The Eighth Wonder of the World:
Clifden, Part II
June 27-29th
Well, I can't say that I expected the sun to last. No such optimism can long withstand the psychotic climatic reality of Ireland, but at the same time, though cloudy it wasn't raining - and it didn't rain a drop all day. Optimism does have some hope, after all - even in Ireland.
"Okay, Richard, I'm going to come back soon and pick your brain about what to do for the day, but first off, something far more important. Where's a good place to get some breakfast?"
It was just shy of 9 a.m. "Well, if any of the restaurants are open, you can look in them, but there's always Walsh's, a bakery up the street. Get'ye a good Irish breakfast in you - it'll do you no harm, and you'll walk it off it no time."
The man even reads minds. That's exactly what I was planning to do.
So I went up to Walsh's, ordered a mini-breakfast (I've had enough of puddings, thank you), and afterwards went back to pick Richard's brain, just like I said. "Lessee now... was it cyclin' that you were wantin' t'do today? Or was someone..."
"I was leaning more towards a walk, actually."
Richard nodded, and suddenly out came a sheet of paper, a pen and a lot of pictures.
In addition to running the hostel, Richard apparently is also an amateur cartographer - which is backed up, I read later, by an entry in the visitors' book: "Don't buy a map, the boss will draw you a better one!" And that person was right.
"You go up the Sky Road here, and you'll go up the monument" - he showed me a picture - "Now, the view from here is nice, but don't get too caught up - by the end, you'll see far better." (If you ever see a postcard of Clifden, actually, the shot is usually one taken from the John D'Arcy Monument - he was the founder of Clifden - and it shows the high street below, with the Twelve Pins standing in the background.)
"You walk on until you see the entrance to Clifden Castle" - another picture. Castle? I didn't even know this place had a castle. "Now, most people think that the entrance is the castle, but it's not. Ignore the entrance, or just go on through - but keep going, and you'll get to the Castle eventually" - and yet another picture.
I just did a lot of nodding, asking the odd question; Richard just kept drawing and talking, and I began to wonder if he had ever considered atlas-making as a profession. As it turned out, Richard had spent 40 years in the construction business in London (though he was from Connemara), and had bought some property in Clifden town, which a few years ago became the Brookside Hostel. During the months that it isn't open, he and his wife return to London (I'll have to remember to ask him if he knows as much about London as he does Connemara, actually.)
Off I set, for a half-day's walking. Unless you've really studied your map, you will forget that Clifden is a coastal town. Walks down the high street will do nothing to remind you; all the streets are diagonal, and to the east stand the Twelve Pins, and hills encircle the town. Once you start walking up and out of town, though, you remember.
I saw the Monument; continuing on, people in cars waved to me as they went by, and people outside, tending gardens or such, all said hello. I nodded at the castle entrance, went through, and wandered on, finally arriving at the Castle ruins. It's nothing extraordinary; none of the particulars along the way really are. It's the walk on the whole that's amazing, spellbinding, wondrous. I walked along and smiled at the red buds on the fuchsia, and watched the sheep. It was cloudy, but I could still see pretty far, and I looked over the loughs, the hills, the ocean as it dug in on one side of the peninsula.
I was getting higher and higher; it was no wonder the road was called the Sky Road and, at the top ("At the car park on the Upper Sky Road, just wait until you see the view from there," Richard had told me, smiling), I looked down - I was, basically, on top of a mountain - over the green lands and the cliffs and bits of beach at the coast. I looked at all the islands just off the mainland. The sky was gray; the land was green, and white houses dotted the islands dotting the coastal ocean. Connemara - part of the world we know, but still a world of its own. One can easily fall for a place like this.
Except for the occasional car, or cyclist or walker stopping for a hello or a quick chat, all was silent. Even more than the view, this captivated me; Galway isn't a big city, but it is a city, and cities are never truly silent. Even when they are quiet, there is still the expectation of noise - a drunk singing loudly, or a siren wailing, or a building alarm going off. When the city is quiet, it's idea of quiet is really a not-quite-soft hum, that is always about to decibel up into a roar.
From the monument, or at the castle, or even on the car park on the Upper Sky Road, however, Connemara was silent. Truly silent, mountain silent, nature silent; no sound except breezes or livestock, no motion except the occasional car or sight of a stream. Silence - serenity.
I stayed at the car park for a long time; I don't know how long, and it doesn't really matter. Instead of continuing down to the Lower Sky Road, from which I could basically backtrack into town, I hitched down with an English couple, ate lunch at the Two Dog Cafe (great food and coffee, and Internet access as well), and relaxed for a few hours. Clifden wasn't much noisier, but I wouldn't have cared if chunks of metal had started falling from the sky and clanged to the ground - that silence was still wrapped around me, like a hug from a best friend.
That evening I napped, and then decided to go to the pub. I'd not been to one yet, and there was no way I could truly say I'd been somewhere in Ireland, if I hadn't bothered to check out at least one of the drinking holes.
Instead of asking Richard, I just decided to wander around and see what struck my fancy, so at a little past ten I wandered into Mullarkey's Pub - "Open mic nite, 10 until late" - and sat myself on a bar stool near the back corner. The barman came over, but I'd forgotten to look at the taps when I walked in, so on instinct I ordered a Guinness.
I'd pretty much stopped drinking Guinness, actually; in Galway the pints always seem not to have been left to settle for long enough (not that I'm an expert or anything, but the black gold just didn't taste as rich as it should have). In Mullarkey's, though, I waited pintless for so long that I started to wish I'd brought a book or a newspaper, but the wait was for the best, as when the barman set down my Guinness (IR£2.30) and I took a swallow, my goodness! - it was one of the best pints I'd tasted in all of Ireland. (Talking to J.J. about it later, he backed me up on the way the Guinness is poured: "When I'm in the country I drink the Guinness, but when I'm in the city, I switch to lager.")
As I emptied my glass I watched the pub fill - and no, I wasn't seeing double; it was only my first pint, and even I'm not that much of a lightweight!
The open mic session was good, especially a couple of guitarists who were bloody brilliant (didn't have any of my own stuff with me though, and I don't know any tunes). I turned in pretty early, as I had to get up at 7:30 to make sure I caught to 8:15 bus back into Galway.
I had work at noon, and got back with plenty of time to kill. Walking through Eyre Square, back to the flat, it was shy of 10 a.m., but the city was bustling. I didn't really notice it, though. I was missing Connemara, but at the same time, I was still happy.
Connemara had, indeed, taken good care of me. The happiness didn't wane; it stayed. As will the memories of Connemara - which I hope to expand soon, because come the middle of July, when I finish work in Galway, I'm going back - to the Brookside, of course - to stay for a few more days. Connemara's nice, after all - and the people'll take care of you there.
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