The weather is windy and cold but feels good after the heat wave at home. We arrive at the Sligo train station and hunt for a telephone to call the hostel (the proprietor told us that he would pick us up at the station and we should call him when we got in). The first few telephones we see only take telephone cards (not coins), but all we have is money. Finally, inside a small shop we find a phone which eats money. The warden who answers the phone at the hostel is doubtful that anyone will actually come to collect us at the station. Eventually the proprietor gets on the phone and assures us that he will be right down to get us...and he is! The backpacks and some of the kids ride to the hostel in the car. The rest of us walk. The hostel is a huge old Victorian house atop a hill in suburban Sligo. We get a room all to ourselves under the eaves. We get settled in, run out for food supplies, and check on our rental bikes. There are no rental bikes. But we ordered them in advance because we need two child seats, three children's bikes and other special items. We phone the main office of the bike rental company. They never heard of us, but not to worry, the bikes will be delivered tomorrow morning. Mollified by this response, we eat dinner and check out the town on foot.
Sligo, located on the northwestern coast of the Republic of Ireland, is a fairly large city by Irish standards--18,000 people. It's a good place to stay while touring the surrounding gorgeous countryside. Sligo is the home of William Butler Yeats. We know this because everywhere we went we were bombarded with that fact. The town's sole tourist attraction is that Yeats lived there. You can go on the Yeats Tour. See where he lived, see where he died, see the lake he swam in as a child, see the shore he walked on. It may help, when reading one of Yeats' poems, to have stood on the shores of Lough Gill. It may give one a deeper understanding of the setting of his poems. I'm willing to admit it. I can't help but think, though, that the tourist office isn't thinking about poetry as they exploit their native son.
The hostel owner is sympathetic to our problem with the bike rental outfit. He says that he is having a lot of problems with them this year, that they can't seem to deliver what they promise. He offers us the use of his car for a few days, but he needs to check with his insurance company about coverage for us. We are very grateful, but were really looking forward to bicycles. We decide to wait and see what happens.
While we sat munching a woman came rushing up the hill from the beach. As she ran past Dave called out to her, "How's the water?" We expected the typical American response to any question beginning with the word how--Fine. How are you, Fred? Fine. How's the coffee this morning, Ned? Fine. How did you make out on the 30,000 dollars worth of medical tests that you had done on your spleen, Ed? Fine. But this woman was Irish. She thought we actually wanted to know how the water was and were not just asking an empty question in order to get an empty answer. She was right. So she trotted over and settled in on the bench next to us for a long and intimate chat. After a few minutes of friendly gossip about the temperature of the water and the severity of the waves, she suddenly remembered that she had been running up the hill on her way to the parking lot to find her friend who had gone to get the car but was taking an awfully long time about it. (Obviously the friend had gotten into a conversation with a different group of tourists.) As she got up to go she saw her friend drive by and down the hill to the beach. She quickly asked if she could borrow one of our bikes so that she could catch her friend. "Sure", we replied, quite unsure if this was a smart thing to do. We sat watching her, clad only in a swimsuit, madly pedaling after her friend's car and waving frantically. (She did eventually return the bike.) Later, after finding each other and packing the car they were driving by us again and they tooted the horn and waved like we were all old friends. What struck me about the episode was the immediate friendliness of the woman. My mother is like this. She gets into conversations everywhere with total strangers. I had always assumed it was an individual personality quirk. Now I believe it is a genetic trait handed down from Irish ancestors.
We found again and again that the Irish were very friendly people. Helpful, glad to see you, chatty, funny, and full of fun. This did not stop them from charging you an arm and a leg and your first-born child for a wool Aran knit sweater, however. Perhaps they figured the tourists were there to spend money so they would help them. Many people in the tourist trade would smile and tell you a joke as they emptied your pockets.
On the way back from Parkes' Castle we made a rest stop at the top of a hill. The view below of the little ponds and fields was very impressive. What was even more impressive though, was the Frenchman who had his car parked on the side of the road. While we caught our breath and admired the view, he removed a set of bagpipes from his car, and as we got ready to depart he was marching around on this hilltop playing the ever-livin' daylights out of 'em. It was truly special.
The whole bike trek took all day and we rode about 20 miles altogether. We had no problems sleeping that night.
Michael Quirke's father was a butcher. His grandfather was a butcher. So he was a butcher, too. He hated it. He wanted to be a sculptor, and in fact, he was a sculptor in his free time. Little by little the butcher shop gave way to the sculptor's studio and his free time became all his time. There are clues to the fact that Mr. Quirke's studio was once a butcher shop. The tiled floors and walls for one thing, and the large front window. Most artists don't work in the window of a storefront in view of the pedestrian passersby. Michael Quirke does. He also chats to anyone who comes in. He is a sculptor of wood and most of his subjects are figures of Irish myth and legend. He is fascinated by the stories and he is fascinating to listen to. Like in all cultures, the lines between myths, legends, history and fantasy blur in the telling of the story. He stood there, telling us stories as he carved the piece he was working on. He talked for a while about his own life and then he put down his work in progress, picked up a piece of scrap wood and began to tell the kids about a giant mythical red warrior hare from Sligo, and as he talked he carved various symbols from the story into the wood and when he was finished he gave it to the kids. They were duly impressed. So were we.
A little background information is probably appropriate at this point. Months before we actually arrived in Ireland, we had made a tentative, vague itinerary which was based on when and where the good traditional and folk music events were going to happen. Ballyshannon is probably number 2 on the traditional/folk music festival hit list. Due to this fact, and the problems and concerns of traveling with 5 children, we decided that we needed to book accommodation in Ballyshannon well in advance. Dave made oodles of long distance phone calls to Ireland and spoke with all the people involved in the planning and promotion of the Ballyshannon festival. At last we finally received assurances that there were beds for us. We spoke to Mr. McGuinness in order to confirm the situation and get directions to his house. These are the directions we received: "Just come right into town and ask for Mr. McGuinness, you'll find it." No street address. No right turns, no left turns, no half a mile down the road. Amazingly enough, with all that was going on in town when we arrived, those simple directions actually worked! We found it.
The normal population of Ballyshannon is 1000, but on Festival weekend it is overrun with 10,000 people. We went to the concerts every night but we couldn't figure out where all these ten thousand people were. They certainly were not at the concerts. We found out when we walked home from the concerts late at night. They were in the pubs and in the street. The music blasted from the pubs, the drinkers blasted from the pubs and they all met in a crashing, clashing, noisy riot in the street. Sort of like New Year's Eve in Times Square. Not as many people, but I'll bet more noise.
The concerts were held in a huge tent which was set up in a parking lot near the bus station (more like a hut). The tent had a wooden floor, which was where you laid your blanket and parked your buttocks for the evening. The families (we were not the only ones who brought kids) stayed mostly near the back, where the music was not too loud and there was plenty of room for dancing. The music was very good. The kids even enjoyed it and they claim not to like folk music. This dislike did not stop them from dancing whenever the opportunity arose to do a reel. Or a jig.
On Sunday, the children went to see a Celtic harp class. The people running the class expected actual musicians to show up. Only people who had never touched a Celtic harp showed up. So they gave a very beginner class and all the kids got to play the harp. They weren't bad!
The ride to Galway is a long one (about 3 hours), so the driver makes a pee stop about halfway into it. He pulls over at a roadside pub and announces a 5 minute stop. We all get out and use the facilities. Some woman asks us not to let the driver leave without her. Everything is so...informal. Very refreshing.
Upon arrival in Galway, we struggle with our bags to the next hostel. This one isn't as easy to find as the last one, but we finally stumble into it. This hostel is also a huge Victorian house, but the kitchen is much, much smaller than the one in Sligo. Funny how this (size of the kitchen) became a major issue for us, as it was to be a problem getting enough table space for all the kids to sit down at once. Most of the other hostel occupants were generally pretty accommodating, however. Here we are lucky enough to get a 6-bed room all to ourselves. The kids argue about who gets to sleep in the top bunks!
In Galway we were in for a bit of culture shock. This was the first time since we arrived in Ireland that we actually saw a lot of tourists. We had already been spoiled by the relative quiet and calm of the sparsely populated countryside. Galway is very crowded in the tourist season. It is the fastest-growing city in Ireland, and is somewhat of a Yuppy magnet during the summer months. We found it mostly claustrophobic and noisy and it didn't really have much to offer for families (although it looked like a lot of fun for young crazy single people).
After a while it started to rain (as usual), so we packed up our stuff and headed off in the direction of Galway town. We weren't exactly sure how far we had come in the bus and didn't exactly know where we were, but after a while it became clear that we had walked all the way back to the center of town. It's amazing how much you can get kids to do if they don't know that they're actually doing it until it's already done!
Feakle is a tiny village (population 500 if you count the sheep) in County Clare. County Clare is known for its music and Feakle has a music festival that is known among musicians as a good one. We are staying in a lovely old hotel (the only hotel).There are no bed and breakfasts, only rented out space in farmers' fields which wouldn't be too comfortable for us because we didn't bring camping gear. The Smyth family owns the hotel. They also own a grocery store across the street (we found this out quite by accident, as we kept seeing the same people working the store and the hotel, a little deja vu). They also own a building supply company and a farm machinery rental company. The might actually own all of Feakle for all we know!
We had originally booked 3 (of the 15) rooms at this hotel, based on the owner's description of "tiny doubles in which the beds just barely fit". When we actually saw the rooms, however, we were able to get one "big" room with 2 double beds (enough for 5 of us) and another "small" room with 1 double bed. Considering that this was the most expensive accommodation of the entire vacation, we were very happy to give up our third room to some overly-grateful visitor to the Feakle traditional music festival (it saved us a bundle).
After we got our stuff into the hotel rooms we were off to the festival's opening events: a parade through town with a (bag)pipe band and a little taste of what was to come in the town hall (gymnasium). The pipers were in fine form coming down the main (only) street in Feakle, but they were a little too loud inside the gymnasium. Didn't bother Alex though, he fell asleep on somebody's shoulder. After the usual welcome speeches we got to hear a smattering of the local and international talent which was in town for the weekend. Especially well received was Helen Hayes, a member of the musically talented Hayes family, who arrived in the hall all out of breath with her apron still on (she was milking the cows or bakin' something) and proceeded to belt out a song or two (a cappella) with an incredibly clear, strong, and sweet voice.
Sam, Nate and Rebecca went to a set dancing workshop which they enjoyed. Later we went to a pub where they got to try out their newly learned set dancing. They met a girl named Aoiffe who is from Connecticut. Aoiffe is the Irish form of Eve. She and her mother were touring Ireland together for the summer.
The evening's concert was delayed by technical difficulties, but managed to start only an hour late. Not bad for Ireland considering the average actual starting time (AAST) for the Ballyshannon festival concerts was at least one and a half hours late and that was for no reason at all. The AAST of most things in Ireland is much later than the PST (published starting time). Here is another example of a Mary Cameron characteristic that I thought was personal but turned out to be genetically inherited. You can't help it, Mom, it's hereditary. Must be a dominant gene, because I have it, too.
Dave's brother Scott arrived late in the evening during the concert. He had just finished a summer Shakespeare course in London at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts and arranged to fly in to Ireland to tour with us. He flew into Shannon airport and then tried to find some way to get to Feakle. He had nearly the same experience as we did and ended up taking a very expensive taxi ride from a jovial and talkative cabby who made Scott believe that he was doing him a big favor by driving him to Feakle and lightening the load in his wallet.
There was a Ceili, Irish barn dance, tonight. I didn't go because Alex fell asleep, but it was OK because I could hear the music from the room. The kids got to practice their set dancing again.
Lisdoonvarna is a spa town. You are supposed to go there to "take the waters." We wandered around, but did not take any waters in bath or drinkable form. This was probably just as well because someone told me later that he couldn't understand how anyone could get within fifty feet of them because they smell like rotten eggs. A lot of sulfur, I guess.
Ted, our tour guide, took us on a tour of the Burren. If you would like to see the moon, but haven't got enough money to get there, go to the Burren. The Burren is unlike anything you ever expected from Ireland. It is a piece of land (?) originally formed under the sea when shell and sediment compressed into limestone, then it convulsed up out of the water and was covered by the Ice Age glaciers and was further carved and scarred. It looks barren and desolate and lunar. Everywhere cracked and creased and cratered stone. And yet it's not barren. In every crevice, plants are poking out and blooming. The local people even graze cows on the grass that pokes out between the limestone and these cows are the healthiest in Ireland from the mineral deposits in the limestone. We toured the area and also went to the two-million-year-old Aillwee Cave, former home of prehistoric bears, now home to stalactites and stalagmites. The Ôtites hang from the ceiling and the Ômites grow up from the floor. Ted, our entertaining tour guide, took us on a 3 or 4 hour tour of the area complete with running dialog of the geology, history and folklore of the region. The man really knew his stuff and it was fascinating, although he could only just gloss over the finer points having to cover a few million years of history in a few hours. We started in the geologic forming of the Earth, breezed through the Ice, Stone, Bronze and Iron Ages, skimmed over centuries of feuding feudals, to arrive in a van tooling its way along the road back to Doolin. Quite a trip.
We booked passage on the 11:30 (PST) ferry to Inisheer, the smallest of the Aran Islands. We didn't want to go to Inishmore (the big island, where all the tourists go), we wanted something more "Aran". The boat docked at 12:15 and did not leave the pier until almost 12:45 (AAST). We have now become used to this kind of thing. Unfortunately, we had to listen to a poor German tourist who expects that when a schedule is posted it is correct. He was disillusioned by the word timetable. In Germany a timetable is a rigid work of non-fiction whereas, in Ireland, to read an Irish timetable is akin to reading a French farce. Moliere could do no better. Such sublime wit, such supreme parody! We took the German aside and tried to explain things to him. We agreed that, of course, boats should run strictly on schedule, tides or no tides, weather or no weather. Of course, one should be able to set one's watch by the arrival of trains, buses, and boats. Then we gave him a scone and he felt much better.
We spent the boat ride trying to keep the kids from being seasick. It's not that the ride was particularly rough, just that my kids are not good sailors. I fell down quite hard on the pier when we docked. Down I went with Alex and two backpacks in my arms. They were fine. I sustained a bruised and scraped knee and a broken blood vessel in my finger tip which hurt and looked really weird. When we got to the hostel, the woman at the desk said it was lucky it was Thursday because the nurse was on the Island. I didn't actually go see the nurse because it was only a broken blood vessel and everyone knows that the cure for that is a pint of Guinness, which I stoically downed in the local pub, to help the pain and take care of the extra gallon and a half of adrenaline I had coursing through my veins. My body had produced all this lovely adrenaline as I sailed through the air, with an imminent appointment to meet the pavement, as I tried to figure out in the half second I had, how I was going to protect Alex's head from concussion. Hence the smashed finger. It was a heroic measure. It was the only thing between Alex's head and the cement. Ouch! No wonder I needed that pint of Guinness.
There is something about Islands, and island people that is fiercely independent. Of course, I understand about island wildlife and plant forms. How they have to maintain a delicate balance, because there must be a complete, interdependent, food chain on such a small scale, because the animals and plants are cut off from the mainland. This seems to carry over to the people which is something I really don't understand, because although they are somewhat cut off from the mainland, they do have boats (and planes, and telephones). But still being 15 miles from a big town down the road seems to be quite different from being 15 miles over water from the same big town. I can't explain it, islanders are just different from mainlanders.
This is a very small island, less than two miles wide in either direction, one church, population 300, and only three pubs. The kids went to the beach and actually swam in the frigid water. BBBRRRR. We had to pick up a few things at the shop before dinner. Which shop? THE shop.
We needed to do some laundry and luckily the hostel had a washing machine. We went to dry the laundry outside on the neighbor's clothesline only to discover that there were not enough clothespins (we forgot to bring those with us). With the gale force winds which are common on islands, it would not have been prudent to hang the clothes without clothespins. Dave started looking around in the grass under the clothesline and managed to recover enough clothespin parts to construct enough clothespins to finish the job. This is one of his special talents at home too!
Although we had planned to stay only 1 night on Inisheer and then either go on to Inishmaan (the third island) or return to Galway, we all agreed that we wanted to stay at least another day on this Island because we hadn't had enough time to really get a good look around. The only problem was that this hostel was full and B&B would have been pretty expensive. We read in the guidebook that there was a second hostel on the island, up the hill behind the post office. We went to have a look at it and was told by a neighbor that the owner was on holiday but he had arranged for the Postmaster to look after it for him. We finally found the Postmaster and had him open up the place for us. It was a 4 bedroom cottage with a tiny kitchen and a living room built for 4. It was filthy and falling apart, but we would have it all to ourselves and the other alternatives were bleak. We took it. After relocating all our gear from hostel #1 and cleaning the kitchen and shaking out the beds it didn't seem so bad and it was private, so we snuggled in and called it home.
We had a chance to visit the pubs on Inisheer, and were surprised that even after midnight they were still full of patrons (even children) actively slurping their Guinness or Irish whisky. Normal closing time is 11:00 or 11:30 PM. After casually mentioning this to one of the locals, we were told that there aren't any police officers on the island, so the pubs tend to stay open as long as the customers keep drinking. Who's gonna tell?
During the daytime we hiked around the island. The architecture of the island itself is quite interesting. It is nearly covered with dry stone walls, each about 4 to 6 feet high and surrounding pastures and fields as small as 10 x 20 feet. Each field is owned by someone and they use them mostly for cattle crazing (although we did see a few potato and cabbage patches). At the top of the hill in the center of the island sits the ruin of O'Brien's castle and a stone fort. We walked all the way around the island to discover the Plassy, a ship which sunk in 1960 and was later thrown up on the shore of Inisheer during a heavy storm. The skeleton of this huge iron monster was really cool up close. During our hike around the island we watched in amusement as a small group of people were chasing after some donkeys, trying to figure out which one belonged to whom. It was very funny.
We enjoyed the island so much, we stayed 3 days and skipped the Connemara.
Staying in hostels meant that we had the opportunity to meet a lot of other travelers. We were surprised by the number of German (and German-speaking) travelers in Ireland. In the north especially, it seemed that most of the people we met were German. Interestingly, there seem to be certain travel routes or patterns which are common and we bumped into the same people again and again during our trek through the country. Although hostelling is usually associated with youths (ie: high school and college students), it worked out quite well for us. The children were considered somewhat of a curiosity at most of the hostels, but they did their chores and behaved themselves and we believe that we left behind a positive impression of families wherever we stayed. The kids did their best to be outgoing and talkative and friendly and it worked very well. Considering the constant scenery changes, the unpredictable weather, and the almost daily packing and unpacking and moving from one place to another, we all held up surprisingly well.
Due to the high cost of restaurant meals, we decided early on that we would have to prepare most of our own meals. Since we were staying in hostels which had kitchen facilities, this proved to be relatively straightforward. We usually cooked oatmeal for breakfast (popular in Ireland, but unknown to most of the travelers we met), packed picnic lunches (bread, cheese, peanut butter, yogurt and fruit), and cooked again at the hostel in the evening (soup, stew, curry, spaghetti, etc.). This trip was not a remarkable culinary experience. The few times we did splurge and eat lunch in a restaurant or pub were mostly disappointing. The only positive thing to be said for Irish food is that the portions tend to be large (although the price tags are also large).
Last updated: 20-June-96