INISHEER Brilliance -or- Smarter Than The Average BURREN

ALERT: I am really annoyed with the way photo-embedding works with Blogger, and I've got a ton of pictures from Inisheer, so I'll make a separate post with just photos in it, okay?

Sitting on the West coast of Ireland between the gorgeous Cliffs of Moher (biggest tourist attraction in Ireland) and the desolate but fascinating Burren, Doolin is kind of an odd town. It’s actually two very small, separate villages connected by a stretch of road lined with hostels and B&Bs, allowing visitors to wander off to either village at their leisure. It drew me for two reasons: it was heralded by my guide book as the best place for authentic Irish trad music that was “…not just a tourist trap”, and it is the easiest way to get to the Aran Islands.

Unfortunately, my experience did not confirm the opinion of Let’s Go Travel Guides, music-wise. Then again, I didn’t really give it much of a chance. You see, up until now I had been trying to do two nights in each place I visited. That way, I could have a full day uninterrupted by travel just to take in the sights. Unfortunately, I ended up spending four nights in Killarney due to full/expensive accommodations in Dingle, so I had to edit my itinerary a bit. Doolin didn’t fascinate me, so it got cut down to a single night – arrive, sleep, depart. The Aille River Hostel, where I stayed, was actually quite nice. It had a free-to-use washing machine (complete with soap!) and a two-euro drier. All in all, that’s about one fourth the price of laundry services performed by the other hostels I’ve been in. I knew I had to take advantage of it, since my clothes were getting…awkward. So here’s what I did.

My bus arrived in Doolin around 8 PM – pretty obnoxious, actually, because I left Dingle at 10:30, but there was a long layover each in Tralee and Limerick (I’ll return to that later) – and when I entered the hostel I was greeted by name like an old friend. It was a bit disconcerting, but also kind of nice. I asked Cal, the guy working there, if I was the only new arrival that day, and if not, how the heck did he keep getting my name right? (He also knew who I was without an introduction when I called the day before to confirm my online-booked stay.) His response with a smile: “I’ve just gotten to be really damn good at my job.”

I met a guy from Asturias, in Spain (never got his name, though…) who was cycling from the coast to Cork with his wife. They’d made way too much pasta for themselves, and gave the rest (two heaping bowls’ worth) to me. During this trip I have begun to really appreciate the kindness of strangers; it seems like people in hostels are generally all of a similar mind, and like to help fellow travelers out. Of course, I’d already begun to cook myself a dinner of lentil soup (which was also cribbed from the “free food” basket, actually) so I ended up with my first truly big meal since I’d left the farm. No complaints from me about that. There was also a small cadre of French folks there that night, and it was hilarious and a bit heartwarming to see French people washing dishes in one sink, Spanish people washing dishes in the one next to them, the groups talking to each other in their native languages and hardly understanding a thing, but laughing through the whole thing.

After dinner, I went to the pub that Cal had recommended and got myself a Bushmill’s (I think I prefer Jameson) and listened to the music. It was really a bit unremarkable. Oh well! I had a plan for the evening, so when I finished my whiskey I didn’t go to any of the other pubs, but returned to the hostel. At this time it was about ten PM. I stripped down for a shower, threw ALL of my clothes in the washing machine, took a quick shower, then put on my (then unused) pajama shorts and managed to toss my towel into the washing machine before it had gotten too far into the cycle. Yesss! Perfect!

Oh, wait, then there was a (false) fire alarm that lasted for forty-five minutes before we got hold of somebody who could turn it off. That was a little annoying, but at least I wasn’t trying to sleep yet. Plus I had earplugs.

The next morning, Thursday, I checked out and walked to the pier where I was taken to Inisheer, the closest and smallest but second-most populous of the three Aran Islands. It seems to have the perfect balance of solitude and social life. When I arrived at my hostel, I was literally the only tenant. Since then, I’ve gotten a roommate, and I think one girl moved in upstairs. I immediately went out and hiked the entire coast of the island, which I felt really good about even though it’s not that long. I think it had something to do with setting a goal and reaching it, I dunno. The entire southern coast of the island does NOT have a road for walking, so I ended up just climbing along the rocks. Luckily, the rocks along the coast are very awesome in that they’re bizarrely flat and horizontal – it looks like an enormous, inconsistent stairway.

One of the things I saw as I made that circuit was the remnants of the Plassy, which wrecked and washed ashore in 1960 (no casualties). It’s like urban exploration, except in the least urban place I can think of. I was so excited when I figured out you were able to go into it. Actually, that seems common here in Ireland - there are very rarely fences preventing you from getting up-close and personal with the sights, even if they're of historical significance. I also stopped at a ruined church, which you perhaps read about in my earlier entry about religion.

The next day was devoted entirely to exploring Inisheer. I told my roommate that I was going out to see “everything worth seeing that’s NOT along the coast”. This amounted to the following: the 15th-century O’Brien Castle, ruined by Cromwell’s forces; Cill Ghobnait, an 8th-century church and graveyard with an altar carved with a celtic cross that had been worn down so much that you couldn’t even see it – only barely feel the indentation; and Tobar Éienne, the holy well of St. Edna, the patron saint of Inishmore (the largest of the Aran Islands). I also lied down on some of the aforementioned flat coastal rocks and read for a while in the beautiful weather.

Oh, hey! Weather! You know how they say Ireland rains all the time? Coulda fooled me. Since I left the farm, I have had nothing but bright sun, usually cloudless skies, and temperatures ranging from 75 to 90. Nine days uninterrupted of sunny, warm weather in Ireland? What will they think of next?!

Anyway, I wasn't able to get into the Burren properly, but Inisheer's landscape is very similar, so I feel justified in using the title. You've just gotta love that rocky ground with little plants filling in all the gaps!

* I wandered around Limerick a little bit during my bus layover, and as a city it was relatively unremarkable. I bought some curry chips to tide me over between my small lunch and my as-yet unknown dinner and sat in the public park eating them. As I ate, I was joined by a friendly Irish guy who was about as stereotypical an Irish guy as you could imagine. He was probably five foot three on a good day, and he seemed, for lack of a better word, spry. He looked to be in his mid-forties, but had completely white hair. Of course the conversation started with the typical questions about where we’re from and what we’re doing traveling, but it ended up being dominated by talk of JFK and Barack Obama, oddly enough. Apparently JFK’s family was from Limerick, which is what led into that discussion, and then the dude started comparing JFK to Obama, and it just kept rolling. At the end of the conversation we finally introduced ourselves – he turned out to be a Seamus, and upon hearing that I was Patrick he said “Ah, a pair of good Irish names!”

By the way, it was fucking hilarious to hear “Barack Obama” in an Irish accent. He pronounced the first name like “Barracks” without an S – accent on the first syllable – and the last name clearly sounded like “O’Bama”. Delightful.