The Cycle of Life

Most people think of the Wild Atlantic Way as the tourist route that spans the western seaboard and attracts many visitors to our shores. However, I can’t help thinking of the ‘wild’ Atlantic way as a characteristic of the people who live along this long stretch of coastline. You see, I believe there is a big difference between ‘sea’ people and ‘ocean’ people. In Ireland, those who have lived by our seas tended to look eastward to the countries nearby. Scotland, Wales and France were all available by direct crossing. This closeness leads to trade and commerce and interest in other languages and culture. Over the years, sea people developed qualities that reflect these conditions. In contrast, ocean people looked west over the vast expanse of water and saw no limit. The Atlantic was wild and unpredictable. It was not for crossing to visit neighbouring nations. When ocean people put to sea it was out of necessity. Fishing, travel up and down the coast, and between the islands, was and still is, precarious and unpredictable. Generations of rough seas, frequent storms and perilous cliffs etched wild ways in the people of the west. To be clear, this is the desirable wildness of resilience and resourcefulness. It is a disposition for making the most of limited resources; a toughness derived from constant struggle with a beautiful but bleak environment. This, I believe is the real wild Atlantic way-of-things. All of which was very much on my mind during my most recent cycle journey in the west. The three rugged headlands tucked away between Clifden and Leenaun are hidden treasures. My strategy was to follow the coast along each of these and thereby avoid the busy road. The first part of the journey involved the ominously named Sky Road. I climbed this many years ago and remember the steep ascent and breath-taking views. This time also, the wonderful panorama of the Atlantic coast extended with each section of road. Higher and higher the Sky Road flies over and around the headland and back into the dark green world of rocky outcrops, narrow fields and lazy sheep. The impact of the wildness is everywhere to be seen, trees bent and stripped bare from the wind. Sea birds hovering over the cliffs, fighting the violent gusts to maintain a stationary lookout. Delicate wild flowers blooming between stones. There is nowhere to compare with the coast of Connemara. Moving on to the next peninsula, I headed out the long road to Claddaghduff. I was pushing all the way. The terrain is relatively flat, however, the absence of hills allows the sea breezes to run amok. The road runs between the bog and the shore and is watched over by hundreds of sheep who patrol the rushes and tufts of grass. They seem to wander freely, often slow to move aside; unimpressed by one man on a bike. Just before Claddaghduff there is a turn for the remarkable Omey Island. At certain times each day you can cross the sands to the island. Tough luck if you don’t heed the warnings, as they say ‘the tide waits for no one’ and many is the time enthusiastic visitors have a long wait for the next low tide. Looping around the top of the headland afforded more sea views. Onwards to Cleggan where the harbour is a staging point for boat trips to the nearby island of Inisbofin. It’s usually a busy place with day trippers parking their cars and heading out on the ferry. Today all was quiet. I sat looking out to the ocean and thinking of stories of the wild people from these parts. At the time of Henry VIII there was a feisty daughter of an Irish chieftain. As a child she was strong and brazen and hard to manage. She begged her father to take her to sea but he said her wild hair would catch in the ropes of the ship. So she cut her hair. Even in those days this was a drastic act for a young girl. Her name was Grace O’Malley or in Irish, Grainne Ní Mhaille. From then on she was known as Granuaile which translates as ‘Grainne the bald’!