An Irish Honeymoon
by Marilyn Armstrong
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Autumn 2003
Irish Honeymoon
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It seems like a dream, now that we've bumped back down to the reality of day-to-day living. Even when we were there, driving the twisting country roads - inevitably lost - Ireland had a dreamlike quality that made it perfect for a honeymoon.�
Friends were surprised when we announced plans to honeymoon in Ireland. "But neither of you is Irish" they said, foreheads wrinkled with puzzlement.
Why do people assume that the only reason we would want to go to Ireland is to look for "roots" Even in Ireland, people wanted to know why we'd come to Ireland, since neither of us is Irish. In fact, when we assured them that we were not Irish, they'd look at us and ask "Are you sure?"
Doubters notwithstanding, Ireland proved wonderful. Everywhere, from Dublin to Sligo, in Shannon, Galway, Cashel and all the lovely little towns in between, the people we met were universally friendly, open, and welcoming. And when folks learned we were honeymooners, we were treated to rounds of drinks and offered the nicest accommodations.
We stayed in bed and breakfasts. Using the National Tourist Board guidebook and a road map, we'd zero in on a destination and phone ahead. Every place we stayed was spotlessly clean and comfortable, although sometimes quite small by American standards.
Our first stop after Shannon was Cashel. The bed and breakfast was like a little European hotel. Set in the shadow of the Rock of Cashel, adjacent to the ruins of a medieval Dominican church, the location was picture perfect. We stayed two nights, then headed for Dublin.
Dublin, once we found our way through the one-way systems and detours, was a city of music and good company. There were evening's at Foley's, where they played Irish music every night and we all joined in, each in our own key. And then there were the pubs, where the Irish Coffee was always good and the people eager to wish us well and advise us on our itinerary. We shopped, sang, and drank. We listened to stories, told some of our own, and would gladly have stayed another week or more.
From Dublin, we drove cross country to Sligo. As we entered Sligo, the rain began to pelt down. For perhaps five minutes, it poured. Then, as the rain slowed to a drizzle, in front of us appeared a brilliant double rainbow. I felt that it was our personal rainbow, welcoming us to Sligo.
Our destination was a bed and breakfast called Rathnashee, which we later learned means "fairy ring." Indeed, there is an earthwork fairy ring in the field adjoining the house. I had selected it because it had a room with a private bath, was on a main road (we never stopped getting lost, but we did learn to enjoy it), and because had a library.
The entire parlor of the house was a library about Ireland, and Sligo in particular. Evenings, by the warmth of the peat fire, settled in with a pot of tea and a plate of cookies, we read about Yeats, about the Great Hunger, and the long and often tragic history of the north. In the course of events, Garry discovered that he might after all have Irish roots, while I dreamt of fairy circles and magic mountains.
Sligo is bursting with magic. You can feel it as you explore the ancient earthworks, standing stones, cairns, and castles. I became convinced that the "Little People" live there still.
Loch Gill, where lies the Isle of Innisfree, has its own kind of magic. We spent a grand afternoon exploring the recently restored ParkCastle. The crystal waters so clearly mirrored the sky that those viewing the pictures we shot that day have trouble telling which is water and which is sky.
Later that same day, while heading toward Knocknarea, the mountain top cairn of the legendary Queen Mab, we met Gordon Winter, ex-spy, current author, and local character. We were photographed in close encounters with his pet chickens, sipped tea in his kitchen, and bought an autographed copy of his latest book "Secrets of the Royals." Quite a good book, actually.
Throughout our vacation, the weather never stopped changing. The sun shone, disappeared and reappeared in rapid succession. Wind blew, and clouds rolled in, and it rained. A few minutes later, the rain stopped, the wind died, the sun came out, the temperature rose, and just as you had taken off your jacket and put on your sunglasses, you'd realize it was raining again. We took our sunglasses on and off twenty times an hour, and took our jackets on and off almost as often. The second morning in Sligo, we awoke to pounding rain. I peeked out the window to see another rainbow, even brighter than the one we'd seen coming in, in the field across the road.
By the time we went to breakfast, the sun had come out, but by breakfast's conclusion, it was again drizzling. Such is Irish weather. It never rained all day, but it rained a little almost every day, and we learned to ignore weather and proceed with our plans, counting on the ever changing skies to give us enough clear weather to tramp through a ruin, scale a castle wall, or walk down by a riverside.
After three days in Sligo, we traveled down to Connemara. One afternoon, we drove to Cong, where John Ford shot The Quiet Man years ago. Being ardent movie buffs, we literally climbed over fences and through pastures until we found the "quiet man's cottage" now in ruins. The setting is as idyllic as ever, though, and the stream still flows past the cottage door and under the little bridge. Clearly the movie was the biggest thing to ever hit the town. Cong is full of Quiet Man memorabilia, and the local residents full of anecdotes and memories.
Our time was almost up, and as we continued down along the coast, we began to realize that we would really have to go home. The idea was so depressing that we stopped in the nearest pub for some solace.
Probably the only difficult part of our Irish honeymoon was driving. Keeping left was one problem; the roads themselves were another. Narrow, with a terrifying mix of blind curves, roaming sheep, and meandering cattle, local people nonetheless drive these lanes at frightening speeds. Often, on a road that appeared hardly wide enough for our little compact car, we were overtaken and passed. More than once we felt obliged to check and see if the door handles and mirrors were still attached.
On the plus side, virtually every intersection, no matter how rural, was sign-posted, albeit sometimes only in Irish. Ultimately, soothed by the beauty that surrounded us, we relaxed and let the road take us where it would. We learned that you don't need to know exactly where you are all the time. From the Georgian mansions of Dublin, to the fens, lochs and mountains, every turn in the road yields unparalleled loveliness, vistas so perfect that they beg to be captured on film. And when we needed to stop and rest, there was always a warm pub and some friendly faces along the way.
You don't have to be Irish to fall in love with Ireland. We'll be back.
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