Galway - I’m standing by the quayside in Galway, on Ireland’s West Coast, when two hoboes come up to me. “You wouldn’t happen to have e200 would you?”
In the even farther west, on the Aran Islands, we ask our guide to join us for a pint before supper. “Ah, no,” he shakes his head sadly. “I’d love to join you, but I’ve cows to move. They’re eating too much and I need to move them to another field.”
Deep in Connemara’s ancient Bogland, rich in what Nobel Laureate Seamus Heaney calls “black butter”, leather-jerkined Steve gives us a mini-lecture on Irish traditional music. He plays the accordion and then the penny whistle.
“First, whistles were made of wood and tin, then bits of brass were added.” He pauses. “But Bejasus, the plastic ones make the best sound.”
Welcome to Ireland (where the unexpected is expected) and to the Wild Atlantic Way that stretches for 2 500km along the longest coastal touring route in the world, from Kinsale in the south (now reckoned to be the gourmet capital of Ireland), west around Mizen Head, Dursey Island and the Cliffs of Moher (runner-up to Table Mountain as one of the new Seven Wonders of the World), on to the Aran Islands, Galway and Downpatrick Head, before finally ending up in Northern Ireland at Malin Head and the walled city of Derry.
The Wild Atlantic Way is “grand”(as they say in Ireland), dramatically beautiful, full of tiny, tucked-away villages, irresistible cafés and restaurants (think apple pie or rhubarb crumble with clotted cream, fresh scallops, oysters and mussels, homemade soups and pies), rivers brimming with trout and where salmon leap, giant waves crashing on lonely shores, deserted villages, megalithic tombs dating back 5 000 years, ancient tombs and the oldest known field systems in the world. And of course, the people – uniquely quirky, feisty and fun as only the Irish can be.
The Wild Atlantic Way is not only home to magnificent scenery and a fascinating heritage, it’s also a place of contradictions (well, this is Ireland, after all). Two of the most memorable experiences of this trip in late April and early May, when the rain lashed down, the wind keened, and the yellow gorse blazed in the occasional shafts of sunlight, were to a fine castle on the one hand, and to a desolate, bleak, atmospherically beautiful landscape on the other. You could say from castle to croft.
Ashford Castle, on the shores of Lough Corrib and the River Cong (the village of Cong is where the iconic movie The Quiet Man was filmed) has a spectacular backdrop of lakes, mountains and woodlands. Once the home of the Guinness family, Ashford is now owned by the Tollman family (remember Joburg’s Tollman Towers?), who also own The Oyster Box at Umhlanga Rocks, the Twelve Apostles Hotel in Cape Town, and Bushman’s Kloof in the Cederberg).
Our small group of international travel writers and bloggers arrived at The Castle to find it had been re-opened only two weeks previously by Enda Kenny, Ireland’s prime minister. A Red Carnation property, the first in Ireland, it boasts 82 guest rooms, all different, but furnished with sumptuous fabrics, antique furniture, objets d’art, and silk wall hangings. You can test your mettle at the equestrian centre, go fly-fishing, play golf, or do as I did and spread your wings at Ireland’s first school of falconry.
Ed, the falconer, a young Scot with a degree in philosophy, takes us through Falconry 101.
“Protective glove on left hand. Elbow tucked into waist. Thumb uppermost.” He opens the cages and a Harris falcon immediately alights on my wrist.
“We’ll walk into the forest now. If it flaps (my bird is called Aztec), don’t panic, it’ll settle.”
When we get into the woodlands (after quite a bit of flapping), I flip Aztec away with a flourish, and he flies off to the trees, jesses trailing.
Ed then puts some meat into my clenched gloved fist.
“Now hold your arm out straight.”
It takes Aztec seconds to swoop back on to my outstretched arm. “Open your fist.” He seizes the meat, downs it in a gulp, and flies back to another tree.
The birds may look heavy, but are all feathers and weigh next to nothing. Our group spend a couple of hours with the birds, which were born in captivity and are superbly trained.
“We try not to get too attached to them,” says Ed, “because they don’t give a damn for us.”
Have you ever lost any? “Yes, occasionally they fly off and don’t come back, but can adapt quite easily to the wild. After a bit the leather jesses wear off and they become completely at home in the forests.”
After this “first”in my long list of travel experiences, I tick off another – “bog dipping” in the remote and beautiful Ballycrory, Ireland’s newest National Park, known as “the Best Place to Go Wild in Ireland”. “Bog dipping” turned out to be a bit like cleaning your swimming pool, only instead of leaves, you scooped up tadpoles, driver beetles, and bits of bog.
Then we take a short scenic flight by Aer Arann to the County Clare coast, along the 214m Cliffs of Moher that stretch for 8km along the Atlantic Coast, to the Aran Islands.
We fly into Inishmore, the biggest of the three islands, nine miles long, four miles wide. They comprise a patchwork of fields hemmed in by stonewalls, some of which have been there for centuries. The islands have a great presence – still (in spite of the wind), foreboding, bleak and bare. You immediately sense they are rooted in an ancient past.
Gaelic is the home language, although Cyril O’Flaherty, our guide (he of the cows), keeps us spellbound as, in his lilting, singing Irish accent, he tells us tales of mysterious spirits, magical legends, and prehistoric forts. We climb up to the ruined fort of Dún Aengus, one of the most important prehistoric sites in Europe, that clings to the edge of 90m cliffs that drop dramatically away to the boiling sea far below. We wander round 12th century high crosses, circular forts and medieval churches where monks braved the winters, sang their prayers, and pored over their illuminated manuscripts.
Cyril walks us round a fairy ring beside a fairy thorn tree. We pick up seven stones, make seven wishes, and hope for the best.
We taste stinging nettles, dock leaves, and other traditional medicinal plants, before singing and dancing the night away (sans Cyril who was herding cows) at Ti Joe Watty’s, one of Inishmore'’s oldest and most traditional bars.
Pack warm, weatherproof clothes (whatever the season), a spirit of adventure, an appreciation of history, a thirst for new experiences and a hearty appetite for food and life, and travel The Wild Atlantic Way. It’s a way like no other.
l Kate was hosted by Tourism Ireland.
In South Africa contact [email protected]
See www.failteireland.ie
Kate Turkington, Saturday Star