03 - Dead Poet, Insobriety

 

Dead Poet, Insobriety* - Day Two

* - not in that order

After the Scotsman threatened Dad with more flute, Dad went to bed, leaving me in the company of about *sixty* Scots in the bar, all of them from about three extended families - including, despite it being about midnight, a pre-teenaged girl telling racist, Benny Hill-era jokes - who travel together and (apparently) feed drinks to the American all night.

The next morning, we said goodbye to the little town of Dungloe

So that you can join us, here was our route today...

The road through County Donegal quickly turned pretty again...

...and within a few minutes we'd reached the town of Donegal.

We didn't take many pictures through the town of Donegal, partly because the highway went around it and partially because our brief drive through the town center caused Dad to forget how to use his phone to take pictures. Here's the one I salvaged.

We stopped somewhere for a pee...

...and before Dad could swear at his camera-phone 2,398,750,178 more times, we reached the pretty, flat-topped mountain of Benbulben where most of us finally got out of the car and took some half-decent pictures while one of us dead-panned, "Look, it's a hill," choosing to stay in the car.

We didn't have time to take the "Benbulben Forest Walk" but we ventured about 0.0004 KM up the path to see the pretty moss. If you're interested in the walk, I went back to this area a few weeks later and took the pretty walk.

Above: Fuscia on the way back to the main road

Above: Looking out toward (probably) Rosses Point

Above: Dad remembered how to use his camera-phone again!

A few minutes later, we reached Drumcliffe and the unexpected site of E.B. Yeats' final resting place. While it was "unexpected" as we would have passed it by had it not been in the old guidebook that Dad was reading instead of taking pictures, the location was *not* unexpected for Yeats as the last verse of his poem “Under Ben Bulben” is where he defined his eternal view: 

“Under bare Ben Bulben’s head 

In Drumcliff churchyard Yeats is laid,

An ancestor was rector there

Long years ago; a church stands near, 

By the road an ancient Cross.

No marble, no conventional phrase, 

On limestone quarried near the spot 

By his command these words are cut: 

Cast a cold eye

On life, on death. 

Horseman, pass by!” 

More recently, someone added this installation outside the cemetery around St. Columba's with a sculpture and the words to Yeats' "He wishes for the Cloths of Heaven":

"Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,

Enwrought with golden and silver light,

The blue and the dim and the dark cloths

Of night and light and the half light,

I would spread the cloths under your feet:

But I, being poor, have only my dreams;

I have spread my dreams under your feet;

Tread softly because you tread on my dreams"

St. Columba's church and its stained glass that filtered the sunlight as it passed through was also pretty.

Outside, the cemetery and its moss in the shadow of Benbulben was also pretty. ("...also pretty," is a phrase commonly used by the Irish, e.g., "Aye, daht Kat-rin's a might dish o' lamb shank, buht `er seestr's also pretty!")

After that, it was back on the road to Sligo with the Atlantic on one side and greenery on the other

Our intent was to eat lunch in Sligo, but the restaurant Dad chose, then tried to navigate our car to it, resulted in the following conversation:

Dad: "Take a left off the highway at the next light."

[We land in the town center on a busy, narrow, one-way street]

Dad: "Take a left here."

[I turn left from one busy one-way street onto another one-way street.]

Dad: "Fudge*, I meant 'right!'"

Geoff: "Okay, let me go around the block."

[I fail to 'go around the block' and am funneled back to the highway, a traffic light from where I started]

Geoff, 12 minutes later: "Okay, I'm almost back to where I should take a right..."

Dad: "Okay, go right!"

[There is no right except down some sidewalk stairs or into the river.]

Geoff: "I'll take the next right and see if we can swing back around to it."

[I fail to 'swing back around' and am funneled back to the highway, a traffic light from where I started]

Geoff, 15 minutes later: "Show me the map."

[Dad shows Geoff the map.]

Geoff: "That restaurant is on a walking path along a river. There is no road to it. As you saw, there was no available parking seen anywhere. Find another."

* ...except he didn't say 'Fudge'...

Sligo is a pretty county and I'm sure the restaurant within the town center on the River Garavogue is very nice. Someday, I'll go back to it and take a picture of my middle finger, then send it to Dad. 🖕 

I'd share pictures of it, but between my driving down the narrow streets, Dad locked onto his futile map, and Mom and B. shaking with fear in the back seat, we forgot to take any pictures. (I actually went back a few weeks later. If you're interested, here are the pictures of Sligo, albeit sans finger!)

Here's a picture or two of Ballina, a bit later in the day, instead:

After that, we were back in the country again, heading for another national park...

After only a few dozen more panicked cries of "STAY LEFT, GEOFF!" we reached, just (as usual) before closing, our next destination, the Ballycroy Visitor Centre at Wild Nephin National Park.

This is one of the darkest places in Ireland at night. Dad and I pondered dropping off Mom (whose name actuallys starts with B) and B. at the BnB and coming back to watch stars, but figured we'd probably get back to find it cloud-covered.

After we were all natured up and the peed out, it was off through more pretty, peat-smelling countryside toward that night's lodging.

Above: Oh, did I mention all the sheep waiting to jump in front of us?

Above: Probably around Mallaranny

Above: The only way this could be more Irish is if the sheep were drinking Guinness.

As the light started to fade, we headed through Newport.

As we left Newport, we were treated to a magical sunset that Dad's camera-phone wasn't up to capturing well.

Our only glimpse of the town center of Westport - conveniently due south of Newport - was as the 'blue hour' settled in. With such low light, taking pictures from a moving car while aiming between blood-curdling screams of "STAY LEFT, GEOFF!" wasn't easy, but Dad managed somehow.

Finally, we pulled into Westport Harbour (and our BnB) just in time for some bronze hues sinking into the water.

Above: This somehow came out even more dramatic than real life. #nofilter

Above: The BnB (red door, not pink door, as that's The Pink Door BnB!)

Above: View from BnB

The BnB host, Sue, was from Birmingham - also where Dad's family was from - and had a storied career of traveling and living around the world (including a few years in the US,) but opened the BnB because, "Ye can' party ye' life away."  (My apologies to Brummies who might have tried to read that. We know they can't read.)

After settling in, we wandered out to fetch Mom's nightly lamb.

Above: It went running through the park before Mom tackled it!

Above: That's not lamb!

Above: That's not Mom!  She got her lamb, though!

Footnote: The good news is that Dad and I found a dark spot behind an apartment building on the water to look up at the stars. It was dark enough to see the Milky Way but cold enough that Orion's sword shrunk a bit.

Tomorrow: Onward to Clifden!