Quiet Men They Were Not
So much for The Quiet Man, the movie Hilda's sister-in-law, Ann Daly, sat me down to watch. I was wrapped in a blanket by a splendid fire one cold night near Cork. I had walked the same bridge John Wayne crossed. I dove off the coast where he raced his horse in the film.
Next stop: a cheap sleep. And, no, quiet men they were not.
As the hostel manager told me the next morning, "it's an unspoken rule among hostels in Ireland: never allow groups of more than two Irish, men or women, to stay at one time. It's almost always a hag or stag party, and even when it's not, they're going to come back causing trouble."
As the hostel manager told me the next morning, "it's an unspoken rule among hostels in Ireland: never allow groups of more than two Irish, men or women, to stay at one time. It's almost always a hag or stag party, and even when it's not, they're going to come back causing trouble."
Yeah, the lads have arrived, open bottles in hand and shouts of "oyyyyy-heyyyyy" or some posse-tribal-celtic-football bellow emanating from deep in their bowels straight through their foul mouths. Reminds me how happy I am to be a long way out of college dorm life.
Earlier on the road out of Galway at 6AM, I watched the clouds and rain pelt the coast and, as I turned inland, the fog began to lift with the calling of the sun. Undeterred by the low temps and moist air, I stopped often to pray, photograph, hike and meet cattle and sheep up close and personal. Connemara is gorgeous, inspiring and peaceful.
On what is considered Ireland's only fjord (although scientists debate whether it was ever glaciated), Killary Harbour's Glassilaun Beach offers year-round diving. The surrounding mountains (the tallest, Mt. Mweelvea stands at 819 meters) and orientation of the bay and harbour provide a protected micro-climate with calmer water than much of the Atlantic coast.
I stopped at the Acora outlet where I discovered that the wool scarf I bought at a thrift store in County Cork for 3 Euro was selling new for 25. I also dropped in at the Kylemore Abbey only because I happened to be passing by, anyway. More than a century ago a couple visited the area on their honeymoon and fell in love with the mountains and lakes, building a castle on the site in the late 1800s. The wife died soon thereafter and the grieving groom couldn't bear to stay without her. It has since served as a boarding school and Benedictine monastery. Now it's a museum with gorgeous gardens. I skipped the entrance fee and just strolled the gardens, no other guests in sight, through the downpour.
Good thing here at the Old Mill Holiday Hostel I opted for the 7-room women's room instead of the mixed-18. Me and the boys, I'm now thinking, would have quickly become a rowdy hell, in contrast to my day of near solitude.
Earlier on the road out of Galway at 6AM, I watched the clouds and rain pelt the coast and, as I turned inland, the fog began to lift with the calling of the sun. Undeterred by the low temps and moist air, I stopped often to pray, photograph, hike and meet cattle and sheep up close and personal. Connemara is gorgeous, inspiring and peaceful.
Rolling into Clifden, one of the most western towns in Ireland, I followed the only pedestrians I saw. They ably guided me to the only shop open in what is usually a bustling tourist town. Lucky me, the one shop open is my favorite kind of shop: a bakery, one with the usual varieties of soda bread but also spelt cakes and flaky scones. Pleasing the eye as well, it offered a bay window with a view of a ring of lakes, mountains and farms to boot. Down the street I could see the sun glowing on the town's two church steeples as I warmed up with a decaf and slice of moist ginger cake.
15 kilometers further north and east along the shore stands the Quaker-founded Letterfrack, one of those blink-and-you'll-miss-it villages. Later in the day I will come back here to tramp through Connemara National Park in the driving rain. For now, though, I do blink and pass it by in pursuit of another adventure, an even wetter one than hiking in a November storm on the west coast of Ireland.
On what is considered Ireland's only fjord (although scientists debate whether it was ever glaciated), Killary Harbour's Glassilaun Beach offers year-round diving. The surrounding mountains (the tallest, Mt. Mweelvea stands at 819 meters) and orientation of the bay and harbour provide a protected micro-climate with calmer water than much of the Atlantic coast.
While my dive master enjoyed a drysuit, for which I am not yet certified, I squeezed into 12 millimeters of neoprene - 7 mil longjohn with a 5 mil shortie on top - and hood/gloves/booties. Breffni Gray treated me to a VIP (Victim of Insane Planning or Visionary, Intrepid Photojournalist, maybe Very Idiotic Person?) dive with Scubadivewest. He and his brother Cillian are the sons of an Irish pioneer, Shane Gray, the first to open a dive center back in the 60's in Dublin. They run a great program and spent hours with me afterwards reviewing what we saw and giving tips on local hikes, pints and grub. Rather than meeting them dead on a dinner plate, I came within inches of lobster and prawn, crab and scallop, thriving in the cold, clear waters of the Atlantic. Potential food sources were fascinating, but my favorite moment underwater was the last of the hour and not a fish but a bird: a cormorant dive-bombed us in search of its next meal, checked us out and then headed back toward the light. Magnificent.
The pleasures of hot shower, coffee and good company notwithstanding, I bitched to myself as my fingers and toes throbbed in their transition from blue numb nubs to stinging appendages. The rain that had started in the last minutes of the dive let up long enough to give me an hour of damp and windy trekking. Slogging through bog and along gravel trails, finishing in a drizzle, made me wish for:
1. waterproof boots. I am still wearing the Brooks trail running shoes I bought at Transports in Oakland back in August).2. waterproof housing for my Canon 5D, although I've become adept at shooting through plastic bags in rain. No tools yet for shooting surfers or divers, though.3. waterproof jacket. Gortex, where are you when I need you? Ania's fuzzy fleece pullover just couldn't compete with the unleashing of the sky.
I stopped at the Acora outlet where I discovered that the wool scarf I bought at a thrift store in County Cork for 3 Euro was selling new for 25. I also dropped in at the Kylemore Abbey only because I happened to be passing by, anyway. More than a century ago a couple visited the area on their honeymoon and fell in love with the mountains and lakes, building a castle on the site in the late 1800s. The wife died soon thereafter and the grieving groom couldn't bear to stay without her. It has since served as a boarding school and Benedictine monastery. Now it's a museum with gorgeous gardens. I skipped the entrance fee and just strolled the gardens, no other guests in sight, through the downpour.
Landing in Westport I headed straight to the health store even before looking for a bed to crash for the night. Speaking of crashing, did I mention I fell, hard, three times on rocks in Lahinch while photographing surfers there yesterday? Yeah, well the images I got weren't worth the bruising on the slick black rocks. On the other hand, turning my ankle (sniper attack again!) on the moonscape of rocks in the Burren was totally worth it.
Staying upright isn't my strength even on dry surfaces, but all the falling I've done over the years has taught me one thing: how to hold onto that camera like a receiver in the Super Bowl.
Staying upright isn't my strength even on dry surfaces, but all the falling I've done over the years has taught me one thing: how to hold onto that camera like a receiver in the Super Bowl.
As I reviewed my old-lady-litany in my head (still feeling the pull of my left hamstring from the Dublin marathon, the tightness in my back from thin mattresses on hostel bunk beds and the injection in my arse at the clinic in Ethiopia three weeks ago, believe it or not) I couldn't wait to rub down with some homeopathic ointment.
Across the street, wouldn't you know it, there was a cool, old stone mill, its rock face glowing in the street lamps. Caught my eye and after photographing it, I realized it is now a hostel. Not bad. Had the dorm room to myself, hung the wet clothes on the furnace and headed to O'Malley's for my first (yes, first, and if you know me you know this is remarkable in the land of fish and chips) order of Irish wedges. Nothing like salty, hot french fries, a bowl of sweet potato-ginger soup and a good draft. Yum.
I drifted easily into sleep only to find that my "private" dorm room was now occupied by my favorite chanting posse of pubsence, fond of visiting my floor and vacuuming my room, flipping on and off lights between three and five in the morning. No locks on the doors, and the hostel manager and other guests were in the second building across the courtyard. They ran each time I threatened them, so I was pretty lucky all in all given the ratio of 14 drunk, young men to one sober, creeky woman.
-7 November 2008
-7 November 2008