TRAVEL Road-tripping along the west coast of Ireland
Picturesque seaside towns, witty banter with friendly folk down the pub, secluded views of rolling greens and ancient landscapes to awaken the imagination all made for a romantic rollick of a honeymoon on the Wild Atlantic Way in Ireland.
The fiddlers, banjo player and flautist seated around a table strewn with halfdrunk pints of Guinness shot irate glances at the guitarist who had joined the evening’s jaunty session of traditional Irish music at Fealty’s bar. The jig’s closing note rang out and we applauded eagerly, though my husband’s uncle was less enthused.
‘Thoan’s desperate,’ he said as he set his banjo down. It was my first night in Northern Ireland in a large coastal town called Bangor, where my recently acquired Irish spouse, Ronan, was born. ‘Thoan… isn’t that a character in Game of Thrones?’ I thought. ‘That one is desperate,’ Ronan whispered by way of ‘translation’.
And so began the first of many incomprehensible and comical encounters on our honeymoon, road-tripping around Ireland. The guitarist didn’t know the songs well enough and was, well, desperate. He was duly asked to leave the session; Irish music is, among other things, weighted in history and tradition, and taken very seriously.
For our honeymoon, we had chosen the verdant countryside, crisp air (read: bad weather) and undulating hills of Ireland over the blues and warm waters of a more traditional
For our honeymoon, we chose the, crisp air and undulating hills of Ireland over the blues and warm waters of the more traditional tropical island destination.
tropical island destination. Our plan was to visit Northern Ireland, partly so I could meet Ronan’s family, before doing the Wild Atlantic Way, a breathtaking drive along Ireland’s west coast. We basically got hold of a map and drove, booking accommodation along the way. The route was well signposted, and on the odd occasion that we did get lost, the affable Irish were only too happy to steer us back onto the path.
South Africans require a UK visa for Northern Ireland. The partition of Northern Ireland from the Republic persisted for three decades, and the first tangible reminder of the ‘Troubles’ was in Belfast, about 15km from Bangor, where striking murals depict the conflict. Along the length of Falls Road, massive paintings pay tribute to Irish Republican leaders, and others draw a parallel to nationalist struggles around the world, including South Africa. In contrast, the murals in Shankill Road depict the UK ‘loyalist’ cause.
Rather than a bustling European capital, Belfast appeared to be a city yet to come into its own, particularly the centre, having seemingly been given a lick of paint to divorce itself from its troubled past. We noticed a few small strongholds of defiance, though, such as Maddens Bar, where the sign at the entrance read: ‘Broken Irish is better than clever English.’
On to County Antrim, which has seen a boost in tourism for its many filming locations for Game of Thrones, through Ballycastle, where boat trips promised sightings of the ‘harbour’ where Theon Greyjoy was welcomed home (Theon, that was his name!). We were headed for the Dark Hedges, an avenue of 150 towering beeches planted in the 18th century, which tourist offices punt heavily as the Kingsroad in GoT. Downright spooky at night – when the gnarly branches seemed to close in on you – it felt like a natural cathedral during the day.
The Giant’s Causeway had similar otherworldly appeal, with its mystical rock formations, dramatic cliffs, ocean mist and thrashing sea. Legend has it that mythical warrior Fionn mac Cumhail (pronounced Finn McCool) created the Causeway so he could walk over to Scotland to pick a fight with the giant Benandonner. The other explanation is that the hexagonal basalt columns were formed as a result of volcanic activity some 50 million years ago.
We lingered a bit, but by now the chill had set in and it was time for a dram of whisky at Old Bushmills, one of the oldest licenced distilleries in the world.
We crossed the border at Derry and worked our way up to Malin Head, the northernmost tip of Ireland, to begin the Wild Atlantic Way. The rugged coastline was a tantalising taste of what was to come. The Wild Atlantic Way is 2500km long and traverses cities, towns, villages, landscapes and seascapes. The roads are excellent, although the narrow, high-hedged country lanes can get tricky when you need to squeeze past another vehicle. We did a fair bit of the route in two weeks, setting off for long walks through woodlands and up foothills, regularly stopping to take in the shifting moods of the Atlantic.
The grey skies in County Donegal left us feeling let down: it was August, summer in Ireland! But the fertile countryside made up for it: lush green plains, iridescent pastures and heathery moorland.
In peaceful Dunfanaghy, we strolled along unspoilt beaches and ambled beyond the well-kept village as sheep tailed us. The Horn Head peninsula’s impressive cliff face had nothing on our next stop, Slieve League – at 610 metres, the highest sea cliffs in Ireland. From designated viewpoints, a jaw-dropping panorama stretched out: rolling mists, soaring gulls and the crashing Atlantic – and sheep grazing precariously on sheer craggy rock faces. You can hike the cliffs, but book a guide if you’re not an experi-
enced hiker – it’s a bracing walk!
We stopped over in Killybegs. At a watering hole, a local asked: ‘So you’re going to the Fleadh Cheoil na hÉireann then?’ Our vacant expressions prompted him to fill us in. The traditional Irish music competition, known as the Fleadh (pronounced flaah), in which young and old compete in various categories for the title of all-Ireland champion, was being held in Sligo. The town was filled with music: on stages, in pubs, on the streets and along the Garavogue River. It was brimming with people – wait, did the guy from Westlife just walk past me? (He did.) A little boy with a shock of orange curls caterwauled his way through a fiddle solo, smiling broadly to rapturous applause, and around the corner two kids played the complex uilleann pipes with earnest dexterity. What was really on display was generations of pride and a determination to uphold musical traditions.
Westport, a popular stop on the Way, offers plenty to do, especially for outdoorsy types. But the effects of the full Irish breakfasts served at our homely guesthouses were making themselves felt, so we focused on the nightlife, particularly Matt Molloy’s. Owned by a member of Irish band The Chieftains, the small pub was packed with locals and tourists. It’s a magnet for top-notch musicians, so worth the squeeze.
The following day we made for Galway via Louisburgh, arguably the most magnificent stretch of road on the route, passing serene lakes and the blue Sheeffry Mountains. Bohemian Galway was abuzz with buskers and street theatre, and we were glad for a bit of city life and diversity. In Quay Street you’ll find Irish pubs, artisanal coffee shops, kitsch tourist traps and flamboyant shopfronts. Remnants of Galway’s medieaval heritage pepper the city, among them Lynch’s Castle, a 16th-century Gothic structure that’s now home to a bank. The River Corrib is a great hangout. We sauntered along its banks where people were reading, daydreaming or having a snack, all while a ferocious kayak water polo match was underway.
About an hour’s drive out of Galway, the abundant green gives way to the grey limestone of the Burren in County Clare. Shaped underwater hundreds of millions of years ago, the rock rose to the surface after a geological cataclysm, giving the landscape a lunar appearance and stark, magical quality. The coastal road brought us to the Cliffs of Moher, which reach 8km out to sea. Its 300-million-year past is palpable in the strata of the rock face. It’s a tourist hotspot, but worth braving the crowds and brisk walk along the top, 214 metres up.
We caught a ferry to Dingle Peninsula in County Kerry, which locals had encouraged us to visit. And it’s no wonder – every truism about small seaside resorts sprang to mind while we walked the picture-book port town, passing quaint craft shops, chic cafés and cosy pubs. The peninsula is best explored via the circular Slea Head drive, along which friendly farm animals seemed willing to pose for pictures, enchanting mountains like the Three Sisters and Sleeping Giant came into view, and the jagged thrust of the haunting Skellig Islands could be seen in the distance. We cut through the peninsula via the twists and turns of the (sometimes) hairraising Conor Pass to enter the Ring of Kerry, yet another loop of infinite vistas and tranquil beauty. You’re seldom far from the next town or lookout point, and your senses are always engaged by the changing terrain.
Sheep’s Head in County Cork was our final stop. It was balmy, thanks to its proximity to the Gulf Stream, and we meandered the quiet country roads and empty footpaths of Kilcrohane, passing only cows and donkeys, relishing the sun and last moments of space, silence and solitude to reflect on the journey that had been, and the one that was to come.
Every truism about small seaside resorts sprang to mind while we walked the picturebook port town, passing quaint craft shops, chic cafés and cosy pubs.