1991 Donegal

1.4.91 Killybegs, Donegal

Sail Inn, Killybegs.  Nice too after a fraught day.  But a victory – over myself – not sulking, flying into sullen rage etc. - talked myself out of it – by talking.  Now in the bar, having ordered smoked eel and turbot for me.  Turbot with chili sauce – excellent delicate flavour – “very feminine” we agreed, compared to eh “masculine” halibut.  Home-made orange cheesecake after – total around I£40.  

Great place – out beyond Donegal – which looked tacky, full of holidaying yobs (patronising, moi?)  Out beyond Bruckless (where I am now).  Busy port – real boats there, lit up like mini Xmas trees: that sense of voyaging, of futurity (reminds me of Naxos, sitting on the harbourside, drinking ouzo – which I hate, then a typically Greek meal and wine…)

Deserted town (Easter Monday, after all), mercifully the Sail inn lights are on – and what a port in a storm (foul weather – typically Irish – and typical that I put on my spex…)  Through to the bar – walls covered with pix of Hollywood movie stars – old, faded images and advertising for films.  But not just one or two naff attempts – all the walls, covered in the stuff.  Nice demure waitress, loud birthday (?) party of large Irish women, and broken, red-faced men. Lovely view from the restaurant alongside – the harbour in the rain through the window, the room itself quiet.  Good food, great value.  A good end to a dodgy day.

In the drawing room, having had a coffee kindly offered here.  Anne gone to bed. Me left with the sizzling and spitting log fire – lovely smell in the air – reminds me of Lake Dal, and the houseboats.  Very quiet, very peaceful.  More about today, tomorrow – so to speak…

2.4.91 Bruckless House

7.45am waiting for brekkers (typically my watch battery has just gone…) The house name, parenthetically, derived from “Badger’s den” – Brock, that is…  So, after a fine night’s sleep – though the air was cold, the thick eiderdown was sumptuous – broken a couple of times towards dawn by baying dogs, and the crowing cock – I am ready for today in all its pewter-skyed greyness. I can now see the sea out the front, very still, very, well, grey.  A fine situation.

Yesterday: flight OK except that I am at the back of the non-smoking section – that is next to a smoking row – bastard.  Flight short, food nugatory.  To Shannon, pick up car (Corsaro? - new, 600 miles), into Ennis to Queen’s Hotel, where I wait for two and a half hours.  Because, yes, it turns out that Sister Anne is at another hotel, the main one of the town.  Luckily I eventually check these others out.  Stupid me: must give better rendezvous.

Then a race up to Donegal.  Countryside very green, very wet, air thick with rain.  Great for overtaking all the cautious drivers.  My spirits revive as we talk along the way.  Anne in good form, very happy – tired – and excited by her forthcoming trip to California – Oakland, San Francisco, to be precise.

Up through Sligo – which I barely saw, then past a cloudy Ben Bulben – Yeatsland – first glimpse of the sea – the Atlantic, which always raises my spirit – then having booked two rooms here, we look for somewhere to eat.  Donegal itself, pretty scrappy, so taking a chance, out to Sail Inn.  As above, great.

But then back to Bruckless for a near fruitless search for this place.  I phone – the phone dies on me – I phone again, get “directions” – end up down this mud track, with shadowy shape of a house – eventually I stagger in through the rain and ask – miraculously it is.  Worth searching for – a nice, homely sort of place.  Word-processed history by current owner – a few typos…  Read “The Field” – amazing rants about anti-hunting lobby… Terrible tracking.  The clock outside booms wonderfully – 8am – brekkers – the sound full of crazy overtones – like a gothic horror film.

Breakfast with four krauts – yes, we speak Deutsch.  Then out along to Killybegs, grey morning, rain again, but at Glencolumbkille the sun breaks through, hitting the white sea horses full on.  The sea powerful here, the sand a curious dark brown.  Lovely headland to the north,  St. Columbkille.  

Then towards Ardara, rocks glistening in the hills like diamonds on green velvet.  Glengesh Pass (Anne drawing), a great scoop down to Ardara.  Hillsides bright green on the north, sun showing texture to the south.  Sun hot on my neck, lovely pale blue sky.  Barely a car around.  Not actually Glengesh, but before it.  Through Ardara then out along the coast road to Narin.  Idyllic.  Huge, windswept beach, miles long, flat, hard, clean sand, only two other people there.  An island and various spits of land (one with ruins).  Water like turquoise glass, waves roaring in.  High sandbanks at the back of the beach.  Glorious.

Then up the N56, turning right along R252, then left to Churchill.  Magic road through boggy wilderness beauty.  No purples à la Lakes, all russets and browns.  Very narrow road – reminds me of New Zealand for some reason.  Also Hardknott Pass.  But glorious too, the hills rearing up around us, the lakes, tarns etc.  Then along to here, the Glenveagh National Park.  In the restaurant – covered in growing grass.  Anne drawing again, me with the words.  Sun blazing down.  Did someone say “Selig”…?

By bus to the Castle on the Loch.  Fine, steep garden – lots of garden statues – fairly corny, but sanctified y time – Natures always beautifies, whereas Man so often subtracts.  Then we walk through to the viewpoint.  Stunning image – which Anne is drawing on the spot, so I must try to describe (cold – can’t hold pen…)

A gateway – two stone banks, grey doors with lion mask knockers.  This frames a path, straight, down to the water, turbulent, with angry white horses (cf. The Edda…)  And in the middle, framed by it all, one tree, perfect imperfect Nature.  The wind strong, the sun clear, the sky cloudy and blue jumbled up.

Down to the seat by the Lough.  Staggering in its raw, harmonious beauty.  Pines to my right, d’Annunzio, a valley far ahead, pure Lakes.  But the clarity of the ridge opposite is uniquely Donegal on a spring day in the sun.  The spume on the lake driven into long lines of natural spittle, like veins of silica in granite.  A great herd of clouds thunders in.  To my right, through the pines, water met by golden straw-coloured grass on the fell, caught by the sun.  

Along to the Bloody Foreland headland – through rain, to be greeted by brilliant stone-hard sunshine.  I always seem to be going north along the coast with Anne.  In the north-west corner: below us, the sea like cream, bands of it flooding in.  A lone house, three chimneys, two windows, 50 yards from the sea, then two others nearby.  To the south west, low-backed islands vanish into the haze.  The sea granite-grey.  Further back a stream so rich in colour, it looked like coffee.  Through Gortahork, then Dunfanaghy.

3.4.91 Rathmullan 

Both rather dull.  At Falcarragh, I ring the hotel in Rathmullan – Fort Royal – and book two rooms.  Then inland, across to Kilmacrenan for tea and scones in a half echt, half ersatz cottage – reminds me of the The Maltings at Snape – their tea room by the road, all wood and darkness.  Then through the flattening countryside to Rathmullan – beautiful location, alongside Lough Swilly.  Book table at Waterside Restaurant. 

Long walk along huge strand here – couple of miles long, perhaps.  Sand incredibly smooth – the absence of large waves in this tidal lough means few sand ridges.  Lovely firm texture with slight “give”.  Sun strong, low in the sky through the trees, wind keen.  The breakers a constant litany.

Hotel a fine old Georgian (?) place, nicely done up, very cosy.  A thousands daffodils in front of the hotel, a sea of yellow, plus a grand old tree – dunno what (die Schmach) – but looking like a baobab upside down…

Then along to the restaurant.  Lovely situation, hanging out over the water.  But a couple of disappointments.  I wanted oysters: apparently these are kept in beds outside the restaurant – and couldn’t be reached because of “spring high tide”...se non è vero...  Then we couldn’t sit by the window “because Rathmullen town council were eating/meeting here, and we [the hotel] have a planning application for ten luxury houses before them…”.  Se non è vero...  The starter a little uninspired (warm fruits de mer), the sole nice but small.  The apple crumble from a jar – but the Stilton in port good.  A nice dry Graves to complement.  I was about to go for a walk (at 7.30pm).  Good job I didn’t: the heavens have opened quite suddenly again.  

So, with the exception of Northern Ireland, I’ve done this land pretty much.  So where will I buy my country retreat?  I think it has to be Keel on Achill Island.  There felt like the end of Europe (it’s not, quite).  There was stunningly beautiful: huge, unspoilt beach, low houses clustered round it.  Huge cliffs rearing up either side.  Unspoilt, untouched land to the north.  Probably only two hours’ drive (at worst) from Shannon.  One day perhaps…

What a day…  Driving most of it.  To Donegal, Sligo, Galway.  Rain then sun, constantly repeated.  Ben Bulben majestic, its folds like the skin of a whale.  Big mistake: (a) me (I) was trying for a restaurant in a cave at Ballyvaughan (b) no comfort stop, meaning bladder bursting time.  Poor Anne: my driving became more and more desperate, down tiny country lanes. Alas, I missed the brilliant scenery here.  I was conscious only of pain…

Finally get to Ballyvaughan – saw sign for the Aillwee Cave: 4 miles.  Outside the town: one mile.  Then half a mile – each time, a further tease.  Then, within striking distance, what do I see, but precisely what my worst fear was: a flooded road.  I had had visions of the car stalling in the middle of nowhere; here was my chance.  Luckily a bloke said it was OK – and funnily enough, I trusted him.  And it was.  But no toilets in sight – had recourse to desperate measures.

Went up to the cave – restaurant nugatory, deeply tacking – stuffed with bleedin’ toy bears, god knows why.  We not.  To Gregans Castle, lovely Georgian House – who served us lunch.  Alas, time was running out.  I had home-made soup – mushroom – reminds me of an earlier time.  Interesting and impressive: they offered to tell a JCB outside to shut up if I wanted.  Fine view of The Burren – amazing rocks (I was reading a book about the geomorphology of Ireland at the hotel in Rathmullen).  Then a fairly rapid drive to here, arriving 4.55pm – one hour to spare.  

In the lounge now – surrounded by US Airborne Services in their desert camouflages – plus lots of scruffily-dressed Russians (from where? To where? - I noticed an Aeroflot desk in the hall).  Strange study in contrasts...

1990 Western Ireland

5.5.90  Claddaghduff, County Galway

5.15pm, the sun beginning to sink over the Atlantic.  Utterly idyllic, I'm afraid.  Crunchy seaweed like a Chinese meal; the smell of Cornwall; hard, flat beach, a causeway across to an island; low tide, worm casts; impossible turquoise  and jet-black-blue waters.  No one but me and Sister Anne around.  The sea a distant murmur.  The wind keen, refreshing.  Was I really in London 12 hours ago?

Everything like the last reel of a sad but profound film.  My little white Fiesta tucked away by the sand's margin.

Now in Renvyle House Hotel. Backtracking… Up at 4am, to Heathrow – huge red globe of the sun like a fruit.  Hour flight to Shannon – surprisingly big airport.  Met Sister Anne (who stayed nearby overnight), picked up car, onto N18, to Galway.

Overcast (London was totally clear), coldish.  Anne is optimistic; but I am not.  Stop off in Galway for morning elevenses.  Pleasant – bustling market town – looks like something out of the 1930s.

The coast road (R336) to Costelloe.  Weather beginning to clear.  The sea to our left, all very like Kerry of two years ago.  A detour to Cornamona, then up to Gortmore.  We see the 12 Pins (Bens) in the distance.  Beautiful as we come into Cashel.  Sun brilliant, a few fluffy clouds.  Lunch (a rip-off) in Cashel, then up to the T71, through the Kylemore Pass – very Lake District.

We stop off at the Victorian Kylemore Abbey.  A school for girls with a stunning view of the hills and Kylemore Lough.  A case full of podgy blotchy hockey teams.  The stars and their Cantab PhD.  Tea and tea-cake (like Xmas cake) in their tea shop, then to Letterfrack (great name), up to Cleggan.  Wind very strong now, the bay a huge ruffled turquoise pool, the 12 Pins behind, a hill opposite.  We sit on straw bales – the smell of tortoises.  Then round to the amazing, beautiful  Claddaghduff, and its low tide causeway to Omey Island.  Driving down to the N59/T71, the sea full of island – you can see why Irish mythology is full of Land of Youth and such-like – it's all obviously true.

Back to Letterfrack and then to here.  £30 each for a decent room and brekkies.  Fair number of sports facilities – including boating, which obviously Anne wanted to try.  But the wind by now very strong – waves rising.  We/I can't get the boat out.  I sulk, we flounder – then I/we give up.  Hmph.  Anne going to mass soon.  Earlier, we saw in the distance the amazing cliffs of Achill Island, where we hope to go tomorrow.  Today – despite my deeply mature tantrum etc. - has been glorious.  Who could believe that three weeks ago I was in Sonoma?

After dropping Anne off, down to Renvyle Point.  To my left, the ruined tower and the slightly dusky sun falling towards it; in front, the bay, and the distant mountains gradually receding into the mist.  Sheep graze, the wind roars and thunders – but quietly.  The sea is a pewter pool, and looks infinite.  Kelp lies in huge bundles like old rope.  Hobbled sheep.  A yearling lamb.  A ram like a ball of wool. The lambs are eating the seaweed (and why not?).  A ewe's bloated udder bounces between her legs.  The beach a huge swatch of babbled, starry cloth, pebbles gleaming, pools white.  Apart from the wind, such silence…  A shepherd appears, timeless.  Sicilian, weather-beaten, garbed in trousers and a cap.  

Memories of other Irelands…  Although unintentional and non-systematic, Anne's and my journeys in Eire are pretty comprehensive.  A gibbous moon.  The driftwood piece I gave as a gift.  I could sit here for centuries (the Land of Youth again…).  A cloud rests on a smooth peak like a disembodied gloved hand resting on a bronzed breast.  A curtain of cloud rolling in from the West; and tomorrow…?

6.5.90 Renvyle House

Up late after superb dinner (6.45am).  Overcast, but hope for sun.  I sit on my bed, looking at the 12 Pins.  Through a chasm in the clouds an extraordinary sight: a falling of white light like a silver shower.  Very physical.  Reading Peig Sayers' "An Old Woman's Reflections" – very strong sense of the ancient heroic age and its passing.

Last night, I gave Anne her various prezzies – Holy oil and tapes and a book from St Makarias – and "Glanglish".  I was struck by the pleasure I gained watching her read a few essays – her expressions, her concurrence.  I can see how this might prove addictive…

Along to Achill Island, to Keel – one of the most westerly points in Europe.  Then the beach at the end of the road.  Brilliant white beach, feathered with black.  A stream to the sea, ox-bowing before our eyes.  Anne is drawing the gothic arched bridge over the stream.

Lunch in Keel – oysters, lobsters – with what consequences…?  Interesting restaurant – à la Man and Calf: long, aqueous, like a ship's saloon.  Pop and rap incongruously fill the air.  Food good, place nearly deserted.  Achill Seafood Restaurant - £40.

After a stupendous meal, along to the Cathedral Rocks.  Drive to the east end of Keel's beautiful beach.  Looking back West, the headland with its implicit cliffs, the Lake District hills.  The sun breaking through now and again.  Strong smell of wet seaweed – and of Cornwall, 30 years ago.

Rocks like blasted trees, dendrochronology gone mad.  Soft ferns draped like antimacassars – fairy lands again.  The drip of water.  Only the Garden of Fand beyond.  That sound of lapping water – I'm a born Englishman, sea in my veins.  The strand lit by the sun – a slivver crescent of light.  Anne sketching, echoing in images these words.  Software cropped grass – fairy lawnmowers… The sun comes out, hot and beneficent [A fly gets behind my Ray-bans…].   I could eat this seaweed – were I not stuffed.  The cliffs rear up like Balinese rice fields, stepped, luxuriantly green. And yet the Cathedral's themselves are small and unspectacular – nothing compared to Étretat…  The more I see all these places, the more I long to live here for a few months, writing, thinking.  Will I…?

I sit facing the fabulous (fables, indeed) Cliffs of Moher.  It is 8pm, and the curving sun has slipped below the broken cloud cloth, heading towards the burnished sea.  The cliffs stretch away to the right, classic sheer drops, with deep arches – real "Famous Five" stuff.  The polyphonic gulls' cries filter through the air.  Down below they look like swarms of gnats.  The striated cliff walls have green splashes – like stains in baths.  Ink-blue black sea froths at the cliffs' foot.  A tower is behind me, the sun at 45 degrees to my right.  Most of the tourists have gone, leaving me with this majesty.  Anne too has gone.  Moody is alone (ah…).  But a glorious end to a glorious day – and weekend.

This reminds me of Tintagel, and of the dragon watching the sun from his cave.  The long, long shadows lie on the deep green grass.  Behind the cliffs – which form a spur, the coast further south west – nothing for 3000 miles.  The End of Europe.  This place is very different.  On the radio here, a programme about the latest news in Irish folk music.

Moving round north, the Aran Isles bask like happy whales.  Beyond them Galway, Connemara and the 12 Pins.  The cliff to my right like the curtain wall behind Queen Hatshepsut's Temple – sheer and incised.  Then a wall at right angles to it, closing it off, making a kind of proscenium stage and arch.  The rock layers very straight and horizontal – as if laid in courses.  The sun growing golden.  My body really quite chilled – but pleasantly.

Back in Ennis, the Queen's Hotel – not bad.  No din-dins after such a lunch (and alas – I can't remember what I had for dinner last night – which was excellent: mushrooms stuffed with ham and mustard, carrot and ginger soup; but then what?  With the Côte de Beaune?)

So, from Renvyle to Westport, then to Achill – very like Skye.  So many beautiful vistas.  And finishing with Keel.  Lunch: oysters – crisp; lobster; then apple pie.  All excellent and in such an atmospheric café.  The hurtling back for Anne's bus to Cork.  From Leenane to Maum, along Lough Corrib to Headford – then a long, straight road to Galway.  We stop off at Gort to see WB Yeats' shack – idyllic, creeper up one side, fast trout stream with stepping stones.  Then to Ennis.

Me out to Cliffs of Moher.  As I return the sun stains the clouds amazing hues.  A quick turn around the town – very pleasant, quite unspoilt and reminding me very much of Wexford.  And so to bed (soon).  What a day/life…

7.5.90 London at 1000 feet

About 10am – I have just seen my flat, flying over it – the air is so clear, and London laid out like a map.

Well, here's a turn-up for the books: Moody in Chiswick Gardens, just north of the villa.  I have been along to Hogarth's House – finally, having passed it for so many years.  But I never even knew these gardens existed.

The House – though much restored, and filled mostly with prints – is charming.  A mulberry tree in the garden.  The place looked after by a late middle-aged chap – typically friendly.  Told me about Church Street – an idyllic street of Georgian and Elizabethan houses – and only steps from the A4.  Down to the river – the smell of mud, the tiny crepitation of low tide. 

Back to Chiswick.  Past the greenhouse – reminds me of Powerscourt – a broken urn like something out of Greenaway.  Café closed, alas.  Round to the Rotonda (so to speak).  Planes roar overhead, echoes of myself.

More destinations:

1987 Isle of Man

1989 Eastern Ireland

Moody's Black Notebook Travels