For those of you who, unlike me, have begun to grow weary of green, green and more green, you’re in luck: this is my last post about Ireland. This also means that soon we’ll be back to our regularly scheduled program of me winding odd stories to relate food to my life. And recipes. There will definitely be recipes. It’s strange how quickly I’ve begun to miss writing about food… But I couldn’t not mention the Burren and the Cliffs of Moher.
Like the Ring of Kerry, the Burren and the Cliffs of Moher were not on our original to-do list, but we noticed that we would be passing nearby, and when we heard that the Cliffs of Moher were Ireland’s contribution to the new seven wonders of the modern world, we decided we had to make a stop.
To get to the cliffs, we had to drive through the Burren, which is a rocky terrain in county Clare–where my Irish family comes from. I know I hardly ever mention them on this blog… most people who know me only know about the Italian side of my family (except for a select few who have found out about my Portuguese ancestors and never stop reminding me…) Nevertheless, I do have some Irish blood running through my veins–25%, to be exact–and it was pretty interesting to drive the same roads that they might have seen years and years ago.
I doubt they had to deal with bike races, however, something that we happened to stumble right into the middle of. I was the one driving, so I was the one avoiding racers as they took over the entire road. It was kind of cool to be in the middle of all of it–it felt like accidentally stumbling into someone else’s party, if such a party were taking place on narrow roads filled with blind curves and strangely beautiful rocky landscapes.
I didn’t hit any… in case you were wondering.
Nevertheless, I was quite happy to arrive at our final destination: the cliffs of Moher.
One of the first things people say to me when I say I’m from the States is how big everything is. While it’s true–I’ve been to Muir Woods and Yosemite National Park–I’ve never seen anything like the way these cliffs loom. You can see the grassy hills from far down the road, although nothing prepares you for what it’s like to approach the edge and look down at the sea.
It’s places like this that make me wonder why anyone would bother living in a city… and this coming from someone who’s spent the majority of their life in either New York or Paris. Still… the natural beauty of something so old and real is astounding, and anything man-made I’ve ever seen pales in comparison.
Maybe that’s why I didn’t feel the need to pay the two euros to visit this little tower, which you can climb to have an even higher view down to the bottom.
Instead, I continued along the path, past the giant sign forbidding entrance that everyone was blatantly ignoring, to where the path led right to the edge of the cliff, with not so much as a small barrier protecting us from falling into the sea.
The side of the path was decorated with flowers, but all I could see were the cliffs and the waves.
Oh… and the cows. I love cows.
There’s no real reason for me to love them as much as I do, but being in Ireland and seeing cows and sheep everywhere has made me giddy. I snapped way too many pictures of cows, walking up to them and reaching out to touch their giant noses; I always forget how huge cows are.
For awhile, I just sat and looked, my feet dangling over the edge, until I thought I had wasted enough of the CYF, the Engineer and King Kong’s time, and so I picked my way carefully back along the path, to where the car was waiting to take us back to the real world.
Or, you know, as real as my world ever gets, anyway.
