June 9. Cast a warm eye
I am at Rosses Point. To the north is Ben Bulben; to the south, Medb’s Cairn, to the east, Sligo. This is Yeats country.
I am at Rosses Point. To the north is Ben Bulben; to the south, Medb’s Cairn, to the east, Sligo. This is Yeats country.
Ben Bulben from Rosses Point
This is a gentler part of Ireland than the wild and woolly west of Donegal. Yesterday, I set out to drive the 100 miles or so from Clonmany to Glencolmcille, pausing on route by way of what appeared on the map to be a minor detour, at St. Columba’s birthplace, on the shores of Lough Garten. I set off at 9.30 and expected to reach my destination – the Tramore Beach campsite, near Glencolmcille – by lunchtime.
I made steady progress, despite the detour taking at least twice as long as I’d imagined. The roads became progressively more difficult, the further west I penetrated, but the thought of being at St. Columba’s village, on his Saint’s Day of June 9, having visited his birthplace, kept me and Carmen going cheerfully enough.
And, sure enough, I eventually made it to Glencolmcille (pronounced glencomkill) shortly before two. There was no sign of a campsite. I asked a local. “Tramore beach, is it”, he replied. “There’s no Tramore beach around here”. I showed him the telephone number. “Ah, that’s an Ardara number”. And where exactly is Ardara, I enquired. “You see that mountain? It’s the other side of that.”
As the crow flies, it was only 15 miles or so distant. But what a 15 miles! The roads in western Donegal are diabolical. The entire landscape is covered in a blanket of peat, which subsides unevenly. This gives the roads the texture of a pebble ridge, coated in tarmac. At anything over 30 mph, poor old Carmen was in danger of trampolining herself into the nearest bog. The worst of it was the final descent to Ardara (which is actually a charming little town). For those of you who know the Somerset Levels, it was like the road across Shapwick Heath, set at an angle of 45 degrees and twisted like a corkscrew!
But our persistence was rewarded when we finally arrived at the campsite, more than an hour after leaving Glencolmcille. The sun had come out with a vengeance, and spread out before me was the most magnificent bay, backed by enormous sandhills, framed by grey-blue mountains, the sun glittering on the waves as they rushed in across the soft white sands. (Yes, honestly; I’ve
got the pictures to prove it).
This is a gentler part of Ireland than the wild and woolly west of Donegal. Yesterday, I set out to drive the 100 miles or so from Clonmany to Glencolmcille, pausing on route by way of what appeared on the map to be a minor detour, at St. Columba’s birthplace, on the shores of Lough Garten. I set off at 9.30 and expected to reach my destination – the Tramore Beach campsite, near Glencolmcille – by lunchtime.
I made steady progress, despite the detour taking at least twice as long as I’d imagined. The roads became progressively more difficult, the further west I penetrated, but the thought of being at St. Columba’s village, on his Saint’s Day of June 9, having visited his birthplace, kept me and Carmen going cheerfully enough.
And, sure enough, I eventually made it to Glencolmcille (pronounced glencomkill) shortly before two. There was no sign of a campsite. I asked a local. “Tramore beach, is it”, he replied. “There’s no Tramore beach around here”. I showed him the telephone number. “Ah, that’s an Ardara number”. And where exactly is Ardara, I enquired. “You see that mountain? It’s the other side of that.”
As the crow flies, it was only 15 miles or so distant. But what a 15 miles! The roads in western Donegal are diabolical. The entire landscape is covered in a blanket of peat, which subsides unevenly. This gives the roads the texture of a pebble ridge, coated in tarmac. At anything over 30 mph, poor old Carmen was in danger of trampolining herself into the nearest bog. The worst of it was the final descent to Ardara (which is actually a charming little town). For those of you who know the Somerset Levels, it was like the road across Shapwick Heath, set at an angle of 45 degrees and twisted like a corkscrew!
But our persistence was rewarded when we finally arrived at the campsite, more than an hour after leaving Glencolmcille. The sun had come out with a vengeance, and spread out before me was the most magnificent bay, backed by enormous sandhills, framed by grey-blue mountains, the sun glittering on the waves as they rushed in across the soft white sands. (Yes, honestly; I’ve
got the pictures to prove it). Tramore beach in all its glory
So it had all been worth it in the end. I had visited St. Columba’s birthplace, which is marked by the most gigantic Celtic cross, and I’d laid myself down on his “Flagstone of Loneliness”, where he used to recover from the exhaustion of prayer.
It is supposed to drive away sorrows, and in the time of the Irish diaspora, the émigrés used to come here before they left, in the hope that it would cure them of homesickness. I’m not sure it has entirely worked on me.
Anyway, I reckon I’ve done my bit for the father of Celtic Christianity. I’ve been to his birthplace, his village, his abbey; I’ve been very near to the last place he set foot on in Ireland (near Malin Head); I’ve trodden in the footsteps that he left when he arrived in Scotland; and I woke up at the nearest campsite to the village which bears his name, on this, his Saint’s Day.
Perhaps next time, I’ll make it to Iona.
So it had all been worth it in the end. I had visited St. Columba’s birthplace, which is marked by the most gigantic Celtic cross, and I’d laid myself down on his “Flagstone of Loneliness”, where he used to recover from the exhaustion of prayer.
It is supposed to drive away sorrows, and in the time of the Irish diaspora, the émigrés used to come here before they left, in the hope that it would cure them of homesickness. I’m not sure it has entirely worked on me.
Anyway, I reckon I’ve done my bit for the father of Celtic Christianity. I’ve been to his birthplace, his village, his abbey; I’ve been very near to the last place he set foot on in Ireland (near Malin Head); I’ve trodden in the footsteps that he left when he arrived in Scotland; and I woke up at the nearest campsite to the village which bears his name, on this, his Saint’s Day.
Perhaps next time, I’ll make it to Iona. The Flagstone of Loneliness
Today has been warm but with a gusty wind. I stopped on the way down at Ballyshannon, in the hope of sampling that rarest of rare birds, a ‘real’ Irish ale (as opposed to the horrid mass-produced keg Guinness and Smithwicks). I managed to find the right pub – which rejoices in the name of Dicey Reilly’s – and they did actually have Arainn Mhor, as it’s called, in stock. “Course, it’s not actually brewed on Arann yet”, confided the barman. “They’re still testing the market. This was brewed in Belgium”. That’s Irish authenticity for you!
Shortly, I shall cycle into Sligo. And tomorrow morning, I will wake up and be able to say, quite truthfully, for the first and probably the only time in my life: “I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree”. Now that really is living the dream.
Today has been warm but with a gusty wind. I stopped on the way down at Ballyshannon, in the hope of sampling that rarest of rare birds, a ‘real’ Irish ale (as opposed to the horrid mass-produced keg Guinness and Smithwicks). I managed to find the right pub – which rejoices in the name of Dicey Reilly’s – and they did actually have Arainn Mhor, as it’s called, in stock. “Course, it’s not actually brewed on Arann yet”, confided the barman. “They’re still testing the market. This was brewed in Belgium”. That’s Irish authenticity for you!
Shortly, I shall cycle into Sligo. And tomorrow morning, I will wake up and be able to say, quite truthfully, for the first and probably the only time in my life: “I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree”. Now that really is living the dream.
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