Sharing the secret of an unspoiled haven
I ONCE said about a certain province on the west coast of Ireland, ‘Connemara... being there is enough’. So it proved once again last week at Moyrus Strand, Carna, where we had hired a cottage. This is my very heartland, and Moyrus is the heart of hearts. Google it and let me know what you think.
Before you ask, yes it rained, but it’s a kind of soft rain and was still warm enough to swim in the Atlantic. All five of us were in up to our necks within half-an-hour of arriving at the house; obviously my Joanie needed a little encouragement, but that’s what friends are surely for? I thought, dragging her kicking and screaming into the waves, much to Joanie’s girls’ amusement. Neptune was on hand to be sure.
Other days saw glorious sunshine and the sea was actually warm. Joanie needed no help from me at these times, but her maritime adventures were cut short as ‘a giant fish’, (her words) gnawed at her foot as it sunk in the sand at the turn of the tide. Her shriek attracted a couple of greater black backed gulls who could have sworn they had heard a ‘mate’.
Moyrus Strand is a shallow-watered quartermile arc of a beach, with white and yellow sand, where it is safe for the kids and there are no crowds, ever. I am kind of reticent to let you into the secret, but here goes...
Head west from Galway, either for an hour and a half on the Coast Road via Salthill and Barna, or head direct for the ‘Quiet Man’s’, Mamm Cross through Oughterard in sight of Lough Corrib and turn left at the cross roads. An hour further on brings you to the Gaelic speaking Carna village, and then you’re on your own.
Ask in a pub, there’s several and you’ll be given at least four lots of directions. My first was, “It’s a long road, and I’ve a short leg!” while the second created a really pleasant conundrum, “Well, ye could go one of tree (sic) ways”. I just loved that, and the salty Sea Dog with a face as red as a pepper was spot on - every way got you there and each journey was an absolute delight and no more than three miles from the village itself.
By car you turn into a seemingly impossible tiny road, a boreen with grass growing down the middle, and it leads down the hill to a Sixth Century Chapel and a small parking area by the beach itself.
Fuchsia blooms at every turn, curlews kick up the grasses and the hooded crow drops mussels from on high and hit the stone below every time to reveal the juicy flesh within.
It’s self-contained is Connemara, it needs to be, and the hardy but beautiful Connemara ponies are a good example to us all of stoicism, only matched by the donkeys - these days mostly for show or pets and thankfully no longer sad beasts of burden.
Remnants of the great famines of the 18th Century remain when hundreds of thousands of Irish men, women and children died from starvation when the potato crop failed, and amongst the hard won fields of stone sit the ruins of their little ‘cots’.
When the simple spud is your staple diet, man nor beast can not survive for very long without it.
I always remember a very sad account of Connemara folk who were seen digging over old potato beds from dawn until dusk trying to find any potatoes left in the ground before the blight held reign.
It is not difficult to imagine the faces at the windowless cottages, especially if you venture out as the sun goes down. Shake your head at the notion that a family of six, seven or eight would see out their days in a draughty stone dwelling the size of a generous garden shed, sometimes even sharing it with the livestock.
Tough folk were bred in Connemara.