One Clean Shirt Left But It Was Green

The B&B was full last night so we had breakfast with Angela and Michael from Ascot, outside of London. She's a secondary science teacher and he talks less.  They are here visiting her cousin something some number removed on her father's side who is a lighthouse keeper in Northern Ireland and she lived in New Jersey for a time in the 1970s. It's fun waking up and meeting people straight off and hearing about their lives and travel.

Anne and Eugene suggested that we avoid Derry today because it is a national holiday in Northern Ireland--Armed Forces Day, 12 July to commemorate the Orange Order defeating King James II at the Battle of the Boyne in 1690--and they said the parades quickly turn to protests which quickly turn to violence, particularly after the drinking begins midday. Chris had arrived to breakfast in a green guyabera and I had on my last clean shirt which was green and blue and Eugene told us that we should change our shirts before heading out for the day because wearing green in Northern Ireland would be considered a political statement.

After changing, we left Letterkenny for the Coastal Route, a drive which brings you through Derry, Limavady, Castlerock, Coleraine and Bushmills on the way to the Giant's Causeway, which is a World Heritage Site. Coming up on Derry, it was clear it was a holiday. Everyone was decked out in red, white and blue or orange and purple and there were British and Orange Order flags everywhere. On the way out of Derry, we actually drove the parade route, so there were people lining the streets as we came past and traffic on the other side of the road was backed up terribly because the police were stopping and checking cars. We saw busloads of people coming in from towns outside of the city and there was part of me that wanted to stay in Derry for the day and just see, but Anne and Eugene had seemed awfully worried about us, I remembered that pyre we saw the men building yesterday and didn't relish watching people burn Ireland's flag, and we did have other plans so on we drove.

The drive is lovely and the politics are confusing to an outsider. There were sections of road where we saw nothing but Irish flags but those were very few. It was far more common to see British flags and Ulster flags, as well.And Northern Ireland uses the pound and miles and all things UK.

The coastal route is, as advertised, along the coast and we passed through several small holiday towns with caravan parks with units to rent by the week and cars that look as if they've been abandoned not quite along the side of the road, where people have left them to trudge their families down to the shore. There are no parking rules in this part of the world that we can determine. It isn't necessary to find a spot and it isn't necessary to park on the same side of the street that you are driving. This was laughable in Letterkenny, but seems death defying on the coastal road.

I admit we're travel dorks; last night we counted the number of World Heritage sites we've visited between the two of us. Between the Sydney Opera House in Australia and Chichen Itza in Mexico, we've been fortunate to see a great number of them. Today, we added Giant's Causeway to our list, a coastal area in which geological activity over millions of years worked to create 40,000 interlocking basalt columns and hexagonal rocks in bizarre formations. There are audio guided walks high and low to see the rocks from the shore and up the cliffs to see them from above. Irish mythology attributes the creation of these rocks to Finn McCool, a magical and benevolent giant.

We stopped for a late lunch in Bushmills, where the whisky is made, and in honor went to a local shop and ordered the whiskey and honey ice cream. Everyone should do just that. It was a good day.

Does Wee Mean Something Different Here?

Yesterday, we stayed in town in the morning and walked historic Letterkenny. Above the square, there are two churches that sit across from one another: the old Conwal Church of Ireland built in the 17^th century but added to in more recent years which required building above the existing graveyard and our pictures show how they went about doing that without disturbing extant graves and the newer Cathedral of St. Eunan, built in approximately 1900, the inside of which looked very much like the parish in which I grew up.  On our way into the Cathedral we were stopped by a nun—Sr. Susan Evangelist—who lived in Montana for 17 years in the sixties and seventies and went to Chicago in 1979 to see the pope and ask him to pray for Ireland. She petted my arm and told me she “taught a wee lass” just like me when she was in Montana and she shared a prayer with us that she had written while in the States. She told us to go right on in the Cathedral. They were just praying the rosary and would be done in a wee five minutes. We wouldn’t be bothering no one. Sr. Susan was a gift in the day.

While in Letterkenny, we also went to the Donegal County Museum, where we were able to piece together some more of the history of the area and particularly during the first World War. Currently, they have a temporary exhibit showcasing the work of James Glass, a photographer from the early 20^th century who dealt in landscapes and portraits, resulting in work that reminded me of Dorothea Lange.

We picked up supplies for a picnic and headed back to Glenveagh National Park; however, this time we went to Glenveagh Castle to spend some time. We had lunch in the Victorian Pleasure Gardens, before touring the castle. All of the castles we’ve seen have been built by the dominant family in whatever area the castle happens to sit. Most of them, thus far, have been ancient. This one, however, was built much more recently (1880s) by an extremely wealthy man who wanted his mansion to sit in the midst of the vast expanse of land he had purchased for hunting. The architect borrowed from the style of Balmoral Castle in Scotland, where the English royal family vacationed and the result is majestic. Throughout the time of its private ownership—and there were three private owners before the last sold the entire estate to the Irish government to be used as a national park—it was a destination for socialites from all around the world. Greta Garbo was a frequent guest, as were Clark Gable and Charlie Chaplin. The final owner was an American and when he sold the estate, he donated the contents of the building, as well, so the rooms are furnished and the dining room table is set with one of the 21 sets of china kept in the house, this particular set being comprised of 365 pieces.

When we returned to Letterkenny, we headed to McGinley’s for what we thought would be a session, but what was actually a band. They were a band that played traditional Irish music, though, so all was not lost.

This morning, I was finally successful in convincing Anne and Eugene that I couldn’t eat another egg (maybe in my life), and they kept saying “so you won’t be eating nothing, then?” even though I had already had a bowl of cereal and they had presented me with a fruit basket containing two bananas, two nectarines, an apple, two kiwis and an orange in it, in addition to the customary dish with six pieces of toast, four slices of brown bread and two of ginger. Anne hurried out to refill the orange juice carafe to “quench your thirst since you won’t be eating nothing.”

We went to Northern Ireland today to visit Derry. Northern Ireland is a separate entity from Ireland—we were reminded at one of our stops that the technical name is the United Kingdom of England, Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland and it was immediately apparent that cultural identity is a complicated issue. We began by walking the old city walls of Derry, built between 1613 and 1618 and still intact, where we learned that Derry has been the site of almost continuous conflict between religious and political groups from 1666 forward. Our guide book suggested one could walk the wall in about 45 minutes, but that is if one is not interested in reading any of the placards and/or stopping at any of the significant historic sites along the way. We spent several hours using the wall to get from one place to the next.

At the very start, we saw two men building a pyre out of pallets and old doors and lumber. As we looked on, they were dragging an old couch up to the base and tilting it on its end to join flammables that extended almost to the top of the flagpole, from which an Irish flag was flying.

Our first stop was St. Columb’s Cathedral, which was built between 1623 and 1633, and is among the most interesting churches we’ve seen. Unfortunately, like the Catholic church in Chichicastenango that made such an impression on me when we were in Guatemala, St. Columb’s doesn’t allow photography. It was impressive in myriad ways. First, every inch of it was ornamented without being gaudy. The kneelers are all hand embroidered. The pews are intricately carved mahogany. The organ has 4000 pipes. It appears that sunlight is pouring through every pane of stained glass onto the stone floor below. It’s stunning everywhere the eye lands. And the collections are incredible. They have an original King James Bible and a guest book signed in the 1940s by Elizabeth I and her daughter, Princess Elizabeth. It’s also intriguing because the history of the church is a history of political and social conflict and that is apparent within the walls. Right inside the main entrance there is a pedestal on which sits a mortar shell as big as my head that was fired into the city during the siege of 1689. Within it held the terms of surrender, which the citizens of Londonderry did not accept. Hanging from the ceiling of the north and south aisles are regimental flags dating back to the 18^th century and, again, these are a reminder of the role the church played in the conflict. At one point, the lead in the spire was used for ammunition and later cannons were placed where the spire had been because the church had the greatest vantage point in the city.

We also toured the First Derry Presbyterian Church and Blue Coat School Visitor’s Center. The visitor’s center attempts to explain how Presbyterianism came to Ireland (from Scotland) and the subjugation Presbyterians suffered throughout Ireland’s history. We talked for a short while with a man who works there about the history of the building and its iterations and renovations as a result of violent vandalism by the IRA. He says he’s traveled the world and believes the troubles they experience here are the same troubles people experience everywhere just in different colors, but he’s frustrated with the Catholics for their rigidity because he believes there has to be some compromise in order to unite and move forward.

We moved on to the Museum of Free Derry, which details the events of Bloody Sunday 30 January 1972, in which British soldiers opened fire on relatively peaceful nationalist protesters (they had only rocks and broken bottles) and killed 13 unarmed men and wounded another 15 people. British media claimed the dead were gunmen and bombers, although in 2010 this was ruled untrue. It was interesting to walk through the museum display after having just spoken with the man at the First Derry Presbyterian Church who identified as British and didn’t necessarily support a unified free Ireland. Outside of the museum, there is a series of murals documenting the uprising that are striking in their scale.

When we got back to Letterkenny this evening, Chris had an email from one of the men he met at Blas inviting us to visit him in Cork, so we’ll have to look at our itinerary and see if we can do so. He also mentioned that in his entire life he didn’t remember a summer with as much sunshine and heat as this one. And he also mentioned that we shouldn’t wear green when we’re touring Northern Ireland and that there are marches and protests planned later this week, which makes me think they could be lighting that pyre we saw anytime. And he told Chris about a must-see sporting event outside of Galway on Sunday and since Galway is where we are headed on Saturday…

Really? Because That's What Words Do

Last night, as we were leaving McGinley’s, a drunken friend at the door complained bitterly about the heat of the day. Before we left this morning, Eugene warned us that it was going to be another “scorcher.” What the Irish mean by this is that it is the absolutely perfect day by anyone else in the entire world’s definition: 75 degrees, sunny with a breeze and zero humidity, just lovely. We drove north and east of Letterkenny today to Inishowen. 

Our first stop was at Grianan of Aileach, a 6^th century ring fort, believed to have been built on the site of an earlier ring fort—archeological findings from which suggest it was built around the time of Christ. It is about 24 meters diameter and consists of three terraces linked by steps. From the top, there is a panoramic view looking over the counties Donegal, Tyrone and Londonderry and Lough Swilly. This was my favorite stop of the day, in part because it reminded me of ruins we have visited in Mexico and Guatemala; there’s something about the ancient structures trapping stories within them that makes me want to lean in and listen even though no one remains. 

We tried to stop at the Inch Wildlife Reserve a lot and if anyone else ever finds it, let us know. We followed every sign and arrow, doubled back, doubled back again before we decided we were basically in it and didn’t know it but couldn’t find parking. I’m going to imagine there were ducks and swans, egrets and magpies, since we’ve seen a lot of ducks and swans, egrets and magpies here. We can’t get it exactly right every time, so we doubled back to the road one more time and moved on towards Buncrana.

We stopped there to walk through the town and in and out of shops. Chris was finally able to find an electronics store where he could buy the type of cord he needed to plug his phone into the car, and now I’m not sure how we’ll spend all of our free time, because--while it hasn’t made the blog--we have looked for this cord every day in every town. It was a shopping triumph that made the rest of the day better because it allowed us sorely needed music in the car. Beyond town, we stopped at Fort Dunree to explore. Lough Swilly has long been a site of importance in Ireland’s history and is said to be where the Norse and Anglo-Normans first entered Ireland. Dunree was originally built as a Napoleonic fort but was used during World War II to protect Ireland’s neutrality. It’s a steep climb to the top but worth the view of Lough Swilly and the countryside leading from it. 

We were so close to the most northern tip of Ireland that we decided to carry on until we reached Malin Head. On the way, Chris recalled the most spectacular drives of his life—the Amalfi Coast, the Blue Ridge Highway, the road between Denver and Breckenridge, racing along the Rhine--and he added the Inishowen 100 Coastal Route to the list. Spectacular is a good word. 

We stopped in Carndonagh on the way because it is home to “the famous St. Patrick’s cross” which is a 7^th century carving representing one of the very earliest Christian crosses outside of mainland Europe. It seems like that would warrant some fanfare, but it’s at the side of the road with a wooden campground shelter over it and doesn’t trigger choirs of angels.  Malin Head, however, is breathtakingly beautiful, and it must have been difficult for those souls who left Ireland for America and Australia to see it fade from their vision as their boats departed. I’m reminded of the Toothpastefor Dinner cartoon on my bulletin board at school in which one person says “There are no words to describe it” and the person he’s talking to says, “Really? Because that’s what words do” but, somehow, words and even the pictures we took aren’t enough to capture the intensity of the sight. It’s so remote, but you really must see it for yourselves…   

Uh Huh: The Loch Ness Monster

It turns out, one can order a half breakfast and a half breakfast—while still too much—makes much more sense for at least one of us. Although tomorrow I’m going to have to inquire about an alternative because I think I’ve eaten at least one egg every day since I got off the plane. There were different people at breakfast today. Yesterday, there were girls from the Netherlands and today there was a British woman and an American man from Virginia Beach. There are all new cars in the parking lot this evening, so we’ll see what tomorrow holds. 

We decided on another coastal drive today through the Glenveagh National Park and headed out of Letterkenny midmorning. Our first stop was for another brown sign for the Colmcille Heritage Center, where there is a lot of confusing information about St. Colmcille, born in County Donegal in 521, who went on to work as a missionary on the island of Iona in Scotland. It was mostly impossible to understand because there is so much history we don’t know and we may have been reading the placards in the wrong order but what was absolutely clear was the most important part of the story anyway: Colmcille was the first person ever to file reports about having seen the Loch Ness monster. He was obviously credible because he was a very serious priest and he claimed that an enormous monster emerged from the depths of the lake and ate one of his priest friends. He then banished the monster, which may be why there are so few sightings today.

Coming out of the Heritage Center we traumatized a wee Irish lass. She was walking down the road with her father, two sisters and a dog, but her legs were the shortest of all and she fell behind. Far enough behind that she became frightened when she realized we were slowly coming down the road behind her. So she sped up, but kept turning back to see if we were going to kill her (we weren’t), and then she stumbled right out of her shoe. Remaining in her shoes had kept her emotionally well, and once that shoe came off so did any constitutional grip she might have had on those tears. Instead of putting her shoe back on, she hopped and sobbed, hopped and sobbed to the side of the road. Her father was too far away to save her from us or help her with her shoe, so I got out to help her. When I got back to the car, Chris asked what she had said. She wasn’t able to say anything because she was crying so inconsolably, but she did let me hand her the shoe and then quietly retreat. It took some time for her to catch up to her father and we waited where we were until she did, since we had already become the subject of nightmares we’re sure she’ll have til she’s 20 and didn’t want to make things any worse by barreling down the road after her. 

We stopped off for a walk around in Dungloe, a town harder than some to identify. Our map is printed mostly in English, with some Irish names in italics. The road signs are printed mostly in English and sometimes in Irish, so it takes some figuring to know quite where you are. Sometimes there is a bit of a relationship between the Irish and English, but the Irish words for Dungloe are An Clochan Liath so it took more imagination. 

From there we went to Cruit Island, a tidal island almost straight west of Letterkenny. It’s small, only three miles by one and is inhabited by less than 100 people. We were there at a time when it doesn’t resemble an island because the bridge we crossed to get there was over sand but twice a day the tide comes in and there are signs warning of dangerous currents below the bridge. I imagine it is worth seeing with the water rushing through, but I contend it is worth seeing without it. It’s this curious and beautiful area. We walked the length of several city blocks over sand which a little later in the day would be under the waters of the Atlantic. We were able to walk up to banks of rock where seaweed and other aquatic microlife had taken root. At Doe Castle yesterday when we were completely alone, Chris likened it to the Mayapan ruins in Yucatan where we were completely alone. There was a camper at Cruit where an older gentleman was setting out chairs for he and his wife to sit with their dog in between and there was a young family playing in the surf and there we were. It is a remote area, but it’s hard to think it wouldn’t be over-run in a different part of the world. 

We had lunch farther down the road at Molloy’s Cafeteria in An Bun Beag (much easier to find on the map as it’s Bunbeg in English) and decided to head towards home, but there’s so much to see it’s difficult not to stop. So stop we did at Bloody Foreland. One might think it was called Bloody Foreland because of the 12,000 ships that have crashed and sunk in its vicinity, but in fact it is called Bloody Foreland because of the reddish tint of the cliff-face that deepens to a blood red as the sun sets.

We came back to Letterkenny from there and had a rest before going into town for dinner and to investigate traditional Irish music sessions. We went to a place called Pat’s on the Square for dinner and agreed that if we lived here we would be regulars there and then went up the street to McGinley’s Bar, which we were told might have a session. Once there, we were told  it was the best bar in Ireland. It’s all dark wood and nooks with low stools and fireplaces, and people saying “mind if I approach?” and then sitting down to welcome you to town.  A surprising number of people we meet have been to Chicago and at McGinley’s both the man behind the bar and the man who joined us had been. The bartender said he remembered it being a friendly town and we commented on how pleasant everyone here is. He replied that they should be because “carrying manners isn’t difficult.” They have a regularly scheduled session on Wednesday night so we’ll go back, although it may involve taking on one of those roundabouts after dark so I’ll go ahead and start to get nervous about that now.