Today was set aside for a return
into the Republic of Ireland, or more particularly, a partial exploration of
County Donegal. The distance from our camp to the western border at Belleek is
small, just a little over twenty kilometres west along the shores of Lower Lough
Erne, but it is still some distance to Ballyshannon on the coast, and further
north on the N15 to the county capital of Donegal, which is itself only the
gateway to the glorious scenery that makes this county a popular tourist destination.
Again as we crossed the border
back into Eire, there was nothing to mark the occasion, only the dotted line on
our map; at least at Blacklion and Belcoo there had been a waterway to mark the
division. We soon found ourselves in the centre of Ballyshannon, at an hour too
early for the most shopkeepers to open their doors or the locals to be out
adding colour to the streets, however it was late enough to contact our
daughter on Messenger, catching the family huddled together watching movies. It
also coincided with the fact it was Father’s Day in New Zealand, a fact I had
discovered earlier and responded to by sending belated greetings to my father, hoping
that my sisters had been far better daughters than I in doing so.
Our contact with Larissa had
nothing to do with this festive occasion being celebrated on the other side of
the world, simply being about time we touched base. And in doing so we learned
that our oldest grandson is off to Japan for a fortnight later this month, a
fact we knew but for the dates, and that our oldest granddaughter who has the
most glorious head of hair, is to have it all shaved off in less than three
weeks to raise money for a cancer charity. She asked if we would contribute to
the fundraising and I responded by saying I would be happy to pay something to
stop her having her head shaved. Still, after due consideration, I decided it
was better than a tattoo; hair does grow again, a fact I rely on so often
myself. We will of course add to her fund; how could we not with such a
sacrifice by her.
When we reached Donegal, we found
a park in the middle of town and spent some time wandering about. The town
itself was still deadly quiet, a few early bird tourists such as ourselves out
and about, but the rest of the population enjoying their Sunday lie-in. Down at
the quay, where the River Eske emerges into Donegal Bay, a tourist boat was
just leaving, and there were quite a few motorhomes who had obviously been
parked there overnight.
We wandered on past this parking
area to a graveyard and large ruins, and discovered that this was once the Donegal
Friary, founded for the Franciscan Friars in 1474 by the first Red Hugh O’Donnell
and his wife Nuala O’Brien. It survived until it was plundered by the English
in 1588, then four years later, they in turn were driven out by the second Red Hugh
(who left Ireland shortly after the battle of Kinsale in 1602) and the friars repaired
the buildings. In 1601, during a siege of the friary by English forces,
gunpowder stores exploded and wrecked the building.
The friary was the granted to Sir
Basil Brooke who used the church for Protestant worship. Today the remains are
very fragmentary, some of the cloister arcade survives but very little of the
church. I was surprised to find relatively modern graves dotted about the area,
lodged between walls and other structures of the original friary.
From here there is a lovely view
down the sheltered harbour, and I did wonder where the tourist boat was headed,
because beyond the security of this sheltered area is the wild Atlantic Ocean.
Back up in the town, still devoid
of locals, I spotted the high towers of the Castle which of course required
further exploration. The gates were open but our time did not allow for a
proper visit. Instead I had to be satisfied with an overview gleaned from the
signs and a second view from down at the bridge over the river.
The castle was built by Red Hugh O’Donnell,
he of friary fame in the late 15th century. When he joined the “Flight
of the Earls” in 1607, the castle was granted to that same Basil Brooke,
although Red Hugh had apparently burned the castle back in 1592 to prevent it
falling into the hands of the English. It is interesting to note that Rory O’Donnell
is recorded as surrendering fourteen castles to the English during this time,
so it goes without saying that the O’Donnells had been particularly dominant in
the area up until this time.
The castle was renovated in
Jacobean style soon after by Captain Brooke, although the remains of the castle
consist of a much altered tower house and an adjoining early 17th century
manor house. From the street it is a very interesting looking building and we
should have made time to explore it.
The Brooke family owned the castle
right up until the 1670s, then it was sold to the Gore dynasty, perhaps those
who begat the brave Constance. By the early 18th century it had
already fallen into a ruinous state, and in 1898 the castle was handed over to
the care of the Office of Public Works, who in turn, but much later, partially
restored it. It is apparently very minimally open to the public, probably a bit
like Portumna Castle or Palmer’s Castle, all on-going work in progress. Our
English Heritage cards would have offered us free access, but as The Chauffeur
said, extra time spent here means less time somewhere else. He is a much better
time manager than I; in fact I would go so far as to say he is The Time Manager
of our coupledom.
So off we headed, following the
signs for the Wild Atlantic Way, much of which we have followed over the past
month, in bits and pieces, and all of it extremely satisfying. Heading west on the N56, we first paused at
Killybegs, a very small settlement with a disproportionately large port. Once a
significant fishing port, it now apparently hosts major cruise liners, not that
there were any in today. We parked above the port area for our coffee and
pastries purchased in Ballyshannon, with views to the west and south, the mountains
of County Sligo emerging from the low cloud and caught in the wonderful light
that dodgy weather offers.
By now we were on the R263 which
takes the tourist and frustrated locals out into the spectacular countryside
that is labelled Slieve League. Actually Slieve League is the name for the peak
standing 601 metres ASL at the very edge of the coast, with the western side
dropping steeply down into the sea, the sea cliffs some of the highest in
Ireland and certainly the most dramatic we have seen in the British Isles.
Access to the best viewpoint is by
a minor road immediately south of Carrick, down to Teelin, then up over the
hill beyond the village on an even smaller windier road to a large car park
where there are toilets and ample parking. Beyond this is a closed gate and had
it not been for the words of the young man in the Tourist Information office at
Donegal and the sight of a regular looking car exiting the gate, we might have
donned our shoes and walked up the road for ourselves, instead of simply driving
on up the cliff top road, with care, to the small car park adjacent to the very
best view we could have had.
The clouds were now low over the
peak, although we could see a few hardy souls making their way along the top of
the cliff like small ants, braving the wind and the intermittent showers. Back
along the road, better walked than resuming vehicular comfort, is a glimpse of
a long abandoned early Christian monastic site, with chapel and beehive huts,
perched low on the rugged cliffs, defying any sort of logic. To be honest I was
not game to venture too close to the edge to examine the nature of these ruins,
so will have to accept the words of the those who have.
All along this stretch of road,
sheep wandered about, or sat chewing their cud, totally chilled out and
oblivious to the increasing numbers of tourists invading their space.
Later on the road, neighbouring
relatives of these sheep were hogging the road to such an extent they would not
move when cars came to pass by. I wound the window down and tried to shoo them
along to no avail. We drove up and around them, the only other option being to
dismount and physically push them off the road. Unlike their New Zealand cousins,
the Irish sheep have no fear nor even a healthy respect for human presence.
We retraced our route in part back
toward Carrick, parking beside the River Owenee where it cascades down toward
Teelen Bay, to have lunch. No sooner did we head off again than the weather closed
in and the rest of our route was partially shrouded by mist, murk or drizzle.
We continued on, still following
the R263, across barren moors of oily-black turf banks, piles of peat drying or
waiting in plastic sacks for collection, devoid of much but heather and tussock
and spaced-out sheep, coming down to the more rich green of Glencolmcille, then
back up onto other highlands, as destitute as before, then finally falling down
over the Glengesh Pass, the road spirally down in a series of switch backs,
alas today our destination at the foot of the descent lost in rain mist.
Arriving at Ardara, now back on
the N56, we travelled a little further north, to Kilrean, where we turned
inland once more on to the R1262 and crossed over the southern end of the Blue
Stack Mountains, eerily beautiful today, but surely so much more so in better
weather.
We emerged on to the N56 yet
again, and returned to Donegal where we found the town full of local folks, and
the local Aldi able to supply all the bits and pieces on our grocery list. By
the time we returned to the car, the weather had truly turned to rubbish, the
rain heavy and it was a wet trip we had, back to Ballyshannon, across the
border at Belleek, and along the banks of the Lower Lough Erne.
Having had to change the Tomtom
from UK, to Ireland and back to UK today, I have now changed the units from
kilometres to miles as we are unlikely to venture back into the Republic for
several more days, although the young chap in Donegal did encourage us to come
back to visit some particularly special sections of the County. So we will be
back!
No comments:
Post a Comment