we’re doing this trip now. Who knows if it’ll be possible in the future.

It was about this time that the first of several dead pigs floated past the boat. As any of you old time Escapees know, when a dead pig floats past the boat, it’s a sure sign that it’s time to leave.

Well actually the bloated pig was stuck circling in a whirl pool, but to us the meaning can not be denied. It’s odd because pigs are supposedly strong swimmers but with current this strong apparently they get caught out.

With images of whirled pig before our eyes we nosed into a pier with dozens of other slow boats to climb up to the Pak Ou “Buddha”caves.

For 20,000 KIP extra ($1) we even climbed all the way up to the cave at the top of the mountain and to be honest, after lazing around the slowboat for two days this had us seriously sucking air.

So it was back to the bamboo poles and a prodigious amount of reverse to get the slowboat to back up against the Mekong’s stiff current. Another hour and we were jostling for space at a small pier which led to the most outrageously steep and high set of concrete stairs.

We couldn’t believe they actually intended for us to schlep ourselves and our luggage up this monster. Turns out no, just our own cabooses. This is one of the many advantages of paying extra for the VIP slowboat; the boat crew hauled our luggage up the steps.

Feeling a little faint at the top, we were hustled into a van, bounced our way into town and disgorged at our beautiful hotel in old town Luang Prabang.

Wayside Guesthouse is our home away from home, although technically we really don’t have a home anywhere else. But after a month doing medical maintenance we have a choice: pay $55 each to extend our visas for another month or go on a visa run to another country. Our trip here to Southeast Asia is itself a visa run from our six-month limit in the UK, so we’ve decided on a visa run from our visa run. Destination: neighboring Laos.

It’ll be the Green Bus to the border for us. Our host Jackie, known to us as Mom, suggested she’d better call her friend to take us to the bus station rather than relying on a tuk-tuk at rush hour. Mom knows best. We made it with a comfortable margin and schlepping our faithful rolling duffel, found bus bay number 20 to Chiang Khong.

Thailand’s roads are legendary so we have girded our loins in preparation for a rough day. Loins are one thing but there’s something seriously wrong with my seatback which insists on pushing my torso into a forward facing vice.

It’s raining before we even get out of town but our bus attendant lady has already passed out a box full of tiny complimentary water bottles and I’m sure she’s accumulated a body full of bruises fetching up against the bus’s seats. I’m spending most of my time searching for a lever or anything to at least get my seat back to vertical.

Parts of the road are fairly recently patched but what I find intolerable is Thailand’s penchant for adding speed bumps to the potholes for which they are already so richly endowed. We lurch from village to village, temple to temple, this Buddha to that Buddha, each covered with gold even though they’re surrounded by people living in little more than lean-tos, but then that’s Thailand. I reach down under my seat feeling for someway, really anyway to recline my seat back, without joy.

Now we are creeping up the beautiful mountains at a screaming snail’s pace only to hurtle down the other side. The Green Bus has a beeping speed warning to let the happy passengers know that the driver is now speeding.

In the meantime, great news: it’s time for the distribution of the complimentary snack which features the only word in English — banana — on the paper wrapper and may include some form of spongecake rolled into a tube. I missed out because I was looking under my seat for the elusive lever to recline my seat. Still no joy.

Now we’re grinding our way up more mountains. I have serious reservations about the health of this poor Green Bus. It’s still beep beeping down the other side though. People periodically begin to depart the bus while the driver opens the door to dart into various businesses dropping off parcels or picking up other parcels. Bear in mind this Green Bus is marked as an express.

In time we found ourselves alone in the Green Bus with just the driver and the bus lady for company. I’m looking at the empty seats to see what could possibly operate the goddamn seatback. We jostled through a dusty country village only to swing around in a lumbering 180 degree turn, abruptly stopping in a cloud of dust, and with that the driver turned and looked at us. My best guess is that we’re not going any further on the Green Bus.

The good news is that after seven plus hours of searching and being pummeled by the Green Bus, I finally found the tiny black plastic knob that marginally reclines the seatback.

We stood up stiffly, claimed the only bag remaining under the bus, and hired a tuk-tuk to take us the rest of the way to Day Waterfront Hotel.

After being sprayed with dust and dirt for a half an hour our driver ended this madness by braking to a merciful stop at the precipice of an ungodly steep hill.

With the muddy Mekong River spread out below us, he mumbled “It’s down there.” I assumed he meant our hotel, so I yanked our loyal rolling duffel out of the tuk-tuk and with baby steps we carefully negotiated the ski jump of a hill.

Finally in our room we divided our time between filling out visa forms and marveling at the sight of the mighty Mekong River valley.

It’s not home but it’ll have to do until morning.

With bad weather moving in Marce found us a quaint little harbor for a safe parkup to wait out the rain.

What it lacked as a proper harbor it made up for with a magnificent 1885 twelve arch railroad viaduct allowing rail service to Schull.

Now it’s part of a foot trail. Ballydehob is located at the confluence of the Bawnaknockane River and Roaringwater Bay, bounded by the Atlantic Ocean. Dodging rain drops I managed to grab some excellent takeout food without getting too wet and marveled at the remarkable number of sophisticated restaurants this cute little town has.

Ballydehob has managed gentrification via the usual route of artist colony, fine cuisine, and yachts.

The town certainly seems in an ebullient mood with festivals for every taste.

We heard that this weekend they’re having a BBQ, music, and traditional wooden boat festival so we’re definitely sticking around for that. Not the best weather for a BBQ but the good citizens of Ballydehob haven’t seemed to notice.

The wharf is really filling up with those well dressed citizenry. The band is kind of fun and the sausage baps are great.

We’ve even heard that sometimes Jeremy Irons sails up from Rocky Mannin Beg Island where his Kilcoe Castle overlooks Roaring Water Bay.

It’s time for the main event when one at a time the old traditional boats round the little island and arrive to deal with the Southern breeze setting the boats in towards the docks, rocks and concrete pier.

Some were more successful than others.

They need the pull of the sail to come into the little harbor but once in they need it doused in a hurry. Nothing happens in a hurry with these old boats.

I noticed one last traditional tanbark sail has come around the small protective island.

It dithered about, just off the harbor, shortening sail, then she headed in.

Everybody turned and watched. Every sailor’s nightmare.

I noticed Skipper change his mind and head over towards the concrete pier but with a little too much steam on, and having made this mistake a few times myself, I helped fend off just in time.

As soon as things calmed down I looked up and saw the skippers eyes. They were the deep brown eyes of Jeremy Irons.

To be honest his crew appreciated the help and it took some wrangling to get the dock lines sorted, but his locally made wooden boat, “Willing Lass” is simple and beautiful.

You never know what might happen wandering around Ireland.

We pulled into Mizen Head car park unusually late for us so passing through the gate, I backed into the first spot I came to. It turns out it was the last empty spot. It pays to be lucky.

Bathed in brilliant sunshine we soon had Escape Velocity semi level and we were in the mood for a stroll. While I cinched up the Merrells Marce said, “Can you see that thing on the horizon?” Of course the bulb eventually switched on and it had to be the sailing icon of sailing icons. Fastnet!

I hadn’t expected to see it from here; it’s a good nine miles off but it’s unusually clear today and we’re really high up here on the cliffs. I sat and stared at it for a long time. Thrills and chills.

Mizen Head is a pay as you go proposition so after closing time the ticket gates, not to mention the gift shop, are closed and you’re not getting down to the rock. I didn’t mind. I am in my happy place, by the sea. When you think about it, it’s hard to believe the crazy path we’ve followed that has led us to this storied place. Yes, thrills and chills, especially when we came across this half buried propellor from a wreck off the headland.

Up here in these high latitudes it takes a while for a bright sunny day to soften into pastel azure shades of dusk.

The Fastnet lighthouse kept us company, every ten seconds, all night long.

We woke up at a more civilized hour, apparently, than most of the funseekers rapidly filling up the parking lot around us. It’s a long hike just to get to the entrance in the gift shop and we did not waste a moment of this glorious sunshine. The path starts as a steeply inclined exercise in keeping one’s downward momentum under control. I’m with Bill Bryson, struggling to not flail like George Chakiris as a nearly out of control Shark in West Side Story.

It’s not very elegant or satisfying but the views are magnificent.

Mizen Head is the most southwestern point of Ireland and it’s the first — or last — sight of Europe for seafarers on this route. Like many headlands, and most here in Ireland, it’s rocky and forbidding and if you’re on a boat, you’ll give it a wide berth. Today the seas are calm but I can only imagine what it’s like in a blow.

The Head itself is almost an island so the first inspired bit of construction you come across is this graceful bridge spanning a deep canyon.

The old signal station is now part of the museum with displays on the history and significance of Mizen, and also the construction of the lighthouse on Fastnet Rock.

What could be more perfect. A sloop, brilliant in the off-shore sun, full-and-by, working her way around Mizen Head, well off.

It’s impossible to capture the scale and majesty of this dramatic landscape.

Looking around I’m noticing a lot of weary faces and that’s when I recalled seeing a small sign warning of the 99 steps straight up to get back up to the gift shop. In other words, leave a little in the tank. I swear there would be fisticuffs if they dared put a bench seat on the way up.

Finally, as we grew closer I could just imagine how good those upholstered seats are going to feel. We both flopped down, looked up and there was Fastnet, a beacon even to a campervan.

Thrills and chills.

This lovely path leads to something called an Oratory.

If you’re thinking Yours Truly is really out of his depth now, you’d be right. Apparently there’s no actual oratory going on, or even ever meant to be. Truth be told, on another classic gloomy rainy Irish day this thing is down right spooky.

As near as I can fathom it’s kind of a sensory deprivation enclosure meant to have as little to distract as possible while contemplating one’s errors in judgment.

I dare say they’ve accomplished their remit well.

The Gallarus Oratory was built in the 7th century using the upside down boat hull design philosophy and it’s thought to be the finest, most complete example of its type.

A few miles away we found St. Brendan’s House, or the priest’s house, with beautiful fenestration.

Across the road is Kilmalkedar Church (Cill Maolcethair) and graveyard. Tradition holds that the church was established by St. Brendan, but then you know the Irish; more likely it was St. Maolcethair who died in 636 AD. The church itself was probably built in the mid 12th century.

This is a vertical sundial. All that’s required to know the time of day is a stick in the hole and presumably some sunshine.

These buildings are all part of the Saints Road, but on the way here we passed an intriguing ruin that I just had to go back and explore. It’s the Cathair Deargáin Ring Forts, probably from the 8th or 9th century. More than that I can’t really say.

Well that’s about as much as we can squeeze out of a rather punk day in Ireland. Now where will we park this thing tonight?

Morning found a handful of us RVers huddled together, lost in a truly massive, mostly paved parking lot. We have come to the iconic Cliffs of Moher and we are huddled together because it’s the only semi level spot in the whole damn car park.

It’s overcast, gloomy, and rainy and any thoughts of hiking are laughable at this point. The situation is that it’s quite a hike just to get to the start of the hike. Eventually we deemed it passable and we gathered our resources if not our boots and trudged up to the interesting looking visitor center.

At the cliffs the path bifurcates and we chose the path to the right, up towards O’Brian’s Tower (1835), sitting like a crown on top of the hill.

As we descended the hill we had a great view of the cliffs as they wrap around the bay to the left.

The trail constantly rises, sometimes narrow, sometimes wider, but always relentlessly climbing.

I couldn’t help but notice they had moved the trail back from the cliff edge a disconcerting dozen feet or so.

Eventually we reached what felt like the high point, although it looks like one of those Irish hikes that continue on for many more miles along the coast.

Reluctantly we headed back down.

Footsore and tired, we made it back to Escape Velocity but there was no rest for your aimless wanderers and we had just enough time to make it to our next parkup.

What a jewel awaited us at this tiny car park.

We knew there would be some sort of ruin here but I never gave it much thought, thinking it’s probably closed anyway. Yeah, I know you’re thinking this is a possible rule #2 violation (Don’t get jaded.) But the more I studied this tower the more excited I became. And as it turns out, it’s open and free to explore.

Carrigafoyle Castle was constructed by Connor Laith O’Connor in the 1490’s on a large outcropping rock at the mouth of the Shannon. It was thought of as the Guardian of the Shannon due to its strong strategic location.

Other times the owners were thought of as the taxman because of their habit of sailing out to intercept shipping on its way up to Limerick and demanding a handsome percentage of the cargo. The ships were easily spotted from the 98 foot tall tower.

The unconventional choice of using flat slabs of flagstone was because in the 1490s it was thought to be impenetrable by the conventional weapons of the time.

Technology marches on and by 1580 during the Easter siege of the castle, the Brits had the answer and used high powered cannons. They fired from the hills behind the castle and blew that fearsome hole high in the tower which collapsed the wall, crushing most of the rebels beneath. Any survivors were dispatched as per the rules.

The double arches supporting the roof are probably the only reason the tower still stands.

It takes 104 steps up the spectacular spiral staircase to reach the atrium at the top.

The view from the top reminded us that our tendency to wander with no set destination sometimes brings surprising rewards. And it’s why we coddiwomple, travel for the sheer pleasure of the journey.

Personally I wouldn’t go far out of my way to see something more stark than where I already am, but you know, in the interest of familial peace I acquiesced. Besides, somehow the navigator was guiding us right past a small pull off of great historical import. I managed to drive right past but quickly got Escape Velocity turned around and we immediately saw a nicely walled in, uh, front yard for lack of any accurate knowledge.

Wandering around through the woods we found the lintelled stone and mortared gateway to Cahermore.

Apparently it started as a medieval fort sometime between 500 to 1170 AD and by 1308 it was a wealthy family’s homestead featuring three outer stone rings around a central group of buildings.

Off in the distance in most of these photos you can see the heart of the hills of the Burren, showing the effect of multiple ice ages that shaved clean the hills leaving naked rock. And that’s where we’re headed.

The Burren is a unique glaciokarst landscape designated a UNESCO Geopark. If you want to know about the geological and human history of the region you can read more here or here.

We’d been winding our way uphill but now the climb into the mountains started in earnest. Finally we broached the tree line and found a place to spend the night here on the side of the mountain. Just us and the rocks.

It’s a little nippy up here and without much to stop it, the wind is unrelenting.

After a cold and bumpy night we headed out with purpose. Our mission is a visit to Poulnabrone-The Portal Tomb, where it’s been known to get quite crowded so we thought a morning arrival would be best. We found lots of other rock fans but it’s a large site and it can absorb lots of funseekers.

Built on top of an oval shaped cairn of loose stone, the tomb was begun in the Neolithic period some time around 4200 BC. When it was first excavated in 1986 the remains of 33 people were found interred here.

We just heard two tour buses pull into the parking lot so that makes it about time to go.

Our parkup tonight will be a commercial affair that we’re not entirely sure we’re even allowed into, but what would it be if you didn’t try? You have to try.

To be honest, after the Achill Island debacle I’m a little surprised to be sitting here in Escape Velocity waiting, on a blustery day, for a ferry to another Irish island. The plan is to hire bicycles to explore the small island. We can feel the motion of the ferry change, rising to the ocean swell as we leave the protected bay, or lough, as the Irish seem to call anything with water in it. It’s so familiar, like coming home for this old sailor.

I’ve never felt so popular walking down the long pier toward Inishmore Island.

It seemed that the whole island turned out to welcome and pitch their wares to their new best friends, like a pop-up carnival of balloons, bus tours, cotton candy, horse drawn buggy tours, hotdogs, and guided bike tours with every permutation imaginable.

By the time we reached land our sales resistance was at a dangerously low ebb and a bemused but whimsical older gent smiled and said, “Would you like to sit down in my shiny new Mercedes minibus?” Why yes, we would. It was far too windy for bike riding. That’s our story and we’re sticking to it.

Soon we were on our way, just one happy minibus load of adventurous funseekers. It didn’t take long before it became obvious that the impossibly narrow roads were choked with tourists, backpackers, and optimistic bike riders, pushing their bikes in the fresh breeze. If there weren’t any serious injuries that day I would call it an act of divine serendipity. I confess that our whimsical driver seemed to take all this madness in stride. I was impressed with his wheel prowess. Turns out we were slowly weaving our way between the high tight stone walls, pinching in on both sides of the road, toward Fort Dun Alonghasa, built in the 1,100s BC on top of a high promontory sea cliff.

Like all high value venues the path starts out easy enough but as soon as you’re not paying attention bam, you’re crawling up over rocks at a ridiculous angle.

I’m sure that 3,500 years ago the road up to the fort made sense but let’s just agree that in the last 3,500 years some deterioration may have occurred.

The queue, laboring slowly up the long hill began to take on the feel of a deep breathing religious procession or pilgrimage of penance.

It’s funny but I never had that thrilling feeling of standing where ancient man has stood. I don’t know, it might just be oxygen deprivation.

The original dry stone defensive ring is D-shaped and contains quite a large area.

Spectacular views from the fort.

Well we don’t want to turn Mr. Whimsy’s smile into a frown now do we? We have very little time for lunch so it’s time for our descent.

Don’t know how I missed this explosive cairn creation on the way to the fort.

This tin whistle busker was good enough that for a moment I could forget about my sore feet

You know how there’s aways someone on a tour bus that can’t seem to get back to the bus on time? Well this time it was Yours Truly but I have to admit the shepherd’s pie I had for lunch was well worth the dirty looks our fellow happy passengers gave us as we clambered aboard a few minutes tardy.

Soon we found ourselves again squeezing between the impossibly tight stone walls in search of a venue called “The Abbey.” This is Ireland, there’s always an abbey. Driving around the island it’s easy to imagine a tough rocky life.

There were small plots of land, mostly rocks and the odd patch of grass, delineated by dry stone walls with random gaps to, they claim, bleed off wind pressure.

It’s a popular stop and Mr. Whimsy had a spot of bother weaseling the big van into what passes as a proper parking spot here on Inishmore Island. Down below us was, more or less, a beautiful 15th century abbey.

By this point our driver’s wry smile was missing and all we got was “Gotta go, let’s get in the van.”

We passed a supposedly typical Inishmore homestead built for “Man of Aran,” a 1934 film by Robert Flaherty about pre-modern life on the island. It was a landmark (and somewhat controversial) film, and if you’ve got the time it’s well worth watching here.

Back in town we joined the throngs admiring the classic fisherman’s sweaters and resisted the temptation to buy. Where in a campervan would we fit one, let alone two?

We spent our last moments on Inishmore with coffee and cake and wondered about the changes a place as beautiful and as tough as this island would make in your life.

On the way back to the ferry the harbor was at low tide and that changes everything.

We landed quayside in lonesome Blacksod Bay.

It turns out we’re within spitting distance of a small but charming lighthouse and the world famous Old Smokehouse.

About 80 years ago Ted Sweeney was the lighthouse keeper and also the town’s weatherman. After analyzing the weather data one day in June with the help of two female clerks, he felt there would be a small weather window between two building North Atlantic storms coming their way.

In the meantime, at the Old Smokehouse, it just might have been the best hot smoked salmon I ever ate, but that didn’t turn anything upside down. What did became apparent when we met a fellow traveler in a little camper who motioned toward the lighthouse and told us his grandmother worked at the town’s only post office and wireless station, and he’d always wanted to visit where she’d worked. The post office was housed in this very lighthouse.

The weatherman and postal clerks didn’t know it then but their forecast put the D-Day invasion in motion when their message was sent from Blacksod Bay the 4th of June, 1944.

Our camper neighbor was proud of his grandmother and he’d come a long way to see the lighthouse and celebrate her role in D-Day.

Eighty years earlier, famine and poverty dogged Blacksod Bay and West Ireland in general. James Hack Tuke, a Quaker, saw that the land could no longer support the population and he organized and paid for a boat lift in 1883-1884 for some 3,300 Irish families.

They sailed to Boston and Quebec but the last place they saw in Ireland was Blacksod Bay.

A memorial commemorates those families and the ships they sailed away in. Each plaque shows the ship, the destination, and all the names of the crew and passengers.

The mass emigration in the 1890s probably explains how empty the place still feels to this day.

Heading up into the hills out of Blacksod Bay we found another major blow hole and one of 90 some promontory ring or cattle forts in County Mayo.

Dún na mBó, like most of these forts, is protected on three sides by sea cliffs. Stone walls were only constructed across the land at the narrowest part of the headland.

I’m sure they were exhausted constructing all these bloody walls all over creation.

Not much of the stonework exists but that blowhole sure has survived.

Next we crossed the bridge to Achill Island which, in reasonable weather, is one of the top destinations in County Mayo.

There is nothing reasonable about this weather but adhering to the EV paradigm we POR’ed, which sometimes works.

We passed through areas we assumed were picturesque and charming but for the fog and rain.

We reached the famous beach at the end of the island and parked to wait for Achill’s clouds to part.

We gave it an hour.

Sometimes the magic works, sometimes it doesn’t.

We cranked up EV and climbed back up the steep winding road over the mountain. The weather, if anything, was worse.

We were determined to rid ourselves of this sopping funk. We set our sights on another beach area called Silver Strand. With the rain hot on our heels, we wound our way down through the adventurous narrow serpentine access road where it was not yet raining, just threatening.

In the morning the water, spread thinly over the shallow sandy bay, had disappeared far out into the Atlantic.

There were warnings and life preservers laughingly distributed far inland around the edge of the huge sandy beach but then I realized given the wrong set of circumstances, like wind and storm surge, this whole bay could suddenly flood and trap people in rip tides. The life saving equipment started to make sense.

The hike across the soft sandy bay had to have been at least a kilometer and the footing was quite difficult.

Somehow we found people swimming further out in the freezing incoming waves. This I do not understand but they seem to be enjoying themselves.

The hike back was just as tough in the soft sand but Silver Strand, surrounded by mountains, still held surprises for us.