Where the Grass is Greener: Day 3

The Cliffs of Moher

Our room smelled like mildew. And so did the breakfast room that opened to a sloping backyard with an abandoned bicycle and a line of gentle mountains. We were some of the later arrivals to breakfast. Other German or British tourists peered at us as we rolled in with our pajamas. A heaping of the Irish breakfast, spreading of mustard on brown bread and zipping up our sandwiches and we were off towards the Cliffs of Moher.

Muckross House and the Kenmare National Park were en route so we decided to stop there. Muckross is a Victorian house built in the late 1800’s, though ‘house’ is misleading as it came much closer to a castle. The Miranda-lookalike guide was very thorough and you could clearly see how devoted she was to the conservation of this site. Queen Victoria once came to visit the Muckross family there and they spent three years to prepare for her visit and a fortune in remodeling the house. She only stayed three nights (they considered anything more than one night a great success). The family lived there were very handsome and the first lady of the house was an educated Scot who built a beautiful library for her female guests and herself. But the family went bankrupt after only a short occupation. The last residents was a wealthy senator who married a daughter of the Muckross family. Sadly the wife died after only living there a few years. They donated the house to the Irish government shortly after. It must have been very expensive to keep up. There was a serious separation between the residents and their servants. One of the most curious sights was a narrow servant’s hallway that had a long row of bells in ascending sizes. Each of those bells was attached to a different location of the house and the servants had to rush to the right room depending on the ring.

Behind the house was an immaculate green lawn that opened to lakes that sparkled underneath the sun. This was our third day and the weather continued to bless us. M talked me into walking through the gardens to see a waterfall. The walk turned into an exhausting hike through the woods that finally led us to a small, frothy waterfall that was a midget compared to others I’ve seen. Compared to the Niagara, it might have been a flea. I was burning with misery. I couldn’t believe we had wasted hours and most of our day’s energy on this terrible waterfall. M tried to make up for it by giving me a piggyback ride across the Muckross gardens. After the ordeal, we finally sat down to eat our brown bread and ham sandwiches. M had put jam and blue cheese on his. I looked at him in disgust. While we ate, crows gathered round. Their shiny black feathers and those cruel beaks and beady eyes – I was scared they would go Hitchcock on me.

Escaping the crows, we drove off towards Doolin. M was especially excited about this bed and breakfast because it seemed the most farm-like. I was excited because it’s called Twin Peaks. Once again, there was no address. Doolin was so small, just a few scattered houses by a little river that it really wasn’t hard to find. We found the acting town hall, Gus O’Connor’s Pub and turned down a narrow dirt road. M was disappointed. The house was utterly modern and still close to other houses. There were a few farm animals, donkeys and cows, that he jotted down as possible subjects to pet later though. The pop references only multiplied when we met our hostess, Sinead O’Connor. She was a lot younger than we thought, maybe her early thirties. She wore baggy sweatshirts and had a punky hairstyle with bright purple streaks.

With a cup of hot tea and some biscuits, we hurried over to the Cliffs of Moher. Sinead gave us a shortcut that was a small hilly road winding behind the town. And by hilly, I mean that we started rolling backwards when the clutch didn’t connect in time. I don’t remember if I screamed but I know my heart was about to jump out of my chest and run down the road. I was the one having anxiety attacks throughout all the driving while M was a skipping schoolboy on an adventure. On the way was a mysterious castle tower. It had tetris-shaped teeth and a pointy roof with a weathervane at the tip. The windows were small and of all shapes and sizes, scattered across the round surface of the tower. We wanted to go inside but a “private property” sign stopped us. I suppose many tourists must have tried. I tried to imagine what family owned it, did they use it for storage, packets of fodder streamed along the floor? Or did they gather their cattle or sheep inside the confines of the walled fence? We never did find out.

The Cliffs of Moher were more breathtaking than I ever expected. From the overpriced parking lot to the tourist center built into the top of the cliffs, I had no premonition of the beauty we were about to experience. Once we walked up to the fence made of large stone slabs, I wanted to cross those man-made limits just to get closer. They are truly majestic. Layers of stone from every age of humanity stacked and stacked atop a crisp blue sea. White stone, gray stone, brown stone all building a more majestic castle than any I have ever seen. Tufts of sweeping green grass added to the spectacular sight and birds circled the unreachable cliffs. The sheer verticality of these cliffs meant that birds were the only ones who had the freedom to inhabit them. It must be an aviary heaven, free from clumsy-pawed predators. There are albatrosses there, and puffins and seals and countless other creatures.

We abandoned the marked path for a less official one and only found deeper beauties. The way the cliffs curved it’s as if someone took a great big ice cream scoop and scooped these stones out, only leaving white, frothy ribbons from breaking waves. The grass was so dense and soft it could have been a beautiful monster’s coat of fur. We perched in a cozy opening of the cliffs and dangled our feet over the edge. The thrills were the bright and scintillating kind. The danger was so drenched by the beauty of it all, it hardly felt like danger at all. Peril might as well have been a sparkly purple dress to slip in and twirl in. We could not take our eyes off the view before us. We sat, his arms around me, feeling the extremities of what it is to be young and alive.

The most comedic part of the cliffs were the cows grazing behind an uncertain fence. They could not have cared less about the view. Their only concern was to shove as much grass into their ever-chewing mouths as possible. Of course M tried to approach them but was unsuccessful. Heaps of cow dung along the cliff path indicated that some of these cows must have crossed over the fence. I wondered if any had gone over. Further on there was a rocky plateau. A group of teenagers had already settled there. M found a flat area of the rock that jutted out and carved our initials in it. The cuts weren’t too deep, I don’t think the letters will last long. But I would rather preserve the cliffs than engrave some kind of permanence of our brief existence there.

It was with heavy reluctance that we left the cliffs. We had to rush back to get food before O’Connor’s closed their kitchens. The pub was a loud, boisterous thing, and they served the best smoked salmon I have ever tasted. The thick slices were amazingly fresh and just the right amount of salty smoke, all over a crisp salad and capers. Towards the end of the evening, the “real” music started.  At least seven Irish people were gathered around the center table, beers a-piling, each with a different instrument. One man would start a melody and rhythm and the others would build on it, replicating and evolving the song, growing it into a maximized version of the few original notes. Musicians would join throughout the night. One eleven year-old boy came in and kept up with the best of them. A bohemian French guy with long dreads came in with the flute. One of the American tourists tried to play the drums but got booted. On and on the Irish melodies spun and repeated and built. Our teenage waiter surprised everyone with an impromptu dance as his sharp shoes tapped feverishly to the music. I made a few quips with a sour-looking middle-aged local but he was more interested in his beer and his actual friends. Can’t say I blame him. By midnight, we were dizzy from the repetitive rhythms and could not wait for bed.