Ireland: Northern Loop

June 15, 2018
Macey

Day 0: Brace Yourself

It was June 7th, and the last day in Florida before we crammed our bags full—like engorged ticks—to set our into the big ole world. It went a little like this this: Sleepy smiles and bloodshot eyes, we braced ourselves. Time passed quickly, as time does. Dustin had a lot of work to do so he got to it, as one does. My Grandma made roast and potatoes, for she wanted our last meal at home to be comforting, and it was. My dad put in a last minute IT request on the new (old) computer we had given him . Right before leaving for the airport my Grandma gave us an anniversary card and one single line nearly brought me to tears, “You two are very special. You remind me of your papa and me.”

Day 1: A Long Winter

Long flights always seem to me like a hibernation, waiting uncomfortably for the season to pass. We marveled as a pink and purple light filtered through the plane window and after a layover in Norway, our long winter was over. Soon we found ourselves navigating through the Dublin airport, getting a rental car and meeting my mom at an airport hotel in Swords.

Day 2: Make Yourself Happy

My mom was up early, Dustin was sound asleep, and I found myself somewhere in between. Somehow we all managed to meet in the middle for breakfast.

Our waitress, through a thick Russian accent, said to us, “Have whatever you want, make yourself happy.” We thought that was good advice. After breakfast we found ourselves pleasantly unsurprised (because Ireland is just that awesome) that we were a stone’s throw away from Malahide Castle, one of the last Tudor-style castles in Ireland. Built in 1175 and nestled on 268 acres of wooded lawn, we were happy to wade through the concert goers (Gorillaz was playing there that evening) and join in on a tour. For printing enthusiasts like us, it was especially exciting to see the source of a Pantone color, “Malahide orange.”

Fact of the Day: The expression “Saving Face” comes from the fact that make-up, which used to be made of beeswax and arsenic, would start to melt when ladies and gents would sit by the fire for too long. To prevent this, a servant would put a board in between them and the fire and thereby save their face. This is also where the saying “mind your own beeswax” comes from.

Airbnb will bring you to the most amazing of places, and that night’s find sure was one of them. Upon arrival we went to explore the “backyard” immediately: a full-on druidic worship site, centered around a well enclosed in a dome-like structure.

After an expedition into Mullingar, tracking a building in which a young James Joyce stayed, we met with Ben, the builder of the well complex, shared a bottle of L’Amourier San Bres Minervois with us, an excellent organic wine, and conversation led us well into the evening. We finally went to sleep just as the light was creeping its way back into the world, drifting off despite the somewhat oddly-juxtaposed chorus of cats yowling to come inside and the sweet, melodic chirping of birds.

Day 3: An Unkindness of Ravens in Kilcrow

After I said goodbye to my rock friend and Dustin played his whistle for the well, we headed off on narrow country roads through fields of yellow wildflowers to the next destination: Tullamore Dew Distillery. Leave it to Sigaty luck that on the way we stopped at a castle which we had recently seen on the show “Tales of Irish Castles.”

Fact of the day: “The angel’s share” describes the amount of whiskey that evaporates while it seasons in its cask. Older whiskey is therefore more expensive not just because it took effort to make it right and store it for so long, but also because there is simply less of it.

Our final destination for the day was in Knocknacarra, county Galway, where a lovely little room in the house of a lovely family awaited, as well as a delightful evening at Tom Sheridan’s.

Tip from a local lad: If you’re at a locals’ bar it is best not to sit at the bar unless invited over. There is probably a man who goes there every night, and you wouldn’t want to take his seat!

Tip from a local lady: Try a splash of blackcurrant juice in your Guinness.

Day 4: Many Blessings From White Horses

I awoke to the sound of my mom’s voice in cheerful conversation with our host. Per her suggestion, we looked over Galway Bay at Salthill, and then embarked on a quest Dustin had long set his heart upon: an expedition into the Gaeltacht of Connemara!

Up the coast we drove, to Carraroe, where a very rare and hard seaweed mimics coral—and it makes a very satisfying clicking as you drag your hands through it.

In the heart of Connemara, Kylemore Abbey and its Victorian Gardens are nestled on the hillside. The castle was built in 1898 and, like many castles, has a history of tragedy and romance. It is now home to Benedictine nuns.

As we crossed into County Mayo, the the Saw Doctors sang to us a perfect melody:

The green and red of Mayo, I can see it still
Its soft and craggy bogland, its tall majestic hills
Where the ocean kisses Ireland and the waves caress its shore
The feeling it came over me to stay forever more
Forever more!

We found a home for the evening in Cú Chulainn’s bar in Westport which brings me to the:

Tip of the day: if you are in need of a place to stay in Ireland, ask the bar! They might have a room for you or at the very least they know where to look.

Fun bonus fact: It is truly terrifying to see a “road narrows” sign in Ireland. How could it possibly get narrower?!

Day 5: Shoot the Crows; or, Seven Deadly Gins

An Irish breakfast has enough protein to last you a life time, and we needed the energy for a long driving day. Today’s goal: Garvagh in Northern Ireland. Hungry to fill our brains with images of every corner of Ireland, we went in a bit of a winding path through Sligo (Dustin pointing out the still-in-business Shoot The Crows, a memorably sketchy bar he visited with his family in 2009), Donegal, and Letterkenny.

We decided to stop at a church and were delighted to find it was home to the corpse of the great poet W.B. Yeats, a 9th century cross, and 11th century tower.

Let us go forth, the tellers of tales, and seize whatever prey the heart long for, and have no fear. Everything exists, everything is true, and the earth is only a little dust under our feet.

Not long after, we passed into Northern Ireland. It is hard to believe that not so long ago armed guards lay in the ditches, watching your every move as you made it through the check point. Nowadays, the only way you can tell you have crossed the border is the sign indicating that speed limits are switching from kilometers to miles per hour… and, of course, the immediate change in style. It is impressive how the houses transform all at once from quaint cottages, covered in flowers to a more sterile brick, covered in the oppression of the English. (Note from Dustin: I do admit that the roads in Northern Ireland were much better maintained.) Despite the years of war and tragedy, Derry/Londonderry (depending on which side of the border you are when talking about it) is a beautiful walled city with bridges connecting a variety of old buildings.

Many towns and many miles later, we found ourselves cruising along a beautiful hill overlooking a valley and soon, deep in the fields of wildflowers, we found the little “bothy” at Temple Run Fishery we’d be enjoying for the next couple days. After losing a staring contest with a cow, Dustin and I hoofed it down the hill road to the idyllic one-street town of Garvagh proper.

We stumbled into “The Central” looking for a bite to eat and the bartender said he did not have food, but if we wanted to get take out from the Chinese place across the street and enjoy it there, we were welcome.

While spending hours with the Catholic, English owner James—and his best customer, a barely comprehensible sept- or octogenarian “black bastard” of a Protestant called Norman—he told us the tale of the “John Bell’s Corner” plaque upon the wall. Once upon a time, there was a man named John Bell, and he attended that very bar from the time he was twelve until his death in 2016. He came everyday except for when he was hospitalized, an event which the patrons of The Central celebrated as it meant that the nurses would give him a bath. With no running water or power the man was often dirty, but we could tell by the tone as he told the story that he was as well-loved as he was well-filthed.

The hospitality that only small towns seem to have mastered was on display when the bar-keep left us unattended to walk across the street and ask if his sister would give us a ride home. No ride to be found, he offered us a try of “Wrath” from his “7 Deadly Gins” promotion. Wrath was a gin infused with jalapenos.

Upon our return we curled up in our cozy little home and watched The Fountain while a lullaby of sheep lulled us to sleep.

Day 6: The Castle, Giant and Tree

The soothing plinkety-plink of rain threatened to keep us chained to our cozy beds, yet our ambition to see a cliff-side castle gave us strength enough to break free. One of the roads that led us there was closed for the filming of Artemis Fowl, but after a few detours we found ourselves in sight of Dunluce Castle.

We took respite from the rain at the Old Bushmills Distillery. The last tour was sold out, but we did enjoy this video:

Giant’s Causeway

To look down at my feet upon this ancient stone structure transported me back to the library in middle school when I first laid eyes on a photograph of the bizarre basalt conglomeration and thought, ‘someday, I will go there.’ 12-year-old me could not have fathomed how beautiful the sight would be.

Two of the windiest places I have been are in Ireland, and this was one of them. I’ve gotta say, extremely powerful gusts of wind are pretty frightening when you are just barely able to stand on a rain-slicked surface next to the crashing waves.

Not far from there lay the so-called “dark hedges,” hundreds of beech trees planted 1775 as a grand decoration for the road to an estate. The wind and rain nearly blew me away and yet these sturdy giants remained unscathed, other than the barb wire gnarled deep in their flesh, surrounded by the scars of lovers’ initials.

Our day didn’t stop there; on our way back to our little bothy, we stopped in Ballymoney to get a bite to eat and found a parade of local flute bands marching down the street.

We watched The Men Who Stare at Goats, interrupted briefly when we forgot to feed the meter and the power went out. Luckily, we had another pound coin handy to feed the hungry machine and it kept us warm through the night as 70mph winds threatened to rip off the roof. The sheep sang us to sleep with a rather more urgent lullaby as storm “Hector” stampeded his way through.

Day 7: Inishbrush is stinky

Classic Ireland: we were awoken with, “Excuse me, could you move your car, I have to move my sheep.” As the ever dripping rain continued, we said goodbye to our little home. That roof, weighted down by boulders on ropes, served us well! We set out for Belfast, but Dustin’s interest was piqued by the highway signs pointing to Toome (on account of a nationalist-republican song eulogizing Roddy McCorley’s death on the bridge). This 15 minute detour turned into 2 hours when, in the same instant that I said, “Dust, don’t you think it’s a little windy to fly your…,” the drone started to drift away. I surprised myself with my patience and calmly hung out with my mom until he returned, covered in mud, scratches and—like any great husband—coffee and chocolate to appease us women for having to wait so long.

Drone recovered, we continued on to Belfast. Our drive down Shankill Road, with its palpably anguished murals and surly row-houses, was a sober meditation on the violence not so long behind us. We are certainly blessed to have never yet come so close to armed conflict.

After enjoying big sights and big burritos in the big city, we retreated to the countryside to a lovely little B&B where our host served us coffee and scones in a quaint breakfast room.

Mid-sip I pardoned myself as the sun made an appearance on the rolling green hills and ran outside.

Equipped with a washer and so-called dryer, we did laundry all through the night completely unprepared for how long it would take to dry.

Tip of the Day: Most places in Europe do not have dryers and if they do, they take a really long time to dry. Be prepared to hang dry your clothes for at least a day, maybe 2 if the weather is bad. We have used our travel clothesline countless times.

Bonus laundry tip: Castile soap is incredible and so is baking soda.

For laundry detergent, mix 1 tsp castile soap, 1 tsp baking soda, and 3 tbsp water per load.

The baking soda also comes in handy to deodorize your shoes if they happen to get wet or just start stinking from use.

Day 8: Horse Apples

The hospitality in Ireland is unmatched, and we woke up to our laundry folded neatly. We ate a little breakfast and headed out for the day.

We saw no ghosts here, though Cabra Castle is known as the second scariest haunted hotel in the world.

Less than 50 km away lay the day’s main attraction, a giant passage tomb known as Knowth, 60 large kerbstones sitting around its base. Three things make this place particularly intriguing:

• It dates from approximately 3200 BC
• Megalithic art remains carved into the stones
• No one can fathom how they were able to gather the wide variety of stones, the largest weighing from 1 to 10 tons, from 20 km away (and further!) without the help of the wheel or beast

The remains or over 200 people have been found here.

Though standing on something that is older than the pyramids of Giza is an impressive feeling, what really made my day was when the guide pointed out this inconveniently placed tree and shared that it was a Hawthorne tree, also known as a Fairies’ tree, and the farmer will continue to work around it ’til the end of his days because the Irish are a superstitious lot.

Not far from Knowth lies another, more-famous passage tomb known as Newgrange. Also constructed around 5000 years ago, its age, size, and variety of building material are possibly even more awe inspiring. It was rediscovered in 1669 and, while Newgrange has only one remaining piece of megalithic art, it has become one of the best-known symbols of Ireland, the triple spiral (or triskelion). As you enter the tomb your brain and heart conspire to fathom its existence, and failing to do so leaves you astonished, as you stare up at the all-original ceiling, wanting very badly to reach out and touch the stones, not doing so because you know this place is special . The guide excites your imagination with a demonstration of the way that, only on the day of the Winter Solstice, the sunlight pierces the tomb, and you wonder if the nameless creators know how often they are still thought about.

Naturally, we were the last to leave. We headed south to an Airbnb in Killiney we had picked out specially for our anniversary and, after settling in, Dustin and I walked to the Rambler’s Rest where the locals were dancing to Toto’s Africa.

Fact of the Day: No one can dispute that Africa is a great tune.

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