Cliffs of Moher

The last time I saw the cliffs, I was 18 and hitching around Ireland. I had lucked into a ride with a German family in a VW van. My plan was to take the ferry out to the Aran Islands after seeing the cliffs. However, it was pouring rain and the Germans and I hopped out of the van, took a few snaps of the cliffs and moved on. I stayed with them as long as I could in the roomy, warm van, which came equipped with snacks and two teenage boys eager to practice English.

This time, the weather was clear, if a bit gusty. The seagulls near the cliffs looked as if they were in great danger of being smacked against the rocks each time they ventured forth from a perch. Enough words.


The "castle" you see is a look-out tower built in the 1800s by a man who realized he could make a few quid off tourists.

Next north to Doolin for lunch, then north through the moonscape of the Burren. The coast looks like this:

In one spot, I took a photo to my left, in front, and to my right, and they looked like this.



Then we stopped at a lovely beach at Fanore that the prior night's hotel manager told us about. It never ceased to amaze me that we saw people playing in and surfing in the ocean wherever we went. I generally had on several layers to protect from the wind and occasional rain. I wasn't cold, but I also wasn't going to go near a bathing suit.

You can see the weather changed while we were there.

Hurling is really big in the south. It's kind of like lacrosse, however there is no net to hold the ball. Just a flat surface that you try to keep the ball bouncing on. There were four surfers in the background, but they didn't spend much time upright, so I never got a surfing shot.

We then went inland back to Lisdoonvarna and south to Ennistymon, rejoining the coast at Lahinch and driving south past Spanish Point, where the Armada sank. We ended the day in Kilkee, where we spent our final trip night in a Victorian hotel with deep bay windows. I curled up and read a book that evening and the following morning. Quite content.

I saw a man with a big plastic storage box full of mackerel park his van below me and put the box on the sidewalk. A row of cars lined up to buy mackerel caught that morning. With his bare hands (shudder), he loaded fish into flimsy white plastic sacks and handed them into each car. He was sold out in about 10 minutes.

Here is Moore Bay at high tide and low tide.

Kilkee has images of Che Guevara all over the place--t shirts, murals on buildings, posters on fences. I asked the waitress why? She said he stayed there when he was on the run and now there's a Che festival. David looked this up on the internet and found that there had been one mural on the sea wall. Some Americans objected (USA! USA!) and the town took it down. The townspeople responded by painting murals all over private property. Ha! Not far from Kilkee is a massive, tasteless Trump golf development. I imagine the people of Kilkee get their fill of Americans throwing their weight around.

Our dinner menu reflected a common Buy Fresh, Buy Local theme (think of mackerel man). Our eggs were from Peggy Hennessy's farm; our sausage was made by J.J. Hickey's Victualler's up the road; and the salmon was from Burren Salmon. At this point in the trip, our digestive systems couldn't take any more rich food, but it would have been fun to order the cheese plate.

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