Ireland Day Five and Six: Inishbofin and Cnoc Meadha

Day Five: Inishbofin

The night we got back from Galway we looked out the window and saw a dog in the yard.  Our landlord (who lived downstairs) had warned us that a big friendly beast might be found lounging in the yard.  A number of us are dog people so when Carter - a shepherd labrador (?) mix who was a rescued from failing out of animal assistance school - made his first appearance, we all crowded out onto the back deck to coo and smile at his lordship.  This provoked Aedan to come out and see what all the fuss was about - at which point he gave us a list of things not to be missed in the week to come.

One of those things was to take a ferry out to Inishbofin.  We had already discussed a day on the Arran Islands, but the beauty of Inishbofin was the ferry left from Cleggan, a ten or so minute drive from the cottage.  We chose Wednesday for this, knowing it was the sunniest day of the week and the one when the water could be the least offensive while taking a half hour ferry ride out to sea.

We had to make the ferry.  And luckily we were early, as the tickets sold out.  We parked the car and had to walk out to the pier, passing a dog (dogs are a theme of the day) chilling out on the table outside a pub.  

The water was blue, blue, blue underneath the clear sky.  We got on board and settled on seats on the outside of the deck.  I sat quietly, enjoying the wind against my face and the sound of the water spraying against the boat.  It was a little meditative and helpful towards that inspiration that was still humming from the day before.  I didn’t mind the chill (having heard some rumors on social media of 90 degree temperatures at home) or the drops of water that fell when the sky lost its blue.

 

We got on land and looked about for public restrooms (toilets), walking about, stopping in a gift shop that was also a museum.  A very small, crowded museum that told a brief history of the island with photos and tools and an old bicycle.  I glanced at some articles framed on the wall and gleaned the fact there was something pretty disastrous on the island around 1960, killing a large number of residents and provoking those who remained to evacuate.  But we needed to find those who disappeared in search of the toilets and went into the nearest pub, where they were drinking tea.

We stopped for our tea/coffee before heading off on the circle route.  We started on the beach and walked up to the road, where an abandoned house was full of trash.  That doesn’t sound startling.  It was one of those you see them everywhere stone cottage ruins, but it had an old stove and random appliances and junk piled high.  Because… well… why not?  I mean there is someone in my town who just leaves all his junk in a pile across the street from his house… down the road from a collapsed house.  So I suppose the only thing unique is that it was a stone cottage.

Anyway, we went on our way.  There were a lot of hills and curves.  There was an option to rent bicycles on the island, but I could imagine I would be walking a bike up those hills anyway.  We stopped to look at the cows and a trio of pigs.  The sky was so blue.  The sun was so warm.  It was a gorgeous walk of green and blue and stone walls and heather and gorse.  We came around a bend and saw the ruin of a church with a graveyard looking out to the sea.  We all went down the steps that led to a path down a grassy hill and explored the graves.  A lot of upheaved stones that could or could not have been markers of forgotten graves.  There were flowers at some of the newer graves - and by newer I mean 1970s.  The church even had a few stones inside, prompting me to wonder what happened there.  

A few of the group felt tired and hungry, so they turned around.  The rest of us went down the road towards the beach - and found the sign for a restaurant.  We decided to go down to the shore and put our feet in the water.  The water wasn’t cold, warmer than the home side of the Atlantic in New England at least.  The sand was smooth and white and compact.  I relished the freedom of taking off my hiking boots for a little bit and begrudged having to put them on again.

We went to the restaurant… The Gallery, I think it was called.  I have noticed the food is a little fancier now than it was on our first visit in 99, when there were a lot of toasted cheese in the pub that were too hot and burned the tongue.  I did get an open faced cheese sandwich that was somewhat classic Irish - butter on the bread in addition to a chili sauce and shredded cheese. But it came with the garnish of spoonfuls of four different salads - couscous, potato, greens, and a pasta.  It was quite delicious and fuel to press on to make the loop back to the pier where we needed to be by 5 o’clock.

As we rounded the other curve of the shore, I saw a sign with another newspaper article, clarifying the mystery of the disaster.  In 1960, there was a storm that flooded a great deal of the island, claiming lives and destroying the pier.  As we walked on, there were several abandoned houses (mixed in with the much newer vacation homes) that were clearly the remnants of that flood.  One even still had curtains hanging in the window.

We speculated about the people who live there.  And certainly they did.  They even had cars.  One driver that passed us had a Land Rover, which made absolutely no sense because one car could barely fit on the road.  And we managed to be passed by several larger vehicles in a row (some of which were missing bumpers) that required us to stand in a driveway or a mound of grass.

Eventually we came back to the ‘town’ or the area of the pier.  We returned to the pub, where I got my first glass of Guiness for the trip.  I’m not really a fan of Guinness.  But everything tastes better here.  Or as it should.  We decided to make our way to the ferry early, knowing how full the one on our arrival was and found the others of our group.  They had ice cream cones, prompting us to go get our own.  When we came back, they started boarding the ferry.  Luckily we were there because it ended up leaving early.

I enjoyed another ride on the ocean with the water spraying and the wind blowing, filling my head with details of another scene.

We decided to make a whiskey run at the end of the day.  I was starting to feel the effects of a cold and knew that would be the trick.  Plus, the group that was in Dublin had visited the distillery and learned a tasty cocktail.  So tasty in fact, we finished the entire bottle in one night.  Jameson’s tastes better in Ireland, too.

Day Six:  Cnoc Meadha

We made a list of things we wanted to do and be able to see.  I was pleased that this made the cut.  One of the things I really wanted to find while I was in Ireland was the Sidhe or the Aos Si or the Tuatha de Danann.  Or for those of you not steeped in Celtic folklore, fairies.  Finvarra is the fairy king (but really get that stupid Tinkerbell association out of your head), who is part of the magic in the backstory of my writing.  The fact his resting place was a two-ish hour drive from our cottage was too tempting.

There is a lot of information about the Sidhe out there.  I am crafting my own mythology with a healthy dose of the history.  I’ll leave it to you to research if you are curious, but basically the Tuatha de Danann were an ancient race driven into the earth by their enemies, where they live their semi-divine lives, coming out to steal children or pretty women.  Finvarra likes other men’s wives.  He also doesn’t like people coming into his hiding place.  

Cnoc Meadha or Knockma isn’t on a map.  You can google it and get a rough idea.  You can find out what it is, pictures of what the woods look like, what town is nearby… but there isn’t really an address.  Maybe that’s because one thing you find out on a google search is that it is believed someone moved the stones there in the 19th century and started the potato famine.  

Maybe.  

I appreciate the patience of my friends in navigating towards this place.  I basically told the other car to head for Belclare.  We got turned around by a confusing sign that put us in a circle.

We decided to stop in Cong for some lunch, at a bistrot.  I had an open faced goat cheese and tomato sandwich - something I will have to remember to try to make at home.  It was a cute little town, whose big claim to fame was the fact Quiet Man was filmed there.  Refueled, we went back to our cars and started on our way to Knockma again.

Only, we got separated.  We were close together and then a tractor required our car to retreat into a driveway to let it pass on a narrow road.  We never connected our phones, so there was no real way of checking in where the other was, especially as we made it into Belclare with no sign of the woods.  We found a sign for Castle Hackett, which is supposedly nearby… but the label for that led to a gated road (a private house named Castle Hackett).  In my periphery, I saw a sign for Knockma Burying Grounds.  We turned around in town to go back and find that… and ended up seeing a sign for Knockma Woods and a long road heading towards a ruin.  Serendipitously, the second car was right behind us again.

The ruin was a large rectangular tower, with a crumbled wall.  It was covered with ivy and set off from the path that led to the woods.  The woods were pretty and mossy and green, with breaks that looked out onto gorgeous sunny pastures.  Maybe it was because we were in the woods.  Maybe it was something else entirely, but this was the first time we encountered bugs.  Specifically, flies.  A lot of flies.  They were a nuisance.  

But we kept on, the path steep as it climbed the hill and passed more mossy branches and ancient trees and little openings that could be a door or a house or a random collection of forest matter.  I went crazy with snapping photos for my memory.  I looked up at one slope and had to get closer to a patch of greenery and then I looked up and saw a break in the stone wall and called down to the path where my hot and fly ridden friends waited, insisting something was up there.  And there it was.  Through the break of a mossy stone wall.  A pile of rocks on the top of a peak.  Finvarra’s tomb.  I’m not a rock person - much less rocks on a height, so I turned around and opted to follow the stone wall to more photogenic greenery.  But a couple of us stayed and got some great views and saw the rooms of the tomb.  I enjoyed it.  I enjoyed the mystery of it.  I was even willing to contemplate the flies were something different.  Annoying as they were.  But, well… there was one in our party who was unashamed about killing the flies saying pretty loudly that he was killing the fairies… and… well…

We headed back down the slope finding more intricate trees and twisting paths and a view of a pasture and a fairy house or two.  We returned to our cars, ready for a pint.  We went back to Cong and indeed the actual pub where Quiet Man was filmed.  But unbeknownst to us when we walked into the empty place, it was fully booked.  So we enjoyed our pints and went on our way back home.  Our car stopped for necessary petrol and we missed the turn to get off, so we had our second circle of the day.  Then as we traveled along, we saw a car on the side of the road.  It was our friends with a flat tire.  Luckily they were able to change it with the tire in the trunk… but I will always be kind to the Sidhe henceforth.

We had a delicious and healthy dinner that night of some of the food we needed to start to use up.  Leftover rice with leftover black pudding.  Sauteed kale and a batch of roasted vegetables.  Quite delicious.  The day ended with more whiskey and maybe a card game or fire as we prepared for our last full day in Connemara.