June 5. Irish impressions
So here we are in
Norniron. Those of you who care for my well-being will be relieved to learn, however, that I do not intend to try out my “Rovverund Eeyane Peeaysleh” accent on the locals.
So here we are in
Norniron. Those of you who care for my well-being will be relieved to learn, however, that I do not intend to try out my “Rovverund Eeyane Peeaysleh” accent on the locals. The Giant's Causeway from above...
I crossed from Troon on the fast but dull (because you can’t go out on deck) P and O hydrofoil, on a grey and gloomy day. The rain pursued me westwards as I drove along the coast road from Larne. I stopped at Ballycastle to buy some ‘dulse’, the seaweed that is the local speciality. It is purple, rather than green, and I sautéed a bagful in butter to accompany my sausages and beans for supper. If that sounds like a bizarre combination, it actually worked out quite well. The dulse was very salty, very chewy and tasted very much of the sea. Apparently, you can eat it raw, as a snack to accompany a drink. I don’t think the manufacturers of pork scratchings have too much to worry about.
I had to stop at the Giant’s Causeway. It’s in the same category as Lundy, or Cape Wrath, for that matter: the sort of place that everyone ought to visit once in their lives, but to which, I suspect, very few ever return. The pentagonal and hexagonal basalt columns are indeed a geological marvel, but it’s still surprising that it attracts quite so many people – over half a million a year – and from all over the world. There were as many Americans and Australians there as English and Irish. I wonder if it lived up to their expectations, or whether quite a few of them went away muttering, as William Thackeray did in 1842, “I’ve travelled 150 miles to see that”. I put it down to the blarney. Whoever hit upon the idea of calling it "The Giant's Causeway" was a true marketing genius.
I wasn’t disappointed, because I wasn’t expecting to be knocked out by what my daughter Becky would doubtless have described in her younger days as “a load of boring old rocks”. Anyway, I’ve been there, and that’s what counts.
My campsite is just outside Portrush. The proprietor is a talkative chap. I asked him what was the best route to cycle to Coleraine, all of six miles distant. Ten minutes later he was still expatiating on the apparently limitless number of alternatives and I was still scratching my head. He didn’t quite say: “Sorr, if I was travelling there, I wouldn’t be starting from here”, but I’m sure he would have done if I hadn’t made my excuses and gone off to consult a map. In the event, and bearing in mind that it was tipping down with rain, I took the van.
Today was the first day of the Royal Cornwall Show. If anything has made me feel nostalgic for the West Country and my former role in life, it is that. I hope and trust it was a huge success.
I crossed from Troon on the fast but dull (because you can’t go out on deck) P and O hydrofoil, on a grey and gloomy day. The rain pursued me westwards as I drove along the coast road from Larne. I stopped at Ballycastle to buy some ‘dulse’, the seaweed that is the local speciality. It is purple, rather than green, and I sautéed a bagful in butter to accompany my sausages and beans for supper. If that sounds like a bizarre combination, it actually worked out quite well. The dulse was very salty, very chewy and tasted very much of the sea. Apparently, you can eat it raw, as a snack to accompany a drink. I don’t think the manufacturers of pork scratchings have too much to worry about.
I had to stop at the Giant’s Causeway. It’s in the same category as Lundy, or Cape Wrath, for that matter: the sort of place that everyone ought to visit once in their lives, but to which, I suspect, very few ever return. The pentagonal and hexagonal basalt columns are indeed a geological marvel, but it’s still surprising that it attracts quite so many people – over half a million a year – and from all over the world. There were as many Americans and Australians there as English and Irish. I wonder if it lived up to their expectations, or whether quite a few of them went away muttering, as William Thackeray did in 1842, “I’ve travelled 150 miles to see that”. I put it down to the blarney. Whoever hit upon the idea of calling it "The Giant's Causeway" was a true marketing genius.
I wasn’t disappointed, because I wasn’t expecting to be knocked out by what my daughter Becky would doubtless have described in her younger days as “a load of boring old rocks”. Anyway, I’ve been there, and that’s what counts.
My campsite is just outside Portrush. The proprietor is a talkative chap. I asked him what was the best route to cycle to Coleraine, all of six miles distant. Ten minutes later he was still expatiating on the apparently limitless number of alternatives and I was still scratching my head. He didn’t quite say: “Sorr, if I was travelling there, I wouldn’t be starting from here”, but I’m sure he would have done if I hadn’t made my excuses and gone off to consult a map. In the event, and bearing in mind that it was tipping down with rain, I took the van.
Today was the first day of the Royal Cornwall Show. If anything has made me feel nostalgic for the West Country and my former role in life, it is that. I hope and trust it was a huge success.
.......and from below
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