The Wild Atlantic Way
The Emerald Isle. Home of Guinness, Claddagh Rings, Taytos, and Bono – and it would also be our residence for a three-month stretch as we taught and toured our way around the rolling, verdant island of Ireland. Commencing in Rosslare Harbour on a frosty March morn, our strategy was to swiftly head westwards, pausing in the historic cities of Waterford and Cork before joining Ireland’s answer to the NC500: the Wild Atlantic Way. Hugging and snaking its way along Ireland’s westernmost coastline, the two and a half thousand-kilometre trail (yes, you read that correctly), which was officially launched in 2014, includes exactly one hundred and fifty-seven “discovery points” and over a thousand “attractions”. Unsure as to what constituted a “discovery point” or an “attraction”, and in the mood to find out, we quickly made a beeline towards the route’s starting point, the fishing town of Kinsale, and began our Irish adventure.
On our way there, we deemed it imperative to drastically increase our chances of catching a deadly virus by kissing a large communal stone atop a medieval stronghold; the same stone kissed by hundreds of international tourists every day for maximum, superspreading effect. I am, of course, referring to the Blarney Stone, which grants its smoochers the gift of the gab which Lowri, to my absolute horror, decided was something that she required. Unbeknownst to me, it actually takes a great level of dexterity, as well as foolhardiness, in order to kiss the aforementioned stone as one must lie on their behind, tilting their head as far back as possible before being lowered by the legs down a narrow shaft towards the rock. Whilst I was quite unsure as to whether I had kissed the correct stone or not, it soon became apparent, judging by her instant rambling recount of the experience, that my partner had had no such difficulty.
West Cork: a remote region of Ireland famed for its pristine beaches, ancient burial mounds, and, unfortunately, for a modern murder story. As Lowri and I are guilty of being addicted to all things true crime, this was a particular dark treat as we were able to visit many of the prominent locations we had become ensnared by through hours of podcast-listening and documentary-watching. Whilst over twenty-five years have passed since the murder of Parisian Sophie Toscan du Plantier at her isolated home near the town of Schull, interest in the story has never been greater due to a new Netflix production and Audible podcast. The fact that the killer got off on a technicality and still lives in the area – a fact we can attest to having seen his car in the driveway – only appears to have increased its morbid appeal to other “dark tourists”. When in the area, one of Sophie’s favourite destinations was O’Sullivans Bar in the picturesque, and even more remote, village of Crookhaven and it was easy to see why. You could be forgiven for believing you were driving around the faultless coast of Tortuga rather than that of an Irish peninsula – truly astonishing.
Whilst it is a well-known fact that every single American on earth claims to be Irish, few places illustrate this better than the tourist township of Killarney. Four and five-star hotels line its broad thoroughfare, with shimmering star-spangled banners adorning every available flagpole, whilst the bustling bars and restaurants at its centre all claim to offer the “traditional Irish experience”. At this point, we are starting to believe that involves fighting a United Stater for the last dram of Jameson from the bottle before setting out an argument as to why claiming to be 100% Irish when your last relative from Tipperary died before the Declaration of Independence isn’t the strongest of cases. Killarney National Park, on the outskirts of the town, was lovely, though.
Following a brief glance at Carrauntoohil, Ireland’s highest peak, and deciding that we were far too hungover to ascend to its cloud-tipped crest, we continued along the now-familiar coastal road to Galway, where we were joined by two very special guests. Lowri’s parents decided to join us for a long weekend in order to sample the town’s legendary pubs, of which there are four hundred and seventy-five (one pub for every five hundred Galwegians) as well as to visit the nearby Cliffs of Moher. The UNESCO-recognised geological formation runs for fourteen kilometres and claims to be Ireland’s most-visited attraction – they obviously haven’t tried getting to the bar at The King’s Head on a Friday night.
Donegal town was to be our final Republic resting place before crossing into the North and it afforded us an opportunity to explore the “world’s number one coolest destination of 2017” according to National Geographic Traveller. If by cool they mean the hosting of a night with Shaun Murphy and Mark Allen (two questionably interesting snooker players) in a local hotel then they were absolutely on the money. In all honesty, Sonny McSwines was one of the most praiseworthy pubs we have frequented thus far and, let me tell you, that’s an extremely long list. Let’s discover if the North can compare…
J
