Fog, Drizzle, Rain, Bit of Sun, Rain, Drizzle, and Done

We got up nice and early, because today, we'd be taking the ferry to Inishmore, the largest of the Aran Islands. There was a boat leaving for the islands every hour, so we wanted to get there to catch the 9 AM ride, so we would have time to see as much as possible.

Long story short, for reasons unknown, the boat didn't leave until past 10. I guess they wait until it's full. I did learn that Australians are fun people. There were a group of what I assume were students, and they would be damned if they weren't going to have a good time. I also learned that Japanese tourists (and there were many) do not generally dress appropriately for this sort of activity.

Did I mention the weather? Other than our time at the Cliffs of Moher, we'd been lucky so far in that every day was very nearly perfect weather. So, we'd made the choice to go to the Aran Islands on this day, rather than the one previous, which you know we spent strolling around Galway City, and playing in tide pools. But we were troopers, and a little fog and rain wouldn't stop us. It was make us slightly uncomfortable, sure, but stop? No.

We piled off the boat and were assailed by people offering various modes of transport around the island, which is about 9 miles long. There were small buses, and some coach and horses, and bike rentals. Our original plan was to rent bikes, but I will admit that the other options looked pretty tempting as the sky was a dull grey, and the rain spit at us intermittently. But our indecision basically lead us past that, and ended up getting a couple of bikes. I think the idea of the bike was burned into my head, and the practicality of actually riding on in the rain hadn't sunk in. For one thing, you get that line of mud up the middle of your back. Who wants that?

Once on our not-quite-the-right-size-or-in-great-shape-bikes, we began to experience just how out of shape we were. Right off there's a hill that curved up and around. Plus the caravans full of people who accepted the warm, dry, drive-around tour were passing us on the narrow roads. There was a hotel, and a couple pubs, and the knick knack shops, but almost immediately the stone walls started up, and the big stretches of desolate looking farm and grazing land took over. Right off, we were next to a little red house, with chickens all over the place. It's funny, because you think you see chickens a lot, but in reality, you don't see them in real life very often if you live in New York or Los Angeles. So Lindsay and I are taking pictures of the chickens, feeling very touristy, I might add, when a slightly slovenly man comes out with a slop bucket, and shoos them all away from us, seemly vaguely annoyed. At least we got one great shot from it. I have to admit it, the chickens were kind of interesting, and I can't really explain that.

Leaving the chickens, we noticed that we were heading up hill, almost exclusively. Along with that, the rain was coming on a bit harder, and we found out that our layering was causing some overheating. Within 20 minutes, I was down to a t-shirt, and had given up wearing my glasses. I could barely see anyway. We'd pedal up the hill for a while, and stop. Then repeat. There were supposedly beautiful views and vistas to be had, but we couldn't really see them, so we just had to take the brochure's word for it. We were trading the lead with a group of 3 Japanese girls wearing (I kid you not) mini skirts and heels, and riding bikes that looked comically small for them. At one point, I noticed them chucking garbage over the wall into the field. At first I wasn't sure, then I saw her open a new water bottle, drink about a gulp, and toss the whole thing over into the field. So I yelled at them. Of course it did no good, because they didn't speak English. I guess I just hoped my scowl communicated something, but they probably just thought I was insane. What can I say, I really dislike littering. Especially in a place like this, where there's so much history, which can get get buried in garbage a lot easier than you'd think.

There were ruins of old stone houses everywhere. You sort of stopped pointing them out after a while, because, "look, it's another one."

Our goal became the fort Dún Aengus, which was about halfway across the island. It's a stone fort that dates back to about 1000 B.C. I can't tell you how long it took to get there, but I can tell you how glad we were to get off the bikes. I'm guessing it was about an hour or so, raining the whole time, and getting fairly heavy here and there. At least point, I've got to give credit to my wife, who in the past has commented on discomfort or fatigue perhaps earlier than I would have, yet on this day, there was not a single complaint from her. I know, because I was preparing or it, because I was the one who said we should take the bikes. I went for the bikes, even though, deep down, I knew it was perhaps not the best idea. But to my surprise, and of course to her inestimable credit, she assured me over and over that she was, in fact, having fun. It truly was a wonderous land.

After parking our bikes next to 50 other identical bikes, we paid our 2 euros each (or $235, still the cheapest thing in Ireland) and spent as long as we could in the visitors center, before heading out to the fort. I really can't tell you how fantastic it was to get off that bike, especially since the way back would be mostly downhill.

We also weren't really aware, because of the fog, just how far away and uphill the fort was. It was still raining as well, but it's a funny thing about the rain in Ireland. It's never really that bad. The temperature didn't make you any colder, and while it was incessant, it wasn't really that heavy, and just when you'd had enough, it would hold off for a bit. Or course, it would inevitably start up again. But either way, it didn't really bug as much as you'd think it should. Maybe that's because we went to Ireland expecting crap weather, so we were fine. So we trudged up a rocky and quite slippery path to the stone fort. We couldn't really see how far away it was, nor could we really appreciate the size of it, because we could basically only see what was in front of us. It really makes you appreciate, at least a bit, how living here thousands of years ago would either produce extremely tough, if not extremely depressed people.

The fort consists of several semi-circle stone walls, the other edge being a huge sea cliff. The good people in charge of the spot decided to go with a laissez-faire attitude concerning safety, because there's nothing to stop you going over the side. Lindsay had read in the book that a good number of tourists had indeed gone over the edge and died from a sudden gust of wind. I took that in stride, and of strolled over to the side, where a little protective mound had been built up, to peer over the side of the cliff. The sea was angry that day my friends. On a clear day, the view is supposed to be quite spectacular. A little after that, I got about 5-10 feet from the edge, felt a gust of wind, and decided I'd seen quite enough. Truthfully, that was a bit scary.

After a little bit, we saw enough of the stone wall, and took the seemingly shorter trail back down the hill. Then we hopped on the bikes and started down the hills, along the northern side of the island. This was a considerably easier trip than the way up. We cruised along a narrow road, surrounded mostly by stone walls, with the occasional group of grazing cows. Oddly enough, on an island famed for its wool sweaters, we didn't see one sheep. That's like finding an area of New York City devoid of assholes. It just doesn't happen. But there was a distinct lack of sheep. We stopped along the way and fed some roadside flowers to a wet, tired looking horse, wary of course from our earlier encounter with the unfriendly chicken farmer, and a previous roadside horse who actually ate a part of Lindsay's bike handle. He tried to take the whole bike, but we managed to get away in time. That kind of thing makes an impact. If he'll eat bike, can human flesh and bone be far off? It's best not to chance it.

About halfway back, there was a supposed to be a colony of seals or sea lions (I can't remember which), which, if you know my wife, excited her a great deal. Yet it turned out that the weren't in, and the spot where you would watch them was rather empty. Regardless, it was far away and foggy, so we'd just have to do without them.

A few more cows, and a largely unsatisfying lunch at the Irish equivalent of McDonalds (Supermacs!), and we had just enough time to explore the tourist haven of the Aran Islands Sweater Market and Museum. As far as I can tell, the museum part consisted of a video on how wool is made, and some old photos of men in the sweaters. We spent a good amount of time in the sweater market, and while I certainly like the idea of the Aran Islands sweater, I can safely say that being a slightly fashion conscious man, living in 2007 in New York City, I just can't pull it off. I'm sure they're warm, and historically interesting, and had I boat, and spent a lot of time at sea, I'd be all over it. But the the truth is, I pretty much looked like a weenie. Lindsay tried on a couple hundred sweaters are well, and while there were some cashmere varieties that were OK, they weren't really worth buying in Ireland. I've mentioned the exchange rates, I assume. We ended up with a not terrible half zip sweater for me, to be worn only on the coldest of days, and a wool blanket that, by the smell of things, was only recently attached to the sheep. But it's certainly warm.

We got back on the boat for the 40 minute ride back to dry land, noting that the offensive littering Japanese tourists hadn't reappeared. I'm hoping they met with some sort of donkey based accident, but it might be too much to hope for. We had to hurry back, because tonight we'd book accommodation at the Ballynahinch Castle Hotel, and we had to get there in time to make the most of it. It was only about 40 minutes from where we were.

As we drove towards the Castle, we were entering Connemara, which had a completely different sort of landscape than the others places we'd been. There were lakes and mountains, peat bogs, and windy streams along the road. It was all at once, lush and barren, depending on the rise of the road. Approaching the hotel, the trees got more dense, and we started seeing fishing cottages cropping up. We're not big into fishing, or at all really, but you can imagine how nice it was there. By this time, the weather from Inishmore was history, and long behind us, and things were looking up.

We turned into the gate, and drove through dense trees, and pulled up to the secluded castle with a little trepidation that we were in the right place. Next to reception, a huge fire crackled next to some leather sofas. A man so similar to Fawlty's Manuel that I feel bad making the comparison, took our bags (heavy bags!) up 4 flights of stairs, where we discovered that we had no bills smaller than 50 euros ($38,000 US dollars), and couldn't tip him. We promised him that we would take care of him later, which he most certainly doubted, but showed no sign.

This room...this room was ridiculous. I almost made Lindsay go back down and make sure they hadn't upgraded us to some room we'd have to take a mortgage out to pay for. But no, this was the room you get, and at this point, we couldn't have been happier. We're talking a huge room, the first with climate control, a 4 poster bed, a flat screen TV (with 3 channels....), huge closets, a couch, a bathroom with a dual shower in addition to a bathtub with a TV embedded in the wall, complete with waterproof remote control, and just a whole lot of niceness.

The whole place seemed like it used to be a the hunting retreat of some very rich people, and the decor backed up that theory. This was for people who liked hunting and fishing. While we really weren't part of that group, we made do.

Soon it was time for our fancy dinner. The restaurant served a 5 course meal that was probably the best eating we had in the whole country. There was a salad, and a starter, and another thing, and the main course, and then the desert. I think we both had filet mignon, because sometimes, fancy can get scary and unknowable, where some of the other choices were a bit too exotic for us. I don't even think the meal came with any chips, but I'm not sure. They may have sncuk some in there amongst the truffles and such. I had some sort of lamb salad and a currant sorbet, and Lindsay ate something from the sea that she liked a great deal as well. For dessert, we each got this strange assortment of chocolates. I couldn't tell you what they were, because the waiter wasn't exactly sure. But what I can tell you was that they were all excellent, in completely different ways.

At the end of the whole thing, we were both near collapse from rich food intake. At that point, they offered us tea and chocolates by the fire in the other room. Neither of us had room for oxygen, much less any other food or drink, but honestly, how could we say no? Being served tea in a room like that, surrounded by wealthy foreign people on holiday is a strange thing. On the wall opposite the fire was a painting showing a pack of dogs taking down a wild boar. It was no small painting either. It pretty much went from floor to ceiling. Where the hell were we?

As you can guess, after eating like that, and walking around all day in the rain, that was about all we had in us, and we passed out, hoping to have some time to enjoy the hotel grounds a bit more in the morning.

And we finally had a whole lot of pillows too. Clearly, it was worth the money.

Tomorrow: Sligo.