Perched on the Cliffs
10:07 PM, 8/25/06
We finished the trip to Galway without incident, although it took much longer to get there than we expected. Galway is a bustling city on the west coast of Ireland with a strong sense of identity. The Irishness was immediately apparent upon arrival. Aside from the traditional architecture and an Irish bar every twenty feet, there was a strong sense that one was witness to a city undisturbed by the constant influx of tourists. And there were tourists. However, most surprising about the city was the quantity of Irish tourists. This was especially apparent today during our trips to the Cliffs of Mohere. Jacob and I looked over the hostels and found one near the city center—Eyre Square—to our liking. We booked for one night, and would have booked for the second night were it not that the hostel was fully booked. Incidentally, right now I’m writing this at another hostel in Galways a few blocks down from the other hostel. The first hostel had a nice assortment of amenities, and best of all, it had a wireless internet signal that I was able to use. I don’t actually know that the wireless signal was coming from the hostel—I kind of doubt it. But I’m sure whoever I borrowed the signal from didn’t mind. So we spent a good portion of the night getting settled—making dinner, checking email, writing, showering, etc. We also checked out the town, once in the early evening, and then much later in the night. Galway has the most active nightlife I’ve seen of any town, or it is at least comparable to the major cities like London and Sydney. People of all nationalities, but mostly Irish, wandered the traffic-free streets, looking into windows and stopping at restaurants or bars for dinner and a glass of Guinness. Guinness really is popular here. I suspected it might’ve just been one of those “marketing things” where Guinness sells an image to all us gullible Americans—buts it’s not. Nearly every bar has a glowing “Guinness” sign outside, sure as we have our Bud Lite and Miller Time signs outside of our bars—the difference being that Guinness is actually good. Jacob and I found a traditional-looking Irish bar and popped in for a pint. And yeah, that wasn’t such a good idea. Nothing bad happened, per se, but it was obvious that the bar had a certain number of frequenters who didn’t appreciate the foreigners being in their bar. We promptly headed out to the street and took a table outside where we listened to an amazing solo music artist who was playing the guitar, harmonica, snare, and drum simultaneously. We basked in the glory of this musical phenomenon, who was playing some traditional Irish music, while drinking our Guinness. Afterwards, I was feeling cold (and Jacob feeling under dressed) so we decided to make our way back toward the hostel. Only when we got there, we were so wiped from the whole day of traveling (and probably the beer) that we decided to kick back and relax. Relaxation soon became sleep as we passed into the night…
Only to be awoken at about 3 AM by a drunk American girl who had found her way into our room, looking for her American friends. I’d met her and her American friends earlier in the day, and I had the suspicion that they were the “typical” American tourists that give all the rest of us a bad name. That is, the loud, constantly drunk, frat guy-sororiety girl Eurotrip college-grads looking for a good lay at every city. This girl proceeded not only to talk loudly (asking if her friends were there), but to unabashedly grope the occupants of the room searching for her friends. I, for example, received a solid grab on the ass. Not a bad thing unless you’re trying to sleep so you can wake up at 8 in the morning. Similarly, she and her friends had learned earlier from me that we were from Oregon, but in the drunken haze, Jacob and I became Georgians, which she could apparently distinguish by our accents. Yeah. So you get the idea. Incidentally, she didn’t stay in our room and it was not until an hour or so later that the loud American guys stumbled in, waking everyone up again, before unceremoniously passing out.
Jacob and I got up early to catch the first bus to the Cliffs of Mohere, only we didn’t catch the bus. We tried to get ready quickly and get to the bus station, which we might have, had we not discovered that it was cold and wet outside. We realized that by the time we returned to get coats for the trip, we’d miss the bus. So instead we relaxed over the morning and checked out some of the local shops. We caught a later bus, which turned out to be regretful on two counts. One: the bus driver was psychotic. That’s not to say he was a murderous gone-postal psychopath—no, he just drove like a maniac. Now you’re thinking, “that’s not so bad, lots of people drive like maniacs…like everyone in California.” Well you’re wrong. It is bad when you’re driving a 40-foot bus up narrow winding roads. I felt sick. And two: the wind had blow over a power line just short of the bus’ clearance. Consequently we ended up waiting for half an hour while a service vehicle came and cleared the problem. Ultimately this didn’t end up mattering though, because we arrived at the Cliff’s of Mohere at 1:00, leaving us with the option of leaving at either 1:30 (not enough time) or 7:10 (way too much time). We opted for the latter, and so we decided to take our time and enjoy the Cliffs of Mohere.
The Cliffs of Mohere were amazing. A true spectacle. They were poetry-inspiring, and every moment I stared out beyond the rocky heights, I found myself wishing I had remembered to bring a pen. A camera and memories will have to suffice. The cliffs brought to mind legacies and history, things forgotten to time. Looking out over the churning waters below, I thought of Irish legends, kelpies, faeries, leprechauns and sea monsters—creatures once wrought by the land in the imagination and now only distant recollections of bygone days. Certain places seem to contain an inherent power, something related to their history, and from everything I’ve seen of Ireland, the whole island seems to be strong in this mystic force. All along the train rides, I witnessed ruins, buildings laid waste by ivy and time. Strangely, these relics of centuries past seem to contain more memory and time than the castles that Britain prides itself on. Tourism—making something ancient bear witness to a capitalistic, technological-wrought society, and in turn, letting people queue up to see something with supposed meaning—seems to undo legacies, to unknot the intricate weave of time the instills importance and significance into a place or thing. Roadside ruins, hidden vantages, that is what interests me. I want to see as few others have. That is why, despite having braved the throngs of tourists, Jacob and I ventured well past the sign indicating not to continue, in order that we could at least capture something a little more unique. We wanted to have pictures different from every other person with a camera, memories separate from every man, woman, and child that has passed that way. The cliffs spoke of Celtic legends, the chagrin of histories lost to time and memory. There’s a certain sadness and optimism in Ireland. It seems as if an old man has died, yet he is not dead but instead reincarnated as something new that still contains a hint of old. Ireland is the Emerald Isle, and it deserves its name. All the land of Ireland is green, but I believe this blanket of jade extends far beyond the hedgerows and ivy. Experience is green in Ireland. All is alive, waiting in anticipation of something, yet not too anxious as to forget its roots. Like a great tree, Ireland seems to grow indelibly toward the sun of experience, yet never forgetting the necessity of past and history permeating the earth, soaking its roots and keeping it forever alive. Ireland is a land, green and perfect, soaked in time.
Tags: Europe, Galway, Guiness, Hostels, Ireland, Travel
gregbilsland
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