Gaeltacht Islands

To the west of Galway are tiny coastal towns situated on bedrock shores that seem unbelievable and uninhabitable. We drove along the northern coast of Galway Bay towards the Atlantic. About 30 kilometers out of town, the road splits and we chose the leg that brought us to a small series of islands beginning with Leitir Mohr. The island is connected to the mainland by a long stone bridge and, after passing over it onto Leitir Mohr you no longer feel you’re part of the world. The buildings are ancient and far removed from one another.  The next stone bridge brings you to Garmna, which is more desolate, and the last bridge ends in Leiter Meallain, where we spent some time. The roads are narrow, barely a single lane, and it’s amazing to think about them being paved when there doesn’t seem to be two inches in a row of flat land that isn’t interrupted by crags. It appears that the glaciers receded on Tuesday, just before our arrival. There are huge boulders, The topsoil is shallow, it can be as little as six inches, but grasses and wild flowers take root in between those rocks and the contrast is lovely. The soil must be acidic, because hydrangeas grow here and the blooms are vibrant peacock blue and plum purple. On this last island in the string, it’s possible to drive a distance without seeing another person, although there are homes here and there, with captivating views of the ocean.  There’s no apparent commerce on the island and Chris and I wondered what people did for work.
taller than me, and more of every other size between that and a pebble. In some places, it looks like winter because the hills are capped in white rock that looks like snow from a distance.

It didn’t seem possible that there could be a brown sign on this pin prick of an island, but at the farthest point on Leiter Meallain there is a Heritage Center. It is one man’s collection of anthropological and sociological artifacts from the area that he accumulated over a lifetime. There are ration books from World War II and rosters from famine ships. There are photos and newspaper clippings and commemorative JFK decorations. There are squeezeboxes and wooden phones. And there is a charming young girl who is out there by herself manning the Heritage Center, who explained that there isn’t much possibility for work and while people come to the island to study Irish language because it is a Gaeltacht area, people are suffering the high level of unemployment. She pointed us in the direction of a must-see Tra (beach) and a Napoleonic tower on another island just offshore. 

We were able to walk to the beach from the Heritage Center, and it was a special little spot, with sand enough for several people to lay on with their toes in the surf, surrounded by craggy, impossibly grassy fields and there were horses all about grazing and neighing. Again, it didn’t feel like we were any longer in the world I live in but had been transported somewhere idyllic. Occasionally, you find yourself in a place that feels like a threshold and this was one of those: just special and quiet and natural and reminiscent of the geological past. 

The farther one drives on these tiny islands, the more narrow and less paved the roads become and I didn’t know if we would make it to the tower, but we got close enough to walk over the bedrock to see Golam Island and the tower that was built in case of a French invasion. On Chris’s tablet, it is possible to take 360 degree panoramas and this was a fun part of the world to play with that feature. 

We retraced our steps, driving back through these tandem islands until we were again on the mainland and continued west. Connemara ponies are famous and they’re everywhere here, like sheep in Donegal. That said, all the shops showcase Aran wool and the Aran Islands are just off the coast of County Galway, so one is never too terribly far away from a serious lot of sheep.

Chris commented today that he thought he would probably dream of trucks driving straight at him for months to come. He’s done a commendable job keeping us both safe, but we return the car tomorrow and I don’t think either of us will miss it. 

We ended our day with dinner at The Front Door on High Street in the Latin Quarter and had piles and piles of food, including a bowl of carrot and coriander soup that was rich and delicious enough to have served as the meal itself.  There is a lot of good soup in this country. I could eat it every day. Oh wait, I do.

1000 Miles of Ireland

Two years ago, our summer travels brought us to the American southeast on a road trip and one of my favorite stops there was at Connemara, Carl Sandburg’s estate in Flat Rock, North Carolina. Today, we left the city of Galway to drive through the land after which he named his estate, and it is equally lovely. Several people we’ve talked to here in Ireland have named a place or two that we must see and Connemara is consistently among them. It is celebrated for being rugged land, untapped, vast and beautiful. It is certainly these things. 

On the road from Galway to Cong, we stopped at the side of the road and climbed out of the car (Have I mentioned yet that Chris is like Gulliver to the Lilliputians in this country? So I mean it when I say he climbed out. He’s so much taller than Ireland.) to take some pictures because the views were spectacular. We were out of the car only a moment before a man came out of his house and approached us. He told us he talks to people from the world over because everyone stops just there to take a photo, and he asked us what we were taken with about his land. We mentioned the stone walls and he pointed out the stone wall he helped his father build in the 1960s and then pointed out another that was over a hundred years old. The Quiet Man and about his friend Nally who lives two kilometers down the road who had a run in with some Travellers who weighed 14 stone and were half his age.
He reminded me of Robert Duvall, if Duvall had ever been willowy instead of sturdy, and he told stories about being a boy and having John Wayne give him pennies for candy when he was here filming

We drove on to Cong, the primary set location for The Quiet Man and parked down the road from the house where the dying man scene was filmed. There’s a mail slot in the wall on the façade of that building that says “Tips Please” in exchange for walking past. I can’t imagine that the town will be able to capitalize on John Wayne for too much longer, but we passed groups of people on the movie tour. We opted instead to visit the 13^th century Augustinian abbey, gothic ruins set against the backdrop of a river bank and forest. The architecture itself is gorgeous and the lands surrounding the abbey are, as well. We walked a trail through the woods, passing fishermen in the river, the water of which was so clear we could see fish passing us.

We stopped in Westport for lunch and had turkey and stuffing sandwiches, something Chris has always thought the Shimons were brilliant for having invented and now the secret is out. We drove on to Murrisk which is where the National Famine Memorial sits at the base of Croagh Patrick, to which there is a pilgrimage each year in which the faithful climb the mountain barefoot. The memorial itself is a sculpture of a ship and the mast is comprised of skeletons. 

The rest of our day was an empty drive through mountains and past streams and slowed by sheep
in the road, sheep that do not move just because a car is barreling along. By mid afternoon, we had seen a thousand miles of Ireland so far on our trip. Connemara is known for being more traditionally ethnically Irish—Gaeltaecht—and in this part of the country the signs are not necessarily in English. It is also remote and there is a longer distance between villages and the villages may only have a handful of houses. So when the gas symbol on the dashboard lit in the middle of nowhere, it was cause for anxiety. And that we weren’t entirely sure where we were didn’t help. So we drove quietly for a time, both of us hoping that we would make it and we did—obviously. I can’t help but think that someone would have helped us if we had run out of gas on one of those remote roads, however, and Chris agreed.

When we got home, Chris totaled his receipts to date for his fellowship and has enough money left over to buy himself an instrument and just received email confirmation from the foundation that this is a fine way to spend his dollars so I suspect we have some shopping to do tomorrow.  

The Fog Comes On Little Cat Feet

At the last minute, we decided we couldn't leave the Asheville area without a visit to Connemara--Carl Sandburg's home in Flat Rock, North Carolina. After we had breakfast and re-packed the car, shoving tent here and cooler there, we were off.

Like Lincoln, every state claims Sandburg; North Carolina makes a good claim. The Sandburg family had been living in the midwest in the 1940s, but Sandburg's wife Lilian desired to live in a more temperate climate prompting their move south. The family purchased Connemara and lived there for 22 years until Sandburg's death in 1967. It was and remains a fully functioning farm on which Lilian raised the champion goats she brought with her from Michigan and Carl was able to lose himself in the forest and write. The approach is wooded and opens onto a pond with fish, snapping turtles, snakes and swans above which the house sits about a half mile up a hill. Leaving the parking lot and moving towards the pond is like stepping into another time and like leaving everyone and everything else behind. I've always been smitten with the romance of writing and it's hard to not be lost in the atmosphere of Connemara.

Connemara is a National Park and that is, in part, why it is special. When Sandburg died, Lilian decided that because of his politic and nationalism and literary themes, his home and all of its contents belonged to America. She left the house exactly as it had been: all of the furniture, mail, Sandburg's collection of 14,000 books, typewriters, dishes, linens--all of it remains and remains where it was at the time she gifted the property to the Park Service just a few months following his death. In the front room, on an end table next to a low leather chair is a copy of Life magazine with Lucille Ball on the cover. It is left there as if Sandburg himself has just set it down and left the room. Chris was struck by the lack of restrictions. We were asked to not touch anything, but we were able to walk through the rooms relatively freely and get in close to see thing with wonder. The materials he used to compile his biographical volumes on Lincoln were donated to a university and the family took some personal tokens, but otherwise the house is a memorial, a monument and a bit of magic.

The rest of the day was a long drive to Savannah and we arrived in the early evening. The flora changes almost exactly at the state line and palm trees and Spanish moss are abundant. Considering the heat in Chicago, I have to say it's lovely here. It's been in the 90s but it hasn't been humid--which we're told is unusual and a gift.

We wandered last night up and down the avenues of City Market and had dinner at a place that did not have good food but that did have outside seating that allowed us to watch people strolling past and hear the musicians at the end of the promenade. There are as many tourists here as were in Asheville, but there is more variety to them. On one side of us at dinner was a family from the Netherlands who didn't realize their pepperoni pizza would have meat on it and they were vegetarians and behind us another group of Europeans, who wondered just how much alcohol was in the beer here. It reminds me a bit of Merida in this way.

Today, we headed to the Walking Tours office and signed up for as many as we could fit in while we're here. On our way, the best thing I could ever imagine happening in Savannah happened. Chris walked into a store, tried on and purchased a seersucker suit. He says he only bought it because I was giddy about it, but I think he likes it, too. It's currently being tailored and will be ready for us before we head out of town. P.S. It's a three piece suit, and it comes with two pairs of pants and one of them is white. I wanted him to get spectator shoes, too, but a man can only be pushed so far. I should mention that it was the type of store where one could also purchase ministerial robes, there were lots of pictures of Steve Harvey and Chris may have been the only Caucasian customer in ever.

After an early lunch, we met Ryan at the monument in Reynolds Square and took off from there. His tour was a strolling tour of significant buildings and monuments in the historic district. It began with an explanation of how the 13th colony was formed in 1733. It was originally not a royal colony but a colony with a board of trustees, who had only four rules for its development: no hard liquor, no slavery, no lawyers and no Catholics. All were considered unsavory and a threat to family values and successful labor. Each of these rules--for various reasons good and bad--were eventually overturned.

The river walk in Savannah is terrifically scenic. The architecture and infrastructure in this part of the city was designed around the 18th century cotton industry and you don't realize you are so far above the river until you reach Bay Street and see that you are several stories above it and that streets run below the ones on which you stand so that the wagons could come through from below and the traders above could see the quality and quantity of the cotton at stake. Georgia remains the fourth largest port in the country.

There are a number of William Jay buildings that are architectural beauties that were also highlighted on our walk, and I know I'm the only person in America who has never seen Forrest Gump, even though it is on television every single time I'm anywhere that has cable channels to flip through, but we learned about which scenes were filmed where and I was generally lost during this part of the tour.

There were a dozen or so monuments that Ryan told us about and that I won't share here because it will lack context; suffice to say, I learned more about Count Pulaski here than I ever have at home and I enjoy a day off school each year in his honor.

The day gets progressively hotter as it goes on and by late afternoon it was time to sit in the hotel pool and drink cold beers, which we did until it was time to head out for dinner and our evening walking tour: Haunted Savannah. While the subject matter was ridiculous, the tour brought us to squares we hadn't seen earlier in the day and the architecture in the historic district is worth a walk in the evening so you can see in windows. There were several eight, nine and 10-ish-year-old boys on the tour with us and they loved every story and took lots of pictures and were sure they had captured orbs and apparitions on what used to be called film. At dusk, the bats come out and are all about which was creepier for me than any ghost story, and, Candace, our tour guide who hails from Milwaukee, commented more than once that the cicadas were loud and that was a sure sign that the temperature was going to spike in the coming days. I imagine that heat in Chicago has to go somewhere and it may well be coming here.

Tomorrow, we have a Civil War walking tour and will likely spend some time in the Revolutionary War Cemetery in the historic district. Once upon a time, I wanted to visit Flannery O'Connor's house, but now I'm not sure now how it could possibly compete with Connemara.