So, we got back from our holiday in Ireland a few days ago (2, actually); getting there turned out to be an adventure, and getting back involved being airbourne, but the trip itself was excellent :)
So, after my nights, on Kathryn’s birthday we spent the day cleaning the house, packing and generally preparing to be off. Not quite the ideal plan for a birthday, but with the ferry going at 0230 we needed to be off in the evening and we wanted to come back to a clean house.
Dozily I looked at the GPS route and the Google route. The Google route went down the A55, and took 5 hours. The GPS route went down the A5 and took a couple of minutes less. The GPS was perkily announcing that it knew where we were and how to get there, so I was happy to follow it…
…I added on an hour to the journey time to allow for disasters mid-route, we piled into Rebecca and set off.
For some bizarre reason, and following an increasingly frustrating series of coincidences, apart from one service station part way there, we missed them all. As Rebecca was reporting over a quarter of the tank was full we skipped on. After that every service station fell after the junction we took. Giving in, we passed the junction on the M6 and took the opportunity to pause for a cup of coffee/tea and some birthday cake, and on heading back out to the car the GPS decided that all the satellites were now neatly in a line, and it had no idea where we were. But since we were following the GPS directions, and I knew roughly where to go we set off, turning around and down the M6 and then onto the A5.
Now, remember I’d been on nights? Well, I didn’t look that closely at the ferry documents, and of course, it slowly dawned on us that we needed to be there at least (according to the form) 45 minutes before the ferry left to get on… This dawning occurred the same time as the realisation that the GPS had directed us over what was, essentially, a mountain pass. To add to the angst, it was now raining.
Now, those of you who read my tedious car posts will recall that the gearbox on the minor was a bit noisy. It’d caused me some concern, initially, when the new engine went in, because it was ‘very’ noisy (or at least, seemed so, now that I couldn’t here the clatter of the dying sickly 1300 that was in before). However, it seemed to have ‘settled down’ to a constant level of noisyness. It stayed in all the gears, and apart from occasional finnickyness from second appeared to all intents-and-purposes to be fine. The last oil change didn’t reveal anything too unpleasant, no great shards of metal, not even a great deal of fine metal shavings. No more than I’d’ve expected, tbh. I’ve been getting another gearbox rebuilt, but haven’t been angsting over the 4 months they’ve had it…
But I did worry a bit as I up-and-downshifted through the gearbox trying to clear a Welsh pass as rapidly as possible. Imagine a 1960s rally, but with less style and grace and a bigger-bore exhaust. By the time we whined our way into the ferry port it was sounding ‘a bit worse’ and had started to jump out of fourth under *really* heavy loads (let’s not discuss the speed we did down the last stretch to the ferry port; it was, shall we say, swift, but then what’s a 1300 with a fast cam if you never use it). Now, I’ve known minor gearboxes go on for thousands of miles with completely shonked internals, they’re kind of known for their resistance to abuse, so I was wary, and thinking we may have to cut down our touring a bit in Ireland, but not desperately concerned.
We, incidentally, made the ferry with about 10 minutes to spare. They, apparently, decided to close check in 10 minutes before departure…thankfully.
Day 1: To Tulla
So, we pootled off the ferry, having bought an AA Road Atlas of Ireland and with Google’s directions to various potential points of interest. Getting out of Dublin proved to be the first difficulty. First of all we didn’t want to pay the M50 tunnel toll. After getting lost around the port twice we decided we did want to pay the toll and made it out. Then the M50 wanted another toll and we thought ‘screw that’ and hopped off. Atlas in Kathryn’s hand we started scooting through the Dublin suburbs, and out into the country.
Finally around 8am we made it to a fort/castle near (I think) Killcullen…
And here’s Rebecca sunning herself in the early morning light
The fort was, as usual, very old and had been rebuilt many times. I want to say 16th c., but it is quite possibly lots older. We’d not quite got used to just how much there is in Ireland in terms of forts, castles, ring-forts, abandoned manor houses…
The day was cool and crisp, and despite the wind up on the surface and it’s proximity to a town of some-sort, it was in remarkably good shape. It took a while to realise that the earth we were stood on probably stood on fallen walls and stone, and the apparently very low down windows could once have been far up other walls.
These places, the solitude of them, when not covered in Tourists, they are just wonderful places to be. The quiet, still, contemplative nature of them. Of course, when they were active they were anything but. It would once have been filled with people and noise, and would, probably have been stark-limewashed-white. But they are beautiful in their decay.
So, until the biting wind made us cold we savoured the castle, and then meandered down. The gearbox on ‘becca started to get noisier – and about 30 miles from our destination developed what sounded like it was working on becoming a screech in fourth. And third. At this point I switched from hoping that she’d carry us round Ireland to hoping that she’d carry us to the cottage.
Twenty miles from Tulla and about midday, as we made our way gingerly down the N7 (50mph is pretty ginger by my standards) the bearing that had been singing to us decided it’d had enough and the engine started having to work harder to pull us along. I dropped onto the hard shoulder and out of gear. Praying to Issigonis, Morris and the gods of all things classic I put her in first. There were no new untoward noises, and we crept along, second also was not exactly hunky-dory, but was working, and we limped, wounded off up the slip road to a pub.
I rang the AA.
The AA man came and told me what I knew (a bearing’s collapsed in your gearbox, you shouldn’t try and drive her like that, it might seize). And that she’d have to be recovered. I spent the next hour waiting for the recovery truck essentially hiding. Kathryn patiently looked after me as I swung between having to pay for a new gearbox to be fitted by Irish mechanics who’ve not seen anything over 5 years old for the last 10 years, the possibility of us not having a car for the holiday, or of getting the car back after getting that box that’s being rebuilt shipped over, so trying to cope for a several days without a car. I was stressed.
The AA recovery bloke came, and the AA rang and told us we had a hire car for 2 days. We relaxed a bit, knowing that we’d be okay to get food and such.
While we waited for the very nice Alex from Enterprise to collect us from Nenagh and take us back to Limerick to collect the car, we sat in a very pleasant hotel and discussed our new carless holiday.
Sleep deprived and exhausted (28 hours awake and still going) we attempted to make conversation with Alex, and the AA phoned us and said that we had the car for the week. Did I mention that the AA currently rock, as far as I’m concerned. We then had a very stressful hour trying to find the Minor having got back to Nenagh and followed the guy’s directions which, well, let’s say if you’d lived there your entire life, and the school that was now a community hall was still a school, and the recently built housing estate wasn’t there were just fine, to collect our luggage. Finally at 10pm we rolled up at our cottage, ate our Tulla-supplied pizza and fell into a very tired sleep.
Day 2: Inis and Tulla.local
So, Day 1 having been fairly and squarely exhausting (36 hours awake, not good) we had a slow, quiet day Wednesday. We had a very gentle morning before heading in to Inis. Rick Steve’s 2002 Ireland book recommended the Friary there, and we also had a nose in a Celtic music store (I resisted, impressively); the museum in Inis is free, and excellent. It did remind me though that some in Ireland remain very hostile towards the British; bringing back memories of I.R.A. positive slogans sprayed on walls and Aisling’s “there are pubs you don’t want to go into” from my last visit in 2001. As the narrator paused before describing the period of British rule in Ireland and then finally spat out that Britain had tried to ‘swallow Ireland whole’, sounding as he said it like this was the most mild thing he could possibly have been brought to say on the matter, I contemplated whether I should ever mention being English (or stick to my fairly groundless claim to be Welsh*).
We wandered off, discussing the Irish opinion of Britain, and found Inis friary; which is very pretty. It was also closed, ironically opening the day after we arrived.
Having pootled, and paused at a [jesus christ how expensive? how to people afford to even live in Ireland?] supermarket and stocked up on decent quality Irish potatoes, and a limited selection of produce, and some fairly uninspiring cheese** [and it came to 30 quid!] we headed home. And then we headed out for a brief but pleasant wander in the countryside around Tulla. I keep saying we’re in Tulla, but in reality we were a few miles outside Tulla.
When we got back I made a hash of lighting the fire, on the third attempt I succeeded (but had given in and used a firelighter which appeared to mostly be kerosene in a brick), and thus succeeded in making the cottage warmer and snugglier.
Day 3:
The weather decided that one good sunny day was enough, we’d preliminarily decided to visit the Polnabrune Dolmen and the Cliffs of Moher (oh, such tourists), and instead spent today heading, I think, to Limerick. I’m not entirely sure that’s what we did. What we did do was tour an(other) abandoned abbey and monastery. I know it looks like that’s all we did, but there were so many, and we went everywhere by scenic routes; and we spent our time pootling, and thus discovered many, many places.
Anyhow, this one was very pretty, but locked…
On the way home, possibly from Limerick, we happened across a dinky little hexagonal structure, which we spent some time running up and down trying to get near. Sadly there was no (public) access to it, and it was on a fairly fast road. While hunting we found this bizarre, truly 70’s, petrol station.
The amount of abandonment, not just of abbeys and churches is astonishing. The world has changed around Ireland, and while Ireland has changed with it, the detritus of these changes is scattered around. Disused petrol pumps lurk in nearly every village we passed. Railway lines litter the countryside, tracks and crossing barriers in situ, but overgrown.
It is an explorer’s delight. More time and we probably would have spent days just hiding in the jungle of abandonment.
Apart from – oh I recall – we went craft-centre hunting. We found a really nice little pottery, where a woman was sat listening to Radio 4 and making really gorgeous pots, pigs, and plates. We also found somewhere marketed as a craft market but which was, in fact, a local enterprise centre with just ordinary local businesses in it. We also visited the Hunt Museum. An intriguing place mostly filled with items from a family collection. They were antiquarians who kept – and used – items from many, many centuries. There are photos of one of them wearing a brooch from the 16th century. I speculate the conversation may have gone thus:
:: Famous person: Oh, what a beautiful brooch. Where did you get it?
:: Mrs Hunt (or whatever her name was): Oh, this old thing? I picked it up from the 16th Century. Why do you ask?
:: Famous person: Oh-ah. Um, I was going to ask where I could get something like that… but I guess an archiological dig’d be best.
:: Mrs Hunt: Yep *smiles and wanders off to drink her champagne*
Day 4: Castles, Cliffs and Dolmens
We had a long day Friday, our plan was to visit the Cliffs of Moher and the Poulnabrune Dolmen. Our usual ‘the journey is the destination’ approach to navigation; OS map in hand; was successful as usual. We found Kilmacduagh abbey / monastery and Dunguaire castle on the way. Apparently at the castle they do ‘medieval banquets’, if that is the castle.
Kilmacduagh abbey was a beautiful (I keep saying that) location; it’s out in the middle of no-where, and while it’s signed for tourists, it didn’t look like a major attraction. The scruffy sign by the sign says ‘Ask Caretaker for key’ however it doesn’t say where a caretaker might be found. The sing also gently informs you that they’re doing some kind of restoration work on the Abbots house, which sports windows and a door, but no other obvious signs of life. Again, silence and solitude are an incredible thing.
In the time of the Famine, the tenant farmers rose up and burned the manors of the absentee landlords. Ireland is, therefore, not only littered with abbeys, service stations, houses, but also manors and estates. Near the Cliffs of Moher there’s an abandoned estate house up for sale – we found out by Kathryn (thankfully Kathryn) asking in the local service station – the long-gone English Lord was not, necessarily, popular.
I don’t know if that was the fate of this, unknown, manor. But it stood – more or less – gently disintegrating into the Irish scenery. Again, inaccessible unless you knew the local farmer, but seriously pretty.
Distractions complete we made it to the Dolmen. 5000(?) years ago this was built by people who’s lives we have only the tiniest insight into what they look like. We wandered, explored, sat, Kathryn painted and I just absorbed the atmosphere.
And tried to avoid other tourists.
The burren is such an incredible environment, an almost alien terrain, limestone crevices with small cracks of life.
Having frozen our arses off we headed on to the Cliffs of Moher. No holiday exposition would be complete, at least not one of mine, without a rant. A good, full size, nutritious healthy rant.
The Cliffs of Moher are incredible. A natural wonder. The beauty of the untamed environment.
Only they’re not anymore. They’re a demonstration of human power to pave anything, anywhere. The visitor centre is actually pretty darn cool. Not that we looked in it, but from the outside.
But outside, they’ve paved and barriered the whole ‘public’ bit of the cliffs. I could understand a temporary keep back – it’s all eroded fence – while they recover from the enormous trampling that they get. But no.
It’s all stairs, faux rock and walls.
This, incidentally, is what it used to be like (in 2002):
And this is what they’ve done:
Just remember, nature is scary:
Thankfully, disregarding signage and risking our life we crossed into the unknown. The fearsome abyss of the unprotected natural world lurked all around us, and Kathryn, the intrepid explorer passed ‘the sign’.
Back on true terra firma, the real nature of the Cliffs resurfaced…and we were able to appreciate them without human intervention. Unfortunately, the car-park guy told us that the car-park closed at 7. We hurried back to the car as 7 approached, only an hour on the cliffs, only to discover the lie. The car-park payment system closes at 7, but the car-park remains open, and in fact, you can leave without paying.
Day 5: Moving locations, pottery and abandonment
So, Saturday we shifted from our cottage near Tulla to a lodge between Scariff and Mountshannon. We packed up carefully, cleaned up, piled into the rental Focus and shifted location.
En route we found a gorgeous pottery place, where I definitely didn’t purchase two really very nice bowls. I also spent rather a lot of time photographing some really rather nice petrol pumps outside the pottery place. Yet again they lurk, unused and rusting, but they’re very pretty in their decay.
We paused in an inbetween village to take photos of…an…abandoned…pub. Yeah, yeah, I know. I could’ve taken photos of pretty countryside. If you want pretty countryside photos, go read someone elses blog :)
We made it as far to Portumna where we had a quick look at the very interesting house, but more on that in a bit. And we also visited Scariff. I think we were hunting for breakfast cereal and milk. But the Astor cinema in the vibrant and popular town of Scariff (a large proportion of one of the main streets was closed and abandoned) was, as you might imagine, closed. I’m not sure if it opens on-season or not, but it didn’t hugely look like it.
Bizarrely that’s actually one of my favourite shots from the whole trip. I just adore the colours.
Day 6: Portumna house, wandering and a Peak at Holy Island
We spotted this house the previous day, it turns out that it burned down in a fire, not an intentional famine fire (that happened later) some time in the 18th century. The then Lord, who it seems was actually pretty good as Lords go, built a replacement for his rather nice manor. This was then burned down and the stonework taken to build a church (and houses, probably) when a later earl did the whole ‘absentee landlord’ thing during the famine. Nothing remains of the later house, but ironically the earlier one remained, sans roof, disappearing into the undergrowth (and overgrowth, I suppose).
In the 40s it, or more specifically, the land was bought by the Irish government to protect the woodlands and park surrounding it. In the 60s they came up with the interesting idea of saving the house too, but not the whole traditional renovate-and-furnish. No, instead they stabilised, the renewed the roof and put in floors, well, some of them. They had leaded windows made as close to the original as they could, and that’s it. It gives you some idea of what a renovation of this scale involves…as do some of my later photos from another place we visited that’s altogether rather more untouched.
The Kitchen gardens at Portumna are awesome, they renovated them a few years ago, and they’ve won awards for them… the rest of the gardens they’re archeologsising and surveying, but remain untouched… They’re very early in the whole ‘formal gardens’ idea, so it’s intriguing to see what they might be like.
On the way back, we paused to examine prices for Holy Island, and a ferry point for the Lough.
We then endeavored to go for a bit of wander. This, it turned out, is not quite the same as Britain. Britain is filled with ‘permissive paths’ and ‘public footpaths’ and ‘rights of way’ in a way that no other country seems to be. Other places have lax land owners that allow you to wander unfettered, but only in the UK, it seems, is there a vast network of paths on which you can wander and explore.
In Ireland, you wander on the roads. Eventually we worked this out having tried a few permutations of ‘but it says there’s a track there…
Right, it’s taken me much of the spare-bits of the day to write this, and the whole of The Matrix** so I’ll stop. Days 6 and 7 can wait until tomorrow.
* By which I mean, my dad was Welsh, but I was born in England.
** I still wish I looked like Trinity, still, training starts soon (next week at the latest) for the Commando Challenge, and when I get fit…well, maybe my figure will reappear.
For those uninterested in holidays, Kathryn gave me an awesome present a Cheese, Science and Wine evening. How super-cool is that?