A Trip Round Ireland

The concept was a simple one; Kivi's BMW R80 engine had, from the ground up, been completely rebuilt, including a new cam. The engine, therefore, needed a 'run in' after this work and before another service. But the run in needed to be at least 600 miles. The option was an obvious one, at least to us - travel all round Ireland and stop at sites of interest. I had booked time off work and thought that we would have ample time, as things turned out the time was no-where near enough and we discovered that one could spend years exploring Ireland and still not have seen everything! 

I met up with Kivi in Derry, full of anticipation; the bike was packed and looked purposeful, complete with a fully waterproof (yachting) bag that had been a present from Kiv's containing my tent and other camping equipment, freeing up the Explorer's ample panniers for other things - strange the way the more room one has, the more crap one brings! Did I really need all those clothes? "I must refine my packing" I thought as I had attached them to the bike. After leaving Derry we took the A5 towards Omagh: at this stage, although sunny, the winds were strong but nothing the Explorer couldn't cope with. Heading south the Strule River flanks the Beltany Road to the east, wide and in the sun inviting, to the right lime green trees arched over the road with outcrops of purple flowers at their base - these could be weeds for all I know, but the streaks of colour in my peripheral vision added an extra dimension to the view.

Caledon, Co. Tyrone

We were soon in Auchnacloy in Co. Tyrone, the immediate feature that struck me was the width of the main street, sprawling and almost too wide for such a small town, it gave the impression that the settlement had once, perhaps, been a thriving market town but now, even on this Saturday, it felt riddled with decay; the uniform beige of Toals Bookmakers a metaphor not only for the hopelessness that such a place contains, but also for the town's decline. The name comes from the Irish Achadh na Cloiche meaning 'field of the stone'. Most of the town was built in the 18th century, but without an industry had already started to decline by the 19th century. Like so many small towns here devoid of investment, even in modern times, they have been left to their fate. After coffee, we moved on to the altogether more picturesque Caledon. The main street contains stone built townhouses as well as a town hall complete with chiming clock. It felt as though we had stopped in the middle of a country estate, and in a way we had. To the south of the village is Caledon House and associated estate, built in 1779. Traditionally, the town had been known as Kinnaird (from the Irish Cionn Aird meaning 'top of the height/hill'). But the modern name seems to be a derivative of the Latin name for Scotland - Caledonia - itself originating from the Pictish tribe of northern Scotland, the Caledonii meaning 'great tough people'. From here we met Anthony, who took us on sweeping roads to his house where the starter motor for the BMW was changed. My mechanical ineptitude summed up by my playing with the two German Shepard dogs while Anthony and Kivi set about the bike! After the work was complete we travelled on the A28 Killylea Road east to our stop for the night, Gosford Forest Park.

The bikes at Belcoo

I must have been one of the first ones to wake at Gosford, when I left the tent I also noted that the heavy rain - such a comforting sound in a tent - during the night had saturated the ground, making for a 'squelshy' walk to the shower block. I had had an unsettled night with strange dreams, a hot shower had a rejuvenating effect and made me feel human again. We packed the bikes and went straight for an old 'haunt' in Armagh (Rumours) for breakfast and coffee, after which we were heading west on the A4 bound for Enniskillen. Outside Augher, I noticed - virtually on a roadside verge - headstones. It seemed strange, almost undignified and ignominious as there wasn't even a delineation, it was as if the churchyard had run out of room and a 'here will do' attitude had prevailed. We passed through several small towns, all of which, it has to be said, have lost their lustre as if the initial reason for their foundation died long ago, or maybe their respective populations were still in bed with hangovers! Outside Enniskillen we turned south-west for Belcoo, a quaint village with a large open green, the mountains of Tiltinbane and Cuilcagh looming over Lough Macnean Lower a phenomenal backdrop. The earliest mention of the village is in the old Ulster Saga Argain Belcon Breifne also known as 'Togail Bruidne Bélchon Bréifne' (Massacre of Belcu Brefne). This tells the tale of a trap set for the great Ulster hero Connall Cernach by a Breifne chief named Belcu Brefne. The place where the tale occurs was later named Belcu or sometimes Belcon in honour of Belcu.

Interior of Marble Arch Caves

We decided to visit the nearby Marble Arch Cave system - I had been as a child but had little more than a 'muscle memory' of sorts, a very vague recollection of the darkness of the caves. The approach to the complex is a relatively steep climb by road, with grey rock cliffs at the edge, indigenous woodland at the base and sheep grazing the fields. The caves proper are accessed by a descent through a glade, the woodland feels ancient, gnarled and mysterious, complete with a Bluebell carpet. Chasms open in the ground and the sound of rushing water becomes ever louder. The tour is worthwhile - initially a boat ride through the sensitively lit rocks. The alien-like formations are snapped repeatedly by the eager tourists, not surprising as some are truly out of this world. They can appear so strange they seem unreal and 'cartoony' such is the break from the norm that we see every day. We were, though, soon racking up more miles travelling west to Sligo on the N16 through small semi-rural communities like Glenfarne. The N16 is flanked on the northern side by lakes and loughs, the watery landscape broken by peaks like Leean Mountain, Keelogyboy Mountain, Cope's Mountain and Kings Mountain - towards Glencar the road is somewhat dwarfed by them. On the left (south) side is land that I wouldn't like to attempt to farm; craggy and with spikey bog and march grasses. This is complete contrast to what appears to be lush valley land to the right (north), the road acting as a convenient boundary between the juxtaposition. Majestically to the north are the Dartry Mountains (including Kings Mountain) before they plunge as cliffs to the Atlantic Ocean. We turned here onto the R292 to Strandhill to camp.

Camping in the Marram Grasses

Camping at Strandhill

Strandhill is an interesting place; the old name in Irish appears to be Ros Dragnige with the settlement at the base of the famous Cnoc na Riabh (Knocknarea) Mountain, on the summit of which is a large cairn (alongside other sites)  reputedly the burial place of Meascán Méabha (Queen Medb). Most of the terrain is marram (grassy dunes) and it was here, behind the shelter of an artificial 'half henge' that we camped. The rain storms were now becoming frequent, broken by intense periods of sunshine, only for the clouds to roll in again in the blink of an eye. I wouldn't have minded but the timing of the rains seemed to remarkably coincide with the pitching of the tents! Sod's law I guess! Strandhill has a large beach break capable of holding big waves - hence the attractiveness of the place to surfers. As a result, the whole area has a chilled out almost 'hippyish' vibe, lots of surfer 'dudes' around in shorts no matter what the weather. I looked out onto the rocky beach and certainly wouldn't fancy it; the water would be cold and the rocky beach would have to be negotiated before even reaching the water (I would, no doubt, be on my arse and have twisted my ankle before my board ever got wet!). A large feast of a dinner was had in the packed 'Venue' bar and restaurant, the stacked beef burgers devoured at an alarmingly quick pace. By 10:00pm, we were both in our respective tents, asleep and exhausted from the full day riding.

Galway Centre

The next morning, more than once, I got soaked from the heavy showers, but this was nothing breakfast in 'Shell's' couldn't cure. Over breakfast, whilst observing the Rooks and Jackdaws working as a team at the bins, we hatched our route - to visit the Cliffs of Moher (which was still a fair distance to cover). The plan was to travel south on the N4 towards Galway before switching east onto the N17, alas due to time constraints avoiding towns like Boyle with its splendid abbey and Ballymote with its imposing Anglo-Norman castle.

Ballymote was a castle I studied as part of my undergraduate thesis, and the fieldwork for that work was the first time i had been round Ireland, 19 or 20 years of age, alone in my car I was as green as the proverbial grass. Then, such a journey seemed daunting, the world was large; now, though, the world seems very very small and exploration has been ingrained into my DNA and is something I crave. Perhaps the fieldwork at that young age helped develop this sense and longing?

The frequent and heavy rains, along with hail, made the journey more tiring than it perhaps otherwise would have been. Stopping in Galway for coffee left me uneasy, after the freedom of the bike and the head space riding offers, I didn't like the bustle of Galway's busy centre. I can remember Galway from when I was younger and it seemed devoid of the charm I recall, it's beauty absorbed somehow by the many people who apparently have flocked to it. Pseudo-modern art pieces installed in the public realm cannot inject the 'spark' back into it - perhaps they attempt to wage a battle already lost?

Towards Oranmore the landscape noticeably flattens, with an amazing patchwork of grey drystone walls sub-dividing the fields; they resemble a large jig-saw and are as far as the eye can see. These plains, though, are largely monotonous and I found myself becoming 'numb' on the bike, almost in a trance-like state - not unpleasant, it can actually be good to cognitively switch off for a while, nothing entering the mind to confuse or analyse.

Dunguaire Castle

Near the small village of Kinvarra is Dunguaire (Dún Guaire) Castle, also sometimes referred to as Dungory Castle. The name is thought to be a derrative of 'the fort of Guaire' the great King of Connacht (Kelly, 1914, 114). The whole site is on a small island promontory by the roadside, and there are numerous sites in the surrounding vicinity including a soutterain and chapels. Indeed, on the small island beside the castle there are still ruined remains and old walls, initially I had thought these might have been an associated chapel or religious site. However, reading Kelly's article in the Irish Royal Society, he suggests that it might be the location of an earlier fort: "There are beside the present castle to be seen the ruins of a very much older building; and some persons are of the opinion that they were the old 'durlus' [ed. 'Dúrlus' meaning 'the strong fort'] and that beside it were raised the modern walls of the O Heyne castle." (Kelly, 1914, 115). But he states that they lie beside a stream and are fordable at low water, making me think they are different ruins to the ones I saw on the island, which I am still convinced are some sort of ruined Christian site. King Guaire died in AD 617, and the fort associated with him (the site of Dúrlas Guaire or Ráth Dúrlais) has been suggested as either the current castle promontory fort or, more likely, the rath to the north-east of the towerhouse. The current castle is a 16th Century - circa 1520 - O'Hynes towerhouse, the associated bawn rebuilt in 1642.

The Cliffs & Burren
We passed Newtown Castle - a cylindrical 16th Century towerhouse - as we entered Ballyvaughan and the seemingly baron landscape of The Burren, Co. Clare. The Burren (from the Irish Boireann meaning 'great rock') is a 250 square kilometre mountainous area of mainly exposed limestone 'pavement' and on first glance is almost moon-like in appearance, the large cracks in the exposed limestone are known as 'grikes'. At this stage, my brain was barely able to take in the landscape around me, such was its alien presence. We took in 'Corkscrew Hill' a steep series of switch-back corners that were a joy on the bike, before taking the R478 to the Cliffs of Moher.

Cliffs of Moher

The Cliffs of Moher remain one of Ireland's key 'to do' sites, and Kivi promised me they were breathtaking - he wasn't wrong! The cliffs stand at 214m (702 feet) at their highest point and stretch 5 miles along the battered Atlantic coastline. The name is from the Irish Aillte an Mhothair - from an old fort called Moher that once stood on Hag's Head. Thomas Westropp referred to it in 1905 as Moher Uí Ruis or Moher Uí Ruidhin. The fort was demolished in 1808 to provide material for a new telegraph tower; the present tower near the site of the old Moher Uí Ruidhin was built as a lookout tower during the Napoleonic wars. The winds were phenomenally strong on the approach to the cliffs, making riding the bike exceptionally challenging, but these winds were amplified when we walked along the cliff tops; at O'Brien's Tower I was able to stand at a near 45 degree angle with no problem! The site has, understandably, been made into a modern tourist attraction, with subterranean visitor centre that sells all the cringe-worthy Irish 'tat' to largely American visitors who, it has to be said, seemed to gobble it up. Again, although the scenery was awe-inspiring, I felt uncomfortable in the tourist crowd - I have been spoilt here in that I have been alone or one of few visitors to various historical and archaeological sites and perhaps I have become accustomed to that intimacy, or perhaps I am becoming more grumpy in my old age, either way I found the frenetic activity disconcerting.

Aille River (and hostel)

We left the site travelling northwards to Doolin and the Aille River Hostel where we camped on the grass beside the Aille River. The whole area seems to rely on the tourist trade and as we ate in McCanns Pub, it was clear that they were doing a booming trade. The sheer number of tourist made me feel possessive and almost 'snobby' anxious, they seemed, to partake and have some small part of Irish culture that I take for granted. In the pub, over dinner, I noted a man with his Irish pub t-shirt from Oregon, complete with stylised and 'cartoony' Celtic art; there seemed to be a desperation for a connection with an ancestral lineage, but then again, we seem happy to offer it - at a price of course! I am, perhaps, being overly critical and harsh though.

Poulnabrone

We awoke the next morning with great intentions of visiting Doolin Cave, apparently the site of Europe's longest stalactite, but instead travelled through The Burren straight for Poulnaborn Dolmen. Travelling through the landscape was again surreal, but the dolmen brings one back to reality acting as a beacon for visitors. The site itself, again, sits alongside other historical and archaeological sites, but by this stage we were aware that time was against us. It seems no matter how long the time given for travel, there is never enough. Poulnabrone stands in the midst of the limestone in an almost eery way; I couldn't help but wonder how it had managed to stand for millenia in the exposed landscape. The name is from the Irish Poll na mBrón ('hole of the quern stones') and the site is a Neolithic portal tomb, likely used between 3,800 and 3,600 BC, the capstone and portal stones create a chamber that would have been covered by a cairn; the sides of the chamber are actually held in place by the sheer weight of the capstone (Waddell, 2010, 101). Excavations found between 16 and 22 adults and six children buried at the site (Lynch 1986 and Lynch 1988). Personal items buried with the dead included a polished stone axe, a bone pendant, quartz crystals, and the tip of an arrowhead in the hip bone of one of the males. Around 1700 BC, a newborn baby was buried just outside the entrance, highlighting the continued ritual significance of the site, long after it had been constructed. It has also been suggested that the tomb could have continued as a ritual / ceremonial site until well into the Celtic period.

Scratching the Surface
It was with a heavy heart that the realisation came that the journey was, effectively, over. We had to travel back home to the realities of work and all that that entails. I was surprised that we didn't get to see all that we had planned, but like all best laid plans, they rarely work out. The simple truth is that much longer needs to be set aside to explore what this part of Ireland, let alone the whole island, has to offer.