As mentioned, in light of being in Tahoe for the time being, I'm doing a throwback series to my 2009 trip to Ireland with Tom and Paul.
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3/20/2009
Early to bed, early to rise, I shot out of bed at about six-thirty, having developed the wild notion to see The Black Fort, Inishmore’s other ancient structure, before leaving. Dun Aonghasa had been so crowded and, as I occasionally like to do, I hoped to get away from The Trip and get a taste of being in Ireland alone. So, I slipped quietly out of our room and into the quiet town of Kilronan to share the morning with the fisherman and the sleepy waves lapping at the boats.
Not long into the walk, however, I realized I shouldn’t estimate distance using the bike rental map (“Well, it only took me 40 minutes to get to Dun Aonghasa, so it'll take me much less to get to the Black Fort”), so I decided to jettison the Black Fort plan. Instead, I walked along the beach, taking pictures of the sunrise and the seagulls, making conversation with a horse and several cows along the way. It was a lovely way to spend a morning.
Back at the hostel, I met up with the guys outside the kitchen at around 7:30, just before breakfast. As with most hostels, breakfast entailed many loaves of bread, a host of different jellies, and assorted beverages. It’s somewhat slim pickings, but frankly, the way we ate and drank the rest of the time, it's good not make the Irish breakfast a daily affair.
As we sat down to breakfast, though, the Italian hostel owner, Marco, came up beside us, wide-eyed.
Marco: <something unintelligible due to a thick accent>
Tom: We're here for breakfast.
Marco: <accent>hostel<accent>
Tom: What?
Marco: Sorry, you cannot stay.
Ian: What? Why?
Marco: This is for people staying in the hostel only.
Ian and Tom: We ARE staying in the hostel.
Marco (extremely skeptically): You are?
Paul and Ian (holding up the roomkeys on keychains of smoothed stone): Yes…
Marco: OH! I'm so sorry! Welcome, welcome! Sorry, there were some other guys.
I guess that's a sufficient explanation.
We sat down and made up some food, chatting a little bit with Nick, Craig, and Sanjay, as well as a nearby girl traveling on her own. The conversation was light and we finished as quickly as possible in order to catch our 8:15 ferry.
As we exited the kitchen, I noticed that someone left a full Guinness on a garden wall, presumably from the night before.
Guinness Count: 44!
Just kidding! That's disgusting.
We packed our bags, brushed our teeth, and then set out walking around the harbor to the ferry already docked at the far end. It’s not the biggest harbor, so we didn’t have far to go; imagine starting around the curve of a running track.
Then Tom said some of the worst words I heard on the trip.
Tom: Are they casting off?
Ian: What?
Tom: They're casting off!
Ian: What?! What time is it?
Paul (checks his watch): It's 8:15.
Ian: THEN WHY AREN'T WE OVER THERE?!
…and now we’re running down the pier.
Dave smoked all of us and tore down the pier, hoping to stop them for the rest of us, but they didn’t stop casting off. Instead, they just pulled away, even though we could see passengers through the windows of the ship and we would have easily doubled the number of riders.
Now, we had a problem. There we were, backpacks on, watching our ferry sail off and knowing full well that the next one doesn't leave for the mainland until 5pm. Almost nine hours away.
The next 30 minutes or so were spent in a daze. I don't know if I've ever felt so helpless as a traveler. To be unable to leave a place was a weird feeling, especially when the experience we just had left me with an irrational fear of missing every ferry off the island for the rest of time. So, I’ve got that going for me.
Anyway, we wanted to confirm that there were no intermediate ferries off the island. I don't think any among us was prepared to admit "We're stuck here until 5," but if we were to learn that for sure, I was prepared to make the best and go check out the Black Fort. After all, nine hours would be MORE than enough time.
Unfortunately for us, the tourism centre was closed, the Ferry Company had no office on the island, and our tickets said nothing of use.
We wandered back to the hostel, at which point we ran into Marco again, who asked if we missed our ferry. We solemnly nodded. "You know, next one's 5 PM?" And there was our confirmation. Luckily, Marco offered to let us drop our bags in the TV room of the hostel, where we had a quick conference in which I said it could be fun to walk to the Black Fort. The boys all agreed, so we stored our bags after stopping briefly to have a laugh with the Virginia boys about our misfortune (they came on the later ferry the night before with the INTENTION of taking the 5PM back).
With the team reassembled, we set out down the beach road from earlier that morning, bound for the Black Fort. It's hard to describe the walk differently from the previous day’s ride, since it was just the Aran Islands all over: horses, cows, the occasional house, and otherwise nothing else but wild country marked off by long, low stone walls. Along the way, we agreed that it was nice Tom's trip to Aran would actually include cliff ruins. I'd been worried it would be a disappointment.
Finally, at the crest of a hill, we spotted the ocean, though the land in front of us continued for a bit, and we could see the peeking edges of cliffs on either side. Continuing on, we reached a flat rock plain that disappeared only a few feet ahead.
Oh yeah, we found us some cliffs.
The cliffs we started on were gorgeous: dark rock with traces of green, white and orange through them. On one side, a huge chunk of broken cliffside was held up by a large rock pillar so precariously that it looked like some giant creature had set up a trap.
I spent our first few minutes laughing at Tom, who joined us in the stomach crawl to the edge to gasp, laugh and take pictures. In fact, all of us were screaming like nutbars because, unlike the day before, we were absolutely alone. The Black Fort was ours.
At the same time, it didn't seem very fort-y, except for a bit of a wall a few steps back. While Tom, Paul, and I discussed, Craig and Dave had already noticed the same thing and simply began walking south down the coastline towards the next outcropping on a path that never strayed more than 6 feet from the edge. Inspired and noticing the clearly larger walls in that direction, we all followed. So began our long walk down the coast of Inishmore.
As we left the path we came from, I admitted to myself that Dun Aonghasa was being given a pretty good run for its money, especially if weren't even at the Black Fort yet.
The experience of walking these cliffs was absolutely stunning. You'd stroll out along the edges of these crazy peninsulas and someone in front of or behind you would tell you to stop for a picture. Thinking it was a good shot of you and the ocean, you'd smile. Then, when you went to look at the picture, you'd see that the ground right under your feet tapered drastically back beneath you, putting you about ten feet of earth away from a hundred-foot fall. The cliffs vacillated between the stern, towering bluffs and these coves that the waves hollowed out into amphitheatres.
It was terrifying in the most wonderful, invigorating way possible, especially when the waves thundered into the walls below you.
The Black Fort was indeed on the next peninsula, with enormous walls and ring of chevaux-frise guarding the outside (stones erected upright across a plain to discourage invaders). All I really wanted, though, was to hit the outermost point of the peninsula and lay down for a look at the ocean below. Luckily, I found a little bench-like jut of rock right at the tip; simultaneously the most brilliant and most ridiculous place in the world to take a load off.
Once past the Black Fort, Dave became convinced we could find a way down to the ocean. Looking south, the cliffs did seem to lower into intermediate platforms and plains leading down to the sea. At first, they were too far-between to make it down, but we crossed a few more giant coves and came to a place where we found a natural staircase. Thus, while Paul and Tom hung back, Craig, Dave and I (since I admired Dave's enthusiasm) climbed down to a tidal plain.
I’m still amazed at how the landscape kept changing along the shore. We went from the booby-trapped beach beneath the massive cliffs to a stone landscape pockmarked with tidal pools. Here, I had to hop from slender ridge to slender ridge just to get to the ocean itself. Finally, I made it down, balanced myself across two ridges and leaned down to touch the mighty Atlantic. Just after it seemed so unattainably powerful in the coves below, I would touch the mighty ocean...
…or the ocean could high-five me with a nice, healthy wave. Feeling silly and with one leg completely soaked, I walked back across the tidal plain thinking, “Totally worth it.”
Having granted Dave's wish and massively freaked about the potential for missing another ferry, we decided it was time to pack it in on the Inishmore coast. At this point, it was only early afternoon, so even after our wanderings, we had plenty of time to get back.
Of course, the road we came on was probably half a mile north at this point, and what was awesomely rugged terrain on the way south would become arduous on the way back. So, instead of retracing our steps to the path we knew, we decided to turn our backs to the ocean and cross straight across the island. After all, Inishmore’s only 2 miles wide at its widest point!
This little maze took us a while, but we eventually crested a hill and saw Kilronan harbor in the distance, complete with the ferry that would take us home (the 10:30AM ferry we took the day before becomes the 5PM ferry back and just sits there in between).
Unfortunately, civilization also meant a house presumably owned by the same man who owned the fields we'd been traipsing through. By the way, traipsing's hard; I recommend stretching.
We charged down the hillside with our eyes on the main road ahead, all the while hoping the picturesque quiet of Inishmore wouldn't be broken by a shotgun blast. After a few walls that had to be climbed and falls that had to be navigated, we hopped the last wall beside the road and landed on the other side of an AWESOME morning.
I said it was DEFINITELY more beautiful than Dun Aonghasa, and yet, looking back, I know part of that skewed by having it to ourselves. After all, it was that same isolation that made me love Dun Aonghasa the first time. Also, having spent so long at the Black Fort, it's not as though we could have done it instead on the first day. Instead of giving any awards, I'm just really glad I got to see both of them. And in one trip!
The walk back to town felt insufferably long , but we rewarded ourselves with more awesome café sandwiches and odds and ends from the grocery store. After that, we stopped back to the American bar to toast our way until 4ish, when we planned to make a comfortable walk to the ferry. The five of us crashed out in a booth and shared our best pictures from the day with each other, all wondering out loud how happy an accident could be.
Guinness Count: 44
At one point, I decided to step out and take a walk. Along the way, I stopped in the hostel and came upon the Virginia guys in the TV/Internet room, where we swapped our greatest stories: The Dick Isn't Dead Party versus The Guy Who Gave Their Craig a Drink and Afterwards Told Him It Had Cocaine in It. After chatting with them, I took Round Ireland With a Fridge out to a picnic table and finished it, as I'd planned to give it to Tom for the plane ride home. Once done, I went back to the American Bar and rejoined the party.
Guinness Count: 46
Eventually, the clock crossed 4 PM, so we went to the hostel, grabbed our bags and got on our ferry (HUZZAH!). Tom, Paul, and I sat downstairs in the cabin, while the other two sat up top. Shortly after they went up, our Craig (as opposed to Virginia Craig) came down after ten minutes with a big grin on his face: "Guess who's up on deck?" What I saw when I reached the upper deck capped off two days of wonderful Aran memories; running around the deck, getting petted by all of the tired travellers, was Guinness, the magical dog of Inishmore.
Now isn't that a lovely story? (Ed: This was actually written in my e-mail to Meghan)
After the ferry docked again in Rossaveal, we bid our final farewells to the boys from Virginia and drove back to Galway. In dropping off Craig and Dave at Craig's apartment, we learned that Craig's place is actually really easy to find, though quite a walk from the main part of the city. Leaving them, we drove back to the same Barnacles hostel and checked into another four-person room. Unlike having it ourselves as we did before, this time we’d split the hostel room with a young Australian named Jim.
Jim was a fun, chatty guy, talking our ears off while we each took turns showering. At one point, I thought I got a vibe that he was angling for a ride back to Dublin with us (he's doing this whole travel thing before law school and really bumming it from place to place), but the three of us talked about it later and Tom and Paul thought he was continuing elsewhere. Finally, we left Jim behind and headed back out for a night on the town, starting once again with the delicious fish n' chips place.
We were supposed to meet Craig and Dave at a pub called The King's Head. On our way there, though, we saw a couple of odd things. First, there was a choir of young German guys singing in the street. To date, I have never seen so many people involved in a street performance, especially one with a single hat on the street for tips..how do they divy that up? Secondly, I saw a pub called Taaffe's that had been our Galway haunt on my prior trip. With fond memories rebounding in my brain, I asked if we could pop in and see how the three years have been to it. The boys agreed, so we walked in...
...aaaand immediately walked out. I remembered a chill half-empty place playing trad music, not the hot, smoky bar crowded with an Italian soccer team singing Gloria Estefan songs. Nothing against the Italians and good for the bar for bringing more folks in, but I felt something was lost.
Onward to the King's Head we went, which was a fine, chill pub. Unfortunately, Craig and Dave took a while in getting ready, to the point that even if they left soon, we'd be passing out tired by the time they arrived. Feeling the day weight us down, we called them, told them we'd see them in the morning, and went back to the hostel to go to bed.
Guinness Count: 48
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