The call of Connemara’s wild west has only grown louder during lockdown
The pull of western shores has never felt as strong for Hilary A White, who can’t wait to relive his childhood and show those winding roads to his son
IT is in a series of river courses and lake shores that you sense the westernising of your world. Driving from the east in the days before the M6, you would cross over the Shannon either on the Athlone bypass or else through the Bord na Mona deserts to the south, a deserted byway that could shave time off a bank holiday journey.
Dry-stone walls replace fences as you enter Galway county and the sky gradually opens. Through the city, the Corrib is next, the ruins of the Terryland Castle saluting as you leave the world of enclosure.
On to Moycullen, the road rising up and allowing my eyes to trace the Corrib’s northwards sprawl from the backseat window. Then Oughterard taking you through tackle shops, anglers’ rests, and the narrow bridge over the peaty Owenriff River that has always been my final gateway to Connemara.
In those childhood days, my mother would be waiting at the school gates on the last day of term with the car stuffed to the brim. Off we’d go on what was then a fouror five-hour journey. All the way, it was single-lane roads taking you through staging-post villages that bustle more quietly these days. Tyrellspass with its beautiful Georgian crescent, the waterwheel at Kilbeggan, or the Napoleonic fortifications at Shannonbridge. Between Oughterard and Clifden, as the road undulates at will across bogs and birch woods, rush-fringed lakes and conifer plantations, the horizon begins to jut upwards with ratcheting drama. The Twelve Pins feel each time like the first true mountains you’ve seen in your life, ancient and formidable things. Out the right-hand window, the island of Derryclare, a pine birthday cake framed by mountains. Out the left, the Ballynahinch lake.
Even with the shorter coast-to-coast travel time these days, you are slowed to Connemara’s pace during this final stretch and I hope that never changes.
Our home sits one peninsula north of Clifden at Boolard. Here, the bay of Streamstown empties twice daily to reveal a broad estuary teeming with marine life. Piping oystercatchers, herons setting their spearguns and cormorants drying their laundry on the rocks. The hunched island sitting in the middle of the bay can be walked out to at low tide, shoes in hand and feet plopping through the muddy sand. When Atlantic water filters up the narrow channel and fills the bay again, it becomes a playground of crab-fishing and maybe even a brisk swim to escape the midges.
Other wildlife surfaces into view. When the rock at the end of the island changes shape, it is because a seal is lounging there. Hovering kestrels, as static as coat hangers, on the hunt for rodents and frogs. An otter scampering along the front wall, shaking water off its coat before slinking down and out of sight. On the rear hillside, nesting curlews, a sight all too rare these days.
Back then, I walked with an old pair of my dad’s binoculars, and in the evenings drew pictures of what I’d seen. The natural world is today a major part of my life and a place that I try to exist in even when it does not seem close to hand. My childhood in Connemara is the reason for this.
Driving to the end of our peninsula, the road climbs slightly, offering views right the way out to Cruagh island on the horizon before you skirt north towards Claddaghaduff village and the Omey Island tombolo. Further up the coast, Anchor Beach and Aughrus Beg do a Greek standard in white sand and turquoise waters.
If the sight of Inishbofin’s alligator snout looks compelling, you can loop around the headland back to the village of Cleggan and grab a coffee at the Sea Hare while you wait for the ferry. When you alight on this superb inhabited island of sea cliffs and archaeological sites, it is like the edge of the edge. There is a sumptuous little crescent beach on the eastern side that has one of the best off-shore views of the mainland when the weather is clear.
Rain or shine, the Connemara National Park and its interpretive centre provided a deeper level of appreciation for the area and its histories, both natural and anthropological. Mostly, however, it is the start of the route up Diamond Hill, one of the most perfect upland walks in the land. At its rocky crown, you have the Kylemore Lakes and their iconic abbey to the north and the distant lakelands of Roundstone Bog to the south. Even after spending a third of my childhood here, it can feel like I’ve barely scratched the surface of Connemara. As the late, great Tim Robinson could have told you, exploring the hidden folds and secret histories of this country would absorb a lifetime. When I got older, having my own car freed me up to travel down some of the boreens and backroads. Sometimes, they would lead to little more than a potholeravaged dead-end. Now and then, however, they could open on to a shingle beach that I’d never dreamt existed.
Roundstone is often the first and last word for holiday makers in Connemara which is probably why I steer clear of it. A bowl of chowder and a glass of Guinness in O’Dowd’s is worth stopping for though, and there are magnificent beaches just south. After a walk around the Ballynahinch estate and a fireside lunch in the Ballynahinch Castle hotel’s Fisherman’s bar, the bog road is the only route worth considering back to Clifden.
As for Clifden itself
— over the years, I’ve run into characters from every country and walk of life, often in a mighty little bar called Mullarkey’s that itself feels like an outpost at the edge of the world. Stroll in there any night during Clifden Arts Festival each September and you could be met with live jazz, bluesrock, afrobeat, or stand-up. Attend its annual Halloween fancy-dress party and you’re guaranteed a night you’ll never remember.
‘Even after spending a third of my childhood here, it can feel like I’ve barely scratched the surface ’
Across the street, Guys has not only been a place for intimate conversation and superb food, it’s been like a family living room for me at times. In pre-smartphone days, it was the first port of call if I was ever looking for someone.
Like all parts of Ireland that rely heavily on the tourist season, the lockdown will have hurt Connemara badly. What has been of some comfort is to know that a new generation of both locals and blow-ins are bringing invention and imagination to food, tourism and hospitality in the area. These businesses are putting local produce on a pedestal and doing away with imported aspirations in favour of the treasures on the doorstep. I can’t wait to get down and taste it all, everything, through mouth and ear and eye. I find myself counting the days until that highway is reopened and my young son can begin to get to know his own staging posts.