8/6/07 Day 8: The Cliffs of Moher and The Burren

I was up early. I decided to read a little while I waited for Dad to regain consciousness. Seth was across the hall in a room all by himself, so I didn’t know if he was awake or not, and quite frankly I’d seen a lot of Seth lately, so I wasn’t in much of a hurry to find out. After about ten minutes or so I finished my book and stared at Dad. The old man was still asleep.
Throughout my childhood and into my teenage years, my father liked to amuse himself with a game he invented called “Fling the Pig.” The “pig”, dear readers, was me. The game, such as it was, had very simple rules. In order to play, the pig needed to be in a sound sleep, much like the one my father was in now. Then, without warning, Dad would burst into my bedroom, making as much noise as possible, often bellowing “It’s time… to FLING! THE! PIG!!!” Of course, the pig would instantly awaken, startled and confused, only to blink bleary-eyed as Dad proceeded to do a little shuffling dance back and forth, slowly making his way towards the bed. (Think Michael Madsen in Reservoir Dogs, just before he slices off the cop’s ear with a straight razor. That kind of dance.) When he at last got to the bed, he would seize the pig by an arm or an ankle—whatever he could grab that was outside the covers—and drag the pig out of bed, depositing him unceremoniously on the floor. If none of the pig’s limbs were outside the covers, Dad would simply rip the covers off first.
For the pig, you might imagine returning to sleep after such maltreatment was impossible. And you would be correct.
And so it was with malicious intent that I eyed my snoring father, many years later and thousands of miles away from home. Stealthily I crept out of my own bed and began to approach Dad. I had to stop twice to laugh silently. And then, I stood over him and reached for a protruding ankle.
There was a knock at the door. Dad’s eyes opened and he looked up at me. He blinked a few times. “You gonna answer that?” he said.
He has no idea how close he came to being the pig for once. But that’s ok. One day my Dad will be old and frail and will likely sleep a lot.
It was Seth, of course. “You losers awake or what? We have a long trip. I’ve already been outside to smoke a butt.”

After breakfast—the usual buffet fare that we were completely sick of by now—we hit the road, taking the N6 South to the N67 through County Clare, bound for one of Ireland’s most famous scenic locales, the Cliffs of Moher (pronounced "More", not "Mohair", as Seth would say). Less than an hour on the road, we pulled over in Kinvarra when we saw Dunguare (pronounced Dungory) Castle just sitting by the roadside, as castles in Ireland are wont to do. We took a quick look around the outside, snapped some pictures and visited the gift shop upstairs. We could have taken a tour of the castle for an extra €10 or so, but the castle isn’t that big and we found the price a bit steep. Instead we decided to get back on the road, driving along the coast of Galway Bay through Ballyvaughn.

In Lisdoonvarna, we made a pit-stop at The Burren Smokehouse. I went in to use the facilities while Dad and Seth waited in the car. Inside I found all manner of smoked goods: meats, cheeses and fish. I thought about how cool it would be to buy a bunch of food and a bottle of wine or ale, drive a little farther around The Burren, and pull over someplace breathtaking for lunch. Then I remembered I’d have Seth and Dad with me, neither of whom seemed to me to be the type to enjoy smoked anything, which meant we’d be stopping at a pub for lunch. Undaunted, I bought a package of smoked mackerel.
I must have taken longer than I was supposed to, because after a while my brother came looking for me. “Dude, let’s go,” he said. “How long does it take to take a piss?” I looked apologetically at the proprietor and followed my brother out to the car.
“Want to see what I bought?” I asked, waving the bag in front of Seth.
“No.”
“Well, too bad. Look.” I showed him the mackerel. He gave me the now-familiar look that said I was the stupidest man on earth.
“What the hell are you going to do with that?” he said.
“Eat it,” I replied. “I was going to buy some smoked salmon. I tried some in there. It was awesome.”
Seth shook his head, clearly disgusted.
“I decided on the mackerel though. It was cheaper than the salmon.”
“Great,” he said.
“They have wild salmon in there. Not just the farm-raised salmon. Supposedly the wild salmon tastes much better.”
Seth stared straight ahead, willing me to shut up.
“I think I had wild salmon in there, because it was great. It’s way more expensive than farmed salmon, though. And the mackerel was cheaper than both of them.”
The sound of Seth’s clenched teeth was audible.
“I like mackerel, too,” I said.
“Who fucking cares?!!” Seth exploded.
About half an hour more in the car and we arrived at The Cliffs of Moher. The Cliffs are 5 miles of stunning coastline: 200 meters high, covered with wildflowers, and understandably packed with tourists. They are a protected wildlife reserve and home to the largest mainland seabird nesting colonies in Ireland. Puffins, peregrine falcons and, of course, seagulls abound; and the Cliffs are bordered by private farms to the north and south, where we saw sheep and wild goats grazing. A walkway complete with viewing platforms runs south to north from Hag’s Head Path to O’Brien’s Tower. The cliffs are constantly eroding, and every dozen feet or so are signs warning you to stay away from the edge.
We heeded the warnings and took a ton of pictures, including what we all agreed was the best picture ever taken of the three of us. While I’m not showing you that one, here are a few pictures of the Cliffs.
We spent a couple of hours at the Cliffs, just staring. Eventually, we made it back to the car and began our drive back to Galway, through The Burren National Park. The Burren is a hilly expanse of rocky, grey limestone, dotted here and there by ancient ruined tombs and dolmens. Its bleakness is offset by beautiful wildflowers that grow in the cracks and fissures of the rock, and plants that wouldn’t normally grow anywhere near each other thrive side by side in this unique environment. We got out of the car and wandered around for about an hour, each of us taking some time to be alone and just absorb what we saw. It was rough going; Seth and I were convinced Dad was going to break an ankle or a hip (he’s old), but we all avoided any mishap. Nonetheless, I was happy for the heavy walking shoes I bought in preparation for the trip.
By the time we were done we were pretty hungry, so we stopped in Ballyvaughn for lunch at Logue’s Lodge. I had chicken stuffed with salmon and bleu cheese. Not exactly Irish fare, but it was good anyway.

Back in Galway, Dad decided to join Seth and I in seeing the town. We took him to all the places we went the night before, including the best pub in the world, Freeney’s. Dad wasn’t as impressed as we were. (I have no idea who this dude in the picture is.) We had dinner at a family restaurant that made some terrific stew (not as good as Madigan’s, but I wasn’t kidding when I said Madigan's was the best stew I’ve ever had in my life.)

Dad got to see (and hear) some street drummers, but many of the bizarre performers of the night before weren’t around, including my new piper friend, who was hopefully still sleeping it off. Sleep sounded like a good idea. Tomorrow, we would be leaving Galway for Shannon, where we would spend our last night in Ireland.
Or so Dad thought.