Doolin's Star Quality - Doolin, Ireland
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Stumble It!Doolin's Star Quality
Doolin, Ireland
At 8 a.m., the hostel buzzes with activity. I don my sloppiest clothes (read: whatever I find first) to make the long hike over the hills to the Cliffs of Moher. About 700 feet above sea level and around six miles long, the cliffs are infamous because various visitors (I have not found any concrete statistics) have fallen, or vaulted, off the edges. Despite last night, I decide to walk with Natalia, Dilini and Kelly.
At 10:20 a.m., about two hours later, we reach a brown-and-white sign that says, "Welcome to the cliffs." We hiked 8 kilometers (about 6 miles), meandering past a Mecca of tourist buses packed with tourists from such places as Japan and Norway.
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The Atlantic Ocean off the west coast of Ireland |
Beyond the souvenir kiosks, the spectacular sapphire Atlantic Ocean set in the emerald cliffs evokes sounds of Irish bagpipes and whistles. The strong wind wicks my sweat and assuages my fatigue. I pass a harpist with long, obsidian hair and aquamarine eyes playing languidly in the sun. Visiting any city after this adventure will be like returning to Kansas after a jaunt in Oz.
Circling overhead, the puffins, guillenots, razorbills, kittiwakes, raven and choughs welcome us to their paradise. We walk northward along the cliffs, finding a path not yet marred by the masses. After soaking in the cliffs' splendor, we decide to try this trail as a shortcut to get back to the town's center.
After a half-hour, we find the coastal path is plagued with barbed wire and electrified fences to prevent pigs, cows and sheep from plunging to their deaths over the cliffs. I nervously imagine myself penetrating the fences, and dramatically diving like Esther Williams in "Million Dollar Mermaid." But I do not stop the girls from proceeding. I am adventurous, right?
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The Texan students (l-r Dinili, Kelly and Natalia) |
We trip over each other, scrambling to see the beautiful cliffs from all angles, like rough jade. We snap photographs, posing like the girls from the '80s variety show "Kids Incorporated." We are the roses of Clare, the county of about 96,000 to which Doolin and Lisdoonvarna belong, running freely while waiting for a sign that we are approaching our hostel.
The lush, open hills of Doolin become muddy menaces, transforming our intended two-hour return into a four-hour trek, mostly uphill. I lag behind, tired of kowtowing to the cow dung. If this were a movie, my stunt double would've taken over long ago. I would be sitting back in town sucking down ciders while she (or he) handled the dirty work. Without much effort, I trip, as if hunters had strung a line across my path. I fall downward, fearing for a flash that I will never return.
My squeals for help echo from the bottom of this six-foot crevice, barely wide enough for me to turn around. Four walls of grass and earth block my view of anything but the cloudless blue sky. Where are the girls? Natalia, like a nepenthe for my shock, grabs my outstretched hands and shows me where to place my mud-stained feet as she pulls me out.
"We thought you fell over the cliff!" jokes Kelly.
"I probably would've screamed longer," I reply, imagining myself as a bomb loudly streaming downward. "Let's just go back."
As we trudge back, closer together than before, my muddy shoes and pajama pants sloshing, I realize my good fortune. What if they had not heard me? What if I had made this journey alone? What if I had fallen off the cliffs? We find the main road and I relinquish my worries. Tourists: a better sight than Leprechauns any day.
After saying goodbye to the girls, who had planned to catch the next bus to Dublin after seeing the cliffs, I shower, longer than usual. But I know I cannot wash away the fall's larger implications. Sometimes traveling alone is not ideal.
At 8 p.m., I decide I should patron the other pubs in Doolin. Before Natalia, Dilini and Kelly left, we ate at McGann's in the Upper Village, opposite the harbor. We enjoyed Irish stew with lamb meat, carrots and potatoes, fresh, hefty soda bread with sweet butter and Guinness. Although wary of wandering alone now, I elect to go back for a pint and some music. How else am I going to see Doolin? Besides, the bar stands 50 feet from the hostel, just over another bridge. On sitting at the bar and ordering a cider in the intimate pub, a 6-foot-2-inch man resembling John Goodman sits beside me and orders a Guinness.
"You Spanish?" he asks, studying my dark eyes and hair, expecting me to respond with "hola." I laugh because I have spent the last five months in Spain. I admit that I am from California, surprisingly not sparking the usual questions about Pamela Lee's breasts, but rather about John Steinbeck's depictions of California life. His sad eyes internalize every image I confirm.
Mike joins us, ordering a hot tea, an unusual order for a guy who says he comes to the bar every night. A tall, lanky man of about 30, with sparkling eyes like periwinkle petals in the sunlight, Mike sings up the road at McDermott's, the third pub. He says he's performing in 20 minutes and invites us to watch. He glides out the door like an opera virtuoso.
Thomas continues to tell me about life in County Clare. He is a construction worker. He helped build this pub, he says. I glean from his words that he is a lonely man, reading often, not having opportunity for much else. I get a sense that many men around here are lonely, unable to make a match, despite their convenience to Lisdoonvarna, and that tourists prove their only fresh faces among stagnant farm plots. There aren't many single lasses living in Doolin, I see after perusing the pub.
McDermott's is larger than McGann's, glitzier than O'Connor's. This place is Doolin's candy-coated tourist oasis. Come here for Guinness, get watered-down authenticity. After hearing other singers, Mike grasps the microphone. The crowd of about 45, mostly Americans, relishes Mike's rendition of John Denver's "Country Road" and the solemn "Danny Boy."
At 1 a.m., I decide to head to my hostel, having yawned a couple of times into my glass of Guinness. I bid farewell to Mike, who stays seated at the bar.
I am half way to the hostel when Mike shouts my name. I turn, shocked and intrigued.
"Now what kind of gentleman would I be if I didn't walk a pretty girl like you home?" he shouts. The trite can titillate when wrapped within an Irish brogue.
The rural area's night sky seemed so full of stars that it could have torn and showered us with bright remnants of a fantastic fabric.
"Do you ever get sick of seeing all these stars?" I ask, envious of his nightly Omni Theater show. I want to keep my guard up, but it's tough when the sky is so clear and this man is so handsome.
"I'm just a country bumpkin, you know," he says, hanging his bald head so that it reflects the moonlight. "The stars and this town are all I know."
He points out some constellations, including Lyra, the lyre, conjuring that harpist playing softly on the Cliffs of Moher. Mike tells me he drives a tourist taxi daily and sings occasionally at night. Despite having the car, he rarely drives anywhere when not working. He's as sweet as a lamb. I hope he doesn't turn into a wolf when we reach my hostel.
"Do you like riddles?" he asks wryly. I nod. "What's greater than God? The rich want it, the poor have it and you die if you eat it?"
We walk as I ponder the answer.
"Maybe you'll come back here someday," he says distractedly, staring over the river, over the cows, pigs and sheep grazing on the lush, green grass, over Doolin's vast nothingness. Here it comes. Which one is it this time, the marriage proposal or the sexual proposition?
"Nothing's greater than God," I guess, hoping he'll come up with something else witty to say since we've reached the hostel and I feel awkward.
He smiles. At the heavy, wooden door, he hugs me. Incredibly, that's all he does. He waves goodbye as I enter the hostel, sleepy and safe, leaving Mike alone outside, staring at the stars, an Irish gentleman. Maybe letting down your guard a bit isn't so bad after all.
If you go...
Visiting Ireland? Getting to Doolin is simple. Shannon International airport is only 45 minutes by car. Bus Eireann operates local buses daily throughout the year, and offers a lovely view of the countryside along the way. Express buses leave daily during tourist season (May-October) from all parts of Ireland.
If you're an off-season traveler, and don't mind the chilly weather, a wonderful time to visit is during Doolin's Micho Russell Weekend, a rousing musical festival, on the last weekend in February.
To make reservations at Doolin's Aille River Hostel, which offers dormitory rooms for two, four, six and eight people, private rooms for couples, and camping with full use of the hostel's facilities, call 065 707 4260, e-mail ailleriver@esatclear.ie or visit the website.
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Cara Nissman in Ireland |
For more information on Doolin, including other lodging options, visit the Irish Tourist Board's Web site at www.ireland.travel.ie.
Cara Nissman is a reporter at the Boston Herald in Massachusetts. Nissman has traveled alone around Ireland, Spain, Portugal, France and Italy, and vows to return to Europe soon.
