|
The Burren In Ireland a day without rain was like a day without sunshine. Sharon reflected the weather detracted from her enjoyment of the scenery. Hell, I couldn't even see the scenery. Sharon, traumatized by yesterday's chilling experience, was now paranoid of rain. She developed a psychological transference state: Any little sound, she thought it was raining. The wind rattled our upstairs bedroom window. "It's raining," Sharon murmured, snuggling deeper under the down-filled comforter. Looking out, I reported, "It's just the wind." Later, Sharon thought it was raining again. I looked out and this time saw the river gushing by, as high as in March during spring run-off, and reported, "It's just the river." Still, a third time, Sharon thought it was raining, but this time it was only the tires from the traffic, drumming the pavement on the street below. I couldn't sleep anyway, between disconfirming weather fears, so I decided to arise. I went downstairs to read in peace, while Sharon tucked the quilt up around her chin. Breakfast wasn't until eight-thirty, but Mrs Murphy had set the table the night before. I ate the Cornflakes while waiting for everyone else to slumber forth. Mrs Murphy was the first person down and noticed me sitting in the dark reading. Flicking on a light, she asked, "Would you like an Irish breakfast?"I quickly confirmed I would, and asked, in all seriousness, "Is that a Guinness?" When the rest of the crew showed up for breakfast we feasted on a minuscule glass of orange juice, one tired fried egg, an anorexic sausage, a titch of ham and a totch of bacon, two limp pieces of bread with a dollop of pinkish jam and a small pot of lukewarm tea. I didn't know before Murphy was a Scottish name. As we got ready to depart, the landlady ruffled at me, "You broke my shower!" "See what happens when you don't complain," Sharon told me. "You get blamed for things that are already busted." I wish I were as bold as some of the German or American tourists we had met. I would have told her exactly what condition her shitty shower was in before my attempt to use it. The day was the usual overcast gray, but our clothes were reasonably dry from lying on hot water registers throughout the two-story house overnight. We left our character B&B and stoically headed off into the pensive morning gloom, a ground fog shrouding the landscape. We followed country lanes past wind-swept cemeteries and oblivious grazing sheep, arriving at a Cathedral ruin (by some weird geographic plan the Pope was the Bishop for this diocese), built in 1109 ad, near Burren. The remaining arch and stonework were intriguing to examine. The Burren, known for its dolomite, rock forts and caves had plenty of construction material we were soon to discover. Four elderly folks from a bus tour, passing through The Burren on their way to Galway, asked us questions. When they discovered we were traveling around the world by bike, one of the women enthusiastically effused: "Why aren't you clever!" Yesterday I had a different word in mind. As we traveled to a dolmen--a gigantic rock table erected by worshippers four thousand years ago--the landscape became more and more barren. It wasn't long before it turned into a desolate moonscape with nothing but listless gray stones for as far as the eye could see. At the dolmen, transforming the area were miniature Stonehenge formations. It appeared the rock group, Spinal Tap, had requested stage backdrops of Stonehenge, but put down inches, instead of feet, on their blueprints by mistake. The creations were all about eighteen inches high. The amount of nothing but rock was mind-boggling. We searched out the remains of an ancient "fort." It was an open ring of rock, about fifty feet in diameter, with rock walls ten-to-twelve feet thick. It looked to me like a sturdy sheep enclosure. With the frigid wind chafing my face and an ominous steely sky clamoring above us, it was a cheerless place. I couldn't imagine anyone wanting to live here, let along defend the forsaken place. Strips of land cleared of rock, made a band of green grass for sheep to nibble. Huge rock fences, piled high on both sides of the road, made a length of range about fifty feet in width. It had taken an awful lot of backbreaking labor to glean an infinitesimal amount of grass to feed a few sheep. A rain cloud dogging us all morning, finally caught up, and a light mist fell. We discussed the non-merits of ducking into a low cattle shelter, then turned around and headed back to a farmer's lane where we huddled under a tree for an hour. It didn't appear the weather was going to pass anytime soon, so we investigated the area for a camping spot. Between the ruts and the cow pies there was nothing suitable. I pulled on my rain gear, including my rain pants, and we struck off into the gloom. At a gas station we replenished our water bottles. With all this rain, I didn't want to see more water, but we still needed it to cook with. A gray-haired woman sat in her car, getting gas at the pumps. I lifted my leg over my bike to dismount. Somehow the Velcro on my rain pants had come unfastened, and after two steps they fell down around my ankles. The old woman gleefully rolled down her window and cackled, "Too bad you had something on underneath!" In Kinvarra the sun made a brief appearance as we passed the Dunguaire castle. We debated stopping, but the clearing sky spurred us on. Later the sky clouded again and we got rained on as we searched in vain for a camping spot. Tired of getting wet, we finally found a field with an open gate, but there was no shelter from the elements. The plastic draped over the bikes flapped madly. Inside the sleeping bag, Sharon tried to dry her damp clothes with her body heat. Another comfortable night. |
|
|
Book Info