Driving across the country, there isn’t a whole lot to see for the time-pressed tourists (there most likely is, but again, time-pressed…if you’re trying to get to the really supposedly nifty parts along the West coast and even guidebooks written by underemployed, time-wealthy college students don’t mention much in the way of memorable sights, it’s time to move on.) Naturally, there are a few notable exceptions on the 200-odd km drive, such as Aughrim, site of the bloodiest battle in Irish history, after the Irish, for the eleventieth time in memory, backed the wrong guy in whatever fight their English neighbors happened to be engaged in. We didn’t stop, figuring that the continent presents plenty of opportunities to look at places where the English and French beat the crap out of each other over which branch of the family got to inherit the royal tea set, or whatever little tiff would set them off.
Athlone is a nice little place to have lunch, although the choice pretty much consists of the Olive Grove restaurant overlooking the river, with decent food and an amazingly accommodating owner. Why are the Irish all so friendly? It’s surreal how nice and polite and forthcoming almost everyone here has been, almost as though they’re trying to off-set the stiffness of their English neighbors and, well, almost the only sour-faced jerks we’ve encountered to date were French. Way to dispel those stereotypes, guys.
The real stunner, though, comes once you hit Connemara. The crazy wild countryside, wind-swept barren hills, deep green lush meadows lushly lushing around dramatic lakes and rivers make you want to put on a windbreaker and be manly into the shrieking breeze. It’s almost cheesily touristy (Irish cheese is really good, by the way) but without the tourists (lots of blue- and red-dyed sheep, though. We haven’t seen a red one yet, and as such are still working out the sheep color scheme logistics.)
Fortunately, the weather has been nowhere near the predictions of our (mostly French) acquaintances and friends who foresaw soaked, freezing doom for anywhere north of Deauville.
Unfortunately, the Irish weather is capable of absurd fluctuations, thus rendering my original cunning plan of packing our bags in such a manner as to let us carry our usual profuse amount of luggage (we are incapable of traveling light, this is a law of the universe, it cannot be changed) with the convertible’s top either up or down, but without the possibility of actually raising/lowering it _while_ the luggage is on board, moot.
Fortunately, the fluctuations have generally been fairly minor.
Unfortunately, the minor-ness of aforementioned meteorological fluctuations has mostly taken place between the extreme poles of “light, gray rain” and “light, gray, no rain”.
Still, the clouds make for some killer photography, and when the sun bursts through, it’s glorious.
Karin had calculated our budget to allow us to spend the maximum amount on decadent eating (great restaurant meals seem to all cost around €100-€120 for two people with wine — side note: wine lists in Irish restaurants so far have been amazingly good and to-the-point) with a few nights in outstanding lodgings, while staying in B&Bs as much as possible. Since we’ve intended to only spend a few of our days actually banging around cities or loafing about and relaxing, as long as a place is clean, has a nice view / good location, and serves bacon for breakfast, it’s sold.
So far, the only real “attraction” we’ve taken in was Kylemore Abbey, which is worth a stop; go in the morning so as to avoid the inevitable buses full of neon-clad German and American tourists. Kylemore House B&B (try to get the top middle room facing the lake) is pretty close, and surrounded by the “oh holy crap, whoa” clown-shit insane landscape that makes the area so nifty (although I couldn’t quite fathom the hikers striking out for the hillsides in the pouring rain.) Kylemore Abbey’s bill of sale dating from 1902 advertised “16 hours travel from London”, which seems like a bit of a stretch for the time. We spent at least one of our dinners trying to figure out the fastest way of getting from London to there using modern conveyances, but the best we could come up with was 6 hours. Then again, if we lived in London we’d probably spend a significant amount of our time trying to figure out the fastest ways of getting to pretty much anywhere else.
One of my friends insisted that a visit to Ireland should be spent pretty much exclusively on the crazily beautiful Aran islands. Hardly, but then again we only managed to make it toInis Mór, the big one. The clifftop stone fort was pretty much the highlight of this; the views from there are stupid amazing. Funny thing; when I got the idea to lie on my stomach and look over the un-fenced-off 80 meter drop (whoa), loads of other guys began to do the same. I hope I’m not blamed when some dumbass inches a bit too far forward.
On the practical side, if it’s not raining, rent bikes (they all cost the same all around the port) and don’t buy sweaters in the big shops. Visit Mary in Oatquarter village, she is the only person (apparently) who hand-makes the heavy white Aran island pullovers (about 120 euros a pop.) Unfortunately, she’s not too up-to0-date on modern business techniques, so no website and not many people who make it through to her shop. Oh, and on the boat over, get to the port early and sit upstairs. People will be throwing up inside.
So, the restaurants thus far:
#1: Nimmo’s
Tiny and hidden by the Spanish arch in Galway (of which, unfortunately, we didn’t get to see a whole lot), there’s outstanding seafood and home-made jams (the chef does them all, and apparently has a great bunch of cheeses as well.) As usual, I don’t remember what we had, but it was all good (their online menu is pretty out of date) or it wouldn’t be here.
Spanish Arch, Long Walk
Galway, IE
+353 (0) 91 561114
www.nimmos.ie/
#2: Moran’s Oyster Cottage
They serve oysters. Duh. And crab claws in garlic butter. It’s tasty. Eat.
The Weir (indicated from N18)
Kilcogan, Co. Galway, IE
+353 (0) 91 796113
www.moransoystercottage.com/
#3: Oscar’s — Galway, Co. Galway
The best of the bunch (which says a lot about this one.) Oscar’s is in a somewhat dodgy-looking street on the dodgy-looking side of the Corrib river. At least, I had reservations about parking a convertible with Swiss plates there; the damn thing tends to attract attention no matter where we go. Apparently, having a convertible is a rare enough thing already in Ireland, but the cop running after me and shouting “son, ye’ve lost yer roof!” was the kicker. Karin’s theory is that if more Irish drivers put their tops down, the weather would be better.
The starters were amazing and creative, mains left nothing to be desired. Karin’s seafood platter was an operatically dramatic, towering masterpiece of shrimp arrangement (I couldn’t help but think of some Martha Graham dance masterpiece the way the little beasts seemed to be reaching for…something…here, how about striving for some melted butter, you tasty little bastards. My lamb was just delicious, and more than made up for the spray-painted ovine maniacs trying to get us to swerve off Ireland’s country roads in the middle of the night by wandering out into traffic (which is kind of challenging if our one single car _is_ traffic.) Dessert was an extra kicker, some chocolate monstrosity that kept me from sleeping, in a good way of course.
Dominick Street
<span property=”v:locality”>Galway</span>, IE (That’s copied straight from Google. OSCAR’S BROKE GOOGLE. And that makes it even more awesome.)
+353 (0) 91 587239
