Crookhaven

Sunday, May 11

We woke up to threatening weather. It rained, then stopped, and then rained again. This was to be a regular for the trip. The unsettled moisture was reinforced with roaring winds. Over breakfast, we all made plans for the day. We decided that the rain looked restless for a while, so we would head over to Sheepshead Peninsula and drive around a bit. We followed the road to Durrus and stopped along the way at one of the countless ruined castle towers and then along the south coast of Sheepshead. The drive here is an often overlooked, yet beautiful and well worth it. The Mizen coast is across the bay, and the area is not very crowded. This peninsula seems to lead Ireland in property for sale.

As you head towards the tip, the road continuously narrows. Near the end, it is just a bit wider than one car and the driver need to watch for oncoming traffic. It was a relief to have everybody in one car for the first time. There is a parking area and then the hike starts. I have made it to the tip before, but today was not as promising. We all threw on some rain gear, but I didn’t grab the rain pants. This proved to be an error. Shortly after our walk started, the rain started. Millie and Felicity turned back immediately and Bill and I decided to walk to the crest to see if the storm appeared to be a short one. As we reached the crest the light mist turned to a savage pelting of wind and hail. This would be enough for us and we turned around and headed back. The tail wind was strong enough and the rain and hail hard enough to give me my first soaking of many to follow. Bill had made the turn a bit earlier than me and I was taking up the rear as the water saturated my formerly comfortable and dry Dockers. Ah, rain pants … that would have been a good idea.

The rain began to lessen just as I made it back to the parking lot and as it quit I tried to make use of the natural resource of the wind as a dryer. No chance of this working. The amount of water in my pants had reached maximum density and there was no way a mere gale force wind was going to dry them out quickly. I returned to the car and squished into the drivers seat. It should be noted, that anything that causes me discomfort, causes Felicity convulsions of uncontrollable laughter. This was no exception. I’m quite certain a gunshot wound to any part of my body would be the end of her as her heart could not take the pressure of the resultant hilarity.

Those of us who had set out earlier had all returned to our cars and others were just arriving, confident that the weather gods were going to smile on them. The couple in the car next to us had decided to grab a bite to eat and fortunately did so in the safety of their vehicle. You see, it seems that rabid, killer gulls reside in the area and they expect to be fed. One of them lit on the car and with a hungry look, suggested that the food be shared. The occupants did not comply. The bird then pecked a bit on the windshield. Still no sharing from within. So, in an angry attempt to make a point, the frustrated gull started ripping at the windshield wiper, snapping it on the windshield with a violent fervor. Inside the terrified diners grabbed their cameras, no doubt in a attempt to document the violence that was being perpetrated upon them and their innocent vehicle. They were not about to give in to bully gulls that go around picking on the weak kids and trying to steal their lunch.

Though the skies had cleared, we were aware that the weather could and would change in seconds and my associates decided that a 1.5 hour hike would not be wise, so we headed off, I with a mildewing seat to support me, in search of new adventure.

The peninsula has some convenient maps as you drive it with a few “You are here” points to help out. On my last trip, I had missed the road on the opposite coast and I thought I would try to find it. The Michelin map is not complete enough here and finding the road is not easy. The Ordinance Survey map (which I purchased the next day) is complete enough. None-the-less, with the use of the “you are here” maps, we found our way to the north coast of the peninsula. The road winds back towards the tip and you are sure you are on the wrong road. As the road climbs, it naturally narrows and you eventually reach the spine on this long finger of land. Bantry Bay appears in front of you and you wonder why Michelin didn’t call this a scenic route. Perhaps the locals paid them off. There is another reason though. By this point, the pathway is part pavement, part grass. Occasionally signs marking the Sheepshead Way trail show up beside the road. We stopped at one vista and looking up the hill, we saw signs for the trail, but absolutely no sign of a trail. It is a hearty soul that hikes this trail, and we didn’t see any that day. The road itself made for a beautiful path and we didn’t meet another car for miles. This was fortunate. It was also miles before we made it out of second gear, and first was the norm.

We were compelled to think of the lives of the people here and wonder what it must be like. Clearly, they must be pretty self sufficient and very good planners. The drive to any amount of civilization would be lengthy and there’s no “Oop’s, I forgot to buy butter”. We wondered who delivered their furniture. Mostly though, we admired what must be a wonderful, peaceful existence in a countryside that is blanketed in character and a scenery that is as changeable as the breeze.

The beautiful Beara Peninsula was across the bay and we headed towards civilization and perhaps a bite to eat. We were not part of a group of crazed hooligans who demanded food by violently tugging on windshield wipers, so we would have to pay for our meal at a restaurant.

As we approached Bantry, the strange site of a Ferris wheel loomed before us. We had apparently arrived at the peak of the Mussel Festival and the good times were in full swing. Parking was an enormous problem but we found a space at the top of the hill and got out to look for some grub. The mussel festival not only has rides, but live music and as we approached the sound stage, the sounds of traditional Irish salsa music came blasting our way. A female vocalist, a bevy of percussionists and a wall of brass instruments greeted our entry to restaurant row in Bantry.

Most of the restaurants were packed and getting a seat was a challenge, but we found a place, waited for a confused staff to explain to an even more confused clientele of tourists that we would be seated eventually. Mussels were being served up like M&Ms and consumed at the same speed. None of us went that route, though I had some fish and chips and yes, a bit of stout

As Felicity and Millie shopped, Bill and I sought liquor for the evening. They wanted Bailey’s and lots of it. Well, it turns out that it is impossible to find Bailey’s in Bantry on a Sunday afternoon. They would have to be content with wine.

As we left Bantry, we passed an enormously long string of cars, curved along the coastline, waiting to look for parking and settle into the final night of the mussel festival. It was a good time to be going the other way. The road back to Crookhaven through Goleen is a fine drive and just north of Goleen is an interesting dolmen. It is hard to see as you approach from the north, but when we passed it, we knew it and went back to catch it.

I was dying to take some pictures without the worry of slowing people down, so I dropped everyone off at the B&B and prepared to make a little trip on my own. Felicity decided to join me. We followed the road along Crookhaven Bay and then found a road that climbed up the hill opposite the town of Crookhaven. Once again, just wide enough for one car, it serviced a couple of homes on the side of the hill. As we rose, we could see the tiny peninsula that Crookhaven slumbered on and over that to the ocean beyond with Fastnet lighthouse in the distance. The road wound around and eventually took us back in to Goleen so we hurried back to Crookhaven. OK, not quite. Just as you round the bend towards the village, a road climbs the hill to the top of Brow Head and old watchtower remains. The views from here are incredible and I lingered longer than I should. The tower is just up the hill from the end of the road. The turf here is an amazing texture, an extremely thick carpet of grass that sinks beneath your feet like a soft mattress. The cliffs towards Crookhaven are beautiful and sprawl in front of you as you descend the road back to Crookhaven.

Sadly, one of our goals on this trip was not to be accomplished. Billy O’Sullivan had been at the funeral of a sister-in-law and was then off to France for some golf. Rose was not to be found on Sunday evening. We had eaten dinner at the Crookhaven Inn again and went to O’Sullivan’s for drinks after. We talked with Billy’s son a bit and admired the clientele as we sat by the peat fire. This is a fisherman’s pub. They came here to drink and tell tales and wile away the night. A mix of Gaelic and English filled the room, but mainly it was laughter. I don’t know if it had been a good day fishing, but it was certainly a good night drinking.

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