From
the Burren I drove to the Cliffs of Moher, arriving about 7pm. The visitors
centre was closed, but there was still plenty of foot traffic. As evening
drew in, and the freezing wind off the Atlantic strengthened, all but the
hardiest melted away. It was a relief, because somehow the wind alone seemed
the right soundtrack for watching the sun go down over that harsh grey ocean.
The
Cliffs themselves were fine, but there were others I thought more picturesque –
so after a little I drove on along the Wild Atlantic Way. Stretching over 2,500
kilometres and 9 counties, I was to jump on and off this road until I reached Northern
Ireland. If you’re ever in Ireland, I recommend it – you’ll find sleepy fishing
villages, dramatic cliffs, quiet beaches, and a warm welcome wherever you stop.
On
this particular day I was keen to set foot in the North Atlantic, and as twilight
continued I found a boulder-strewn Burren beach between the Cliffs and Galway,
and tentatively clambered over this geologic abundance towards the shore line. I
held tight to my car keys – dropping them here would be a disaster, as the
impression that the beach gave was that anything you dropped would fall down
through them to the centre of the earth.
Waves
were crashing in and it reminded me of Black Head in Gerroa – a place where the
wild proximity of the waves and the slipperiness of the rocks always causes my
heart rate to escalate. However I found a spot where the waves reliably seemed
to peter out and in a brief lull scampered down and stuck a toe in before
scrambling back up the rocks and away from the boiling sea.