I Now Know Where The World Ends
June 11th
Back in March, when I learned that my application for my Irish work visa had been approved, I bought a book to help prep me for Ireland. I read it on planes and trains, from the west coast of North America to the east coast of Scotland, and from London to Dublin to Galway.
At the time, though, my reading of the book - a collection of travel writing that spans the whole island, North and South, through the 20th century - was nothing more than construction work for the imagination. Strange names - Inismor, Connemara, Claddagh - and descriptions of green and rugged landscapes, of the "cruel beauty" that is Ireland - this was overwhelming. As I had no basis for comparison or comprehension in reality, all this hit me on a purely cerebral level. All was the construction of scenes in my mind, built from the depictions in the scenes of the book.
Yesterday I picked up the text again, and turning to the table of contents realized how familiar so many of the names and words and places are now. Imagination has found substance; the cerebral comprehends the corporeal. For example, in 1948 Chiang Yee wrote about "going down O'Connell Street, Dublin" - and I have done that now; O'Connell Street is no longer just a description (but as far as O'Connell Street goes, I'll stop now). Or in the recollections of H.V. Morton, one of the most popular travel writers of the 20th century, who spent a great deal of time traveling around Galway, its Claddagh, and Connemara - I now have seen these places too; they exist for me, from my own vantage point, and no longer just that of a sheet of paper.
Connemara was today.
Morton came to Connemara in 1929, and afterwards wrote, "I know now where the world ends." Seventy years have passed, yet in some ways the revelation of this statement has not.
Much else has changed; for example, when Morton describes the Claddagh, the old fishing village that sprung up outside of Galway, when Galway was still known mainly as "the City of the Tribes," he tells of "neat, whitewashed thatched cottages," where at night "there are no street lamps" and from the house chimneys come "the peat reek."
This is not the Claddagh I have seen. Where in 1929 the village and the city still were separated not only by walls and the River Corrib, but by the people themselves, who were either of Galway or of Claddagh, I do not cross the Corrib in 2000 and feel that I am in a different place. There are lights for the streets now, and the cottages have been replaced by standard middle-class homes, complete with central heating. There is no longer a Galway and a Claddagh. There is only Galway.
Connemara, too, has changed much since Morton's day. Where for him "Connemara is not used to motor cars," there are plenty of roads to take one through the region, and plenty of cars to travel the roads. However, to go to Connemara, I do think that Morton's feeling - "I now know where the world ends" - still holds true.
The towns have video shops and the pubs have Sky Digital, but the villages and towns are small and scattered, and between there mist-covered hills, thatched cottages, barely contained fuchsia hedges and drystone walls that have withstood centuries. There is still wilderness here, still a feeling of remoteness and removal, if you are used to the world outside Connemara. Inside Connemara, I get the feeling that in many places the modern world is acknowledged by little more than an insouciant shrug.
Even the journey to Connemara has a touch of anachronism to it - but, fortunately, things also get lighter-hearted from here.
It's the tour guides, you see. Tour guides in Ireland can always be counted on for keeping things light. It's that mischief in their eyes and, of course, it's part of putting on a good show for the tourists, but they are always ready with a good joke or anecdote. Hugh Ryan runs the Vintage Bus Tour to Connemara, seven days a week (IR£12, a tenner for students). He's a great guide, and he also runs a brilliantly scheduled tour, tickets for which are available at the Tourist Office near Eyre Square.
For starters, Hugh's tour doesn't leave until 2 p.m. Other Connemara day tours leave around 10 a.m., but there are times - usually, of course, after a big night out on the piss - where that's just too bloody early. For the average independent traveler, however, two in the afternoon is almost always doable, and you'll only be away until about six in the evening, leaving plenty of time for another night on the piss, should you so wish.
Once on the bus, Hugh also livens things up nicely. Standing at the front of the aisle, he announces, "I'm just going to have a drink before we go."
"Do you have enough for everybody?" replies a certain American smart-ass.
"It's only water," he adds, swigging as everyone on the bus laughs.
I said that sometimes even getting to Connemara involves a bit of anachronism. The bus is what I was talking about. "It's 51 years-old. The bus, not me," Hugh adds. "I'm not quite 51." The whiteness of his hair, however, does leave some debate about which side of 51 he means when he says "not quite."
Actually, Hugh must be talking about himself, not the bus - which is a 1932 Bedford, meaning that the petrol coach is pushing 70, and I'm not talking miles per hour (in fact, as its top speed seems to be somewhere around 35 mph, Hugh is always pulling over to the side of the road to let traffic pass). No matter the age of either bus or driver, though, I'm not worried; at least, I'm not if the ability to drive runs in his family. The Connemara Bus was bought in 1932 by Hugh's grandfather, Andrew Ferguson, who drove it until 1964 - for 32 years - until he was 80 years old.
He bought the bus partly because he suspected that the old railway line, which connected Galway to Clifden, the capital of Connemara, was going to close, leaving people without a way to get to and from the City of the Tribes. Enter the Connemara Bus, where Andrew Ferguson would pick up people and take them to Galway for market, including the goods they had to sell, be it butter, produce, bread or even live chickens.
Today, though, the bus only transports people, and it comes stacked with modern conveniences. "This bus is air-conditioned," says Hugh - who then reaches up and rolls back a panel that is as wide and nearly a third as long as the whole roof - my kind of AC.
Hugh first began working on the bus when he was 8, as conductor, from 1960 to 1964, "when I retired at the age of 12," he says to our chuckles.
As for the trip itself, I don't want to give away too much; Connemara is a place I almost don't want to describe, just for the sake of making you curious enough to go see it for yourself. To put it another way, I only saw the place for 4 hours, and I want to see more. I want to go back. Perhaps it's because Connemara - with the barren hills, the misty skies, the feeling and look of desolation and isolation - reminds me of Scotland's Isle of Skye, which when I first saw it filled me simultaneously with a feeling of total removal from all that was, and yet also a feeling of being connected with the world, as it is, not as we try to make it out to be.
Still, there is plenty to see, from the lakes ('lough' is the Irish term, similar to the Scots 'loch'), to the towns, such as Oughterard. Oughterard is Andrew Ferguson's hometown, and the tour takes a 20-minute break there, leaving us tourists to wander. "You won't get lost in Oughterard," Hugh says to allay any worries. "There are only two streets."
In true Irish fashion, while there are only two churches for Oughterard's two streets, there are about a dozen pubs (one of which, Keoghs, proudly displays pictures of the owner, standing with celebrity visitors such as Bob Hope, and Keith Richards and Ronney Woods of The Rolling Stones).
Other highlights of the tour include watching the salmon leap (depending on the season; the salmon are now only just starting to migrate their way back towards their birth and breeding waters; however, be wary, as the midges are already out in force), and the bridge where part of the Hollywood classic The Quiet Man was filmed.
Past all the sights, and despite all the tranquility, though, every moment in Connemara I had a strange feeling about the place, but I chalk it up, at least in part, to having become estranged to natural serenity (it's been a while since I've so much as been on a hike).
Connemara may have roads and Sky Digital, but much of Morton's words and observations still hold true. There may be cars, but grey mist still hides the brown of the heather-covered mountains, and wild yellow irises grow over the tall dandelions and buttercups that border one of the many rivers. Unless stones begin to be counted in agricultural yield figures, the land is unfertile - "Do any people on earth scratch a living from more villainous soil?" Morton asks - yet there is a certain happiness here, one that I cannot yet begin to try to expand on. One could argue that it's a form of resignation to the difficulties of existence, especially in such a harsh place, but one could also argue that it is simply contentment, bred of a simpler life.
I do agree, though, that the world seems to end in Connemara. What troubles me, or, rather, what makes me wonder, is that I'm not sure if something else also begins.
Questions?
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