An Irish Excursion

5.30 am. Another early start. I heaved myself out of bed, checked phone, purse, camera, bag, coat etc were all still in the vicinity and dressed for the day tour we had booked to the Cliffs of Moher. After a strong coffee, we located the bus stop and gave our names to the tour guide and driver, a funny old Irishman who introduced himself as 'Bud', 'Bud...Weiser, but I'm no wiser than I was yesterday.' I wondered vaguely how many laughs he normally gets at 6am but my coach load of American tourists were lapping it up. We drove straight out of Dublin down the motorway and stopped at a service station for more coffee. Behind was a field of horses, and the sun was just rising so I wandered to the fence to take a photo. One of the horses, obviously used to being fed by tourists, ambled over, and stuck his nose in my camera. I chatted to him for a bit, and turned back to the coach, feeling slightly homesick, where I saw the Americans looking at me incredulously as if I was some sort of horse whisperer. I hid a smile, and tried to look nonchalant. 

The Cliffs of Moher, were, without a doubt, beautiful. Spectacular, jaw dropping views of the sea, and the cliffs cutting away on either side of us. This was made even more breathtaking by the fact there was no barrier between us and the cliff face, no high fence, just grass and then a steep drop. Attached to the fence on the other side of us were various signs 'Talk to Samaritans'. The tour guide had instructed us all to be back at 3pm, and impressed upon us that his concern came from experience of times when people didn't. We walked along the cliffs, marvelling at the people who were standing right on the cliff edge. While Becca was taking photos I slid into a sitting position, and sat for a while, feeling I was on the edge of the world.

The tour took us back, to Doolin, where we had lunch in a pub, and then through the Burren, limestone pavements that stretches to the coast and is dotted with ramshackle cottages and little farms that are subsidised by the government because of the difficulty to make a living in such a rural part of Ireland. The Irish countryside was, as expected, very green, but much different to England, in a way I didn't expect. Their houses were not similar, there were either small white cottages, or large sprawling, American type doll houses in bright colours, which were hideous additions to the landscape (in my personal opinion, but not shared by the others on the coach). 

The final stop was for hot chocolate in a pub in Kinvara where the famous Dunguaire Castle is, the most photographed castle in Ireland, where the story goes that the Lord who built the castle was so proud of its architecture and uniqueness that he had murdered 6 of the masonries who built it so another castle like it could not be replicated. The tour guide was full of stories and facts; he told us the term 'stinking rich' derived from the days when the very very wealthy would pay large sums of money to the church and in return, be buried within the church walls when they died. Interestingly when I got back to the hostel full of information to relate to Dad, he said, of course, none of it was true. So I did some research on some of the things we were told during the day, and it transpires, my cynical father was right, none of it was true. But, I won't tell the Americans that.