Clarke Chronicles - UK & Ireland

The Clarke Chronicles

UK & Ireland

August 5th - September 2nd, 2008

One of the problems of living in paradise is horseflies in August. These pesky insects, for which not even an extensive search on Google can offer a solution, arrive in early August at Gupole and charge around the place looking for things that look like horses' bottoms. It seems a head bobbing in a pool falls into this category and the horseflies take great delight in dive-bombing any likely candidate. They even seem to learn that when the supposed horse's backside dives under the water, the chances are that he will swim a length and surface, so they are there waiting when your head pops up. Having had their fun throughout August, the horse flies tire and disappear in early September.

This being the case, we thought we'd try a different approach to August this year and revisit old haunts for Gail in Northern Ireland, followed up with a trip down the western coast of Ireland - Donegal to Kerry. Great idea in principle, all we needed was a bit of luck with the weather, and it was August after all.

The Road to England. So it was that on 5 August, we locked up Gupole, left instructions with our friend Franco for watering the plants and feeding the fish, and headed off in the X-Trail on a glorious sunny day. First night was at a pre-booked Formule Une in Chambèry in France, just on the French side of the Fréjus tunnel. Formule Une hotels offer two advantages: they are cheap and they have the same design. They also have two disadvantages: they are cheap and the fact that they have the same design means that when you leave in the morning, you can't always remember where you are. A third disadvantage is that they tend to be in industrial estates and/or next to noisy roads. However, there was a dramatic view of the Alps from the Chambèry F1 which lifted the eye above the road etc.

Next we headed up through France to Boulogne where we had pre-booked another F1. Google maps had placed this one smack in the middle of the railway sidings near the port, so we ignored the one we passed on the outskirts on town, omitting to note that it was in the required industrial estate, and headed into town. Boulogne is not a big place but it has a few one-way streets and absolutely no signs to non-existent F1 hotels in the railway sidings. Having thoroughly famiiarised ourselves with the town centre after about the fifth circuit, it dawned that maybe the one we'd passed was the one we were looking for. It was. Having parked the bags, we drove with the confidence of locals back into the town and sat at an outdoor restaurant in the town square enjoying beer and bowls of delicious mussels and watching French youths charge up and down on their motorbikes. A great atmosphere, balmy weather and a totally different feel from the many towns on the English coast just 30 miles away.

The following morning, we emerged from the F1, fortunately remembered that we were in Boulogne and not Chambèry, and headed for the ferry, which these days is a speedjet thing that takes just 55 minutes to cross the Channel at prices hugely lower than the tunnel. During that 55 minutes, the weather took the opportunity to deteriorate and by the time we left the speedjet in Dover, it was raining steadily - hold that phrase, it will become a recurring theme!

The Road in England. As we reached the first set of motorway roadworks on the M20 outside Folkestone, the rain had given way to sunshine and we headed for London. However, the confusion amongst the clouds as to where we were didn't last long and by the time we hit the M25, a storm system had developed and was emptying big time on our car. The X-Trail tends to shrug these things off and we left behind a London under water and hit the M40. Stopping at Hemel Hempstead at the Mecca for expatriates returning to the UK with a car to fill - John Lewis - the first priority was to shed the shorts and find something warmer. 'Only a passing blip in a soon-to-be-glorious August', we convinced ourselves, not knowing that the shorts wouldn't emerge again until we returned to France on the way back to Italy.

Having had our fill of John Lewis and with the credit card groaning, we continued on to Alderminster outside Stratford on Avon where Gail's bro Roger and sister-in-law Jean live. The purpose of the few days there, apart from seeing R&J, was to catch up with Gail's Ma who these days lives in a nursing home in Mickleton. She was on good form, but the problem of progressive senile dementia is that the goldfish bowl that is her world gets ever smaller and she swims round it quite quickly. Like a goldfish, she doesn't remember the previous circuits. From her point of view, every visit from someone is a surprise and conversations of only sometimes minutes ago are lost, meaning that all news is new. The best thing we've discovered is to talk about the past where the memory banks seem to be still full.

The Lake District.

After a few days in the Midlands, we headed for the Lake District where David's sister Jill's son Sam and his wife Tracy were living for several months while they worked on a project at Sellafield Nuclear Power Station. They had rented a great cottage - Moss Cottage - near Loweswater in the northern, less touristy part of the Lakes. Jill and Greg were also there so we had a good family reunion spread over a few days while enjoying tropical sun, clear, blue skies and a serious attempt to empty the 20 litre box of red wine we'd brought from Arezzo... well the red wine was real but the skies were of course only blue above the cloud, not great when you're below below the cloud, cloud that is grey and anxious to dump its water on you. It didn't rain all the time, but it was mostly grey. However, there was the red wine and of course there were the Lakes which were fun to explore. Moss Cottage was very cute and had a good population of really tame red squirrels in the garden who loved taking peanuts and burying them in the ground. With brains that probably aren't much bigger than the peanuts they were burying, it was interesting watching them trying to remember where they had put them.

For David, having only once been for a couple of hours to Windermere, to see the rest of the Lake District was something new. The overall impression was one of surprise as to how small the area is, but it is jam-packed with dramatic scenery. If only the weather were more benign... For Gail, it was a chance to return to the village by the sea where she went to school for four years. Calder Girls' School was located in Seascale and comprised a number of large-ish houses serving as school and lodgings. It's closed now, in fact it closed soon after Gail finished there - are these events connected! - and now it is just a series of houses in a totally forgettable village. We decided that Seascale had absolutely nothing to recommend it, except the road out of it. Even the view over the golf course was spoilt by the backdrop of the nuclear power station. However, once we got away from the coast, the scenery improved immensely.

Northern Ireland. So that was the Lakes. On 16 August, a Saturday, we set out from Moss Cottage in the general direction of Carlisle, the Scottish border at Gretna and the road to Stranraer where we had booked the ferry - the very expensive ferry - over to Belfast. On the road out of Cockermouth towards Carlisle we came across a traffic queue that disappeared up and over a hill, on the brow of which a disconcerting number of cars seemed to be turning round. As we came closer, we saw a local bobby who seemed to be giving advice to all cars, the gist of which was clearly, 'find another way' He strolled up to our car, took a look at the Italian number plates, duly noted the steering wheel being in the wrong place, and greeted us with a cheerie 'Buongiorno' with a strong hint of Cumbrian accent to it. We of course replied in Italian but unfazed by this he carried on in English. He told us that there had been a bad accident and his instructions were to turn round, take the first lane on the left, follow our noses and eventually we'd find a way round the problem. We asked him a couple of questions in English to clarify it all, he told us he'd worked in Italy for a couple of years and he sent us on our way complimenting us on our English. Any non-English speakers might still be lost in the Cumbrian countryside. The X-Trail clearly exuded a look of confidence as it hit the winding country lanes since looking in the rear-view mirror, I noticed we'd picked up a convoy of cars that stuck doggedly with us on our detour. I don't think I would have followed a foreign-registered car along unknown country lanes hoping to find my way back to civilisation! As we hit the A66 to Stranraer, the rain settled in nicely and the outside temperature was a sultry 14ºC. If you have an image of Stranraer as a pretty little Scottish fishing town with quaint cottages running down to the shore, forget it: It's about as exciting as Neasden. Boarding the ferry involved random security checks which of course including us because of the car. Bizarrely, the check involved my having to raise the bonnet, presumably so they could check we had an engine, which was running at the time. No thought of looking through the luggage. Maybe they thought we were cooking pasta on the radiator. I went out on deck to check the weather as we approached Belfast Lough. The rain didn't seem too bad so I was rather surprised as we drove off the ferry to be hit by a wall of water: Belfast was experiencing a deluge and people were out building arks. As we negotiated our way through the city, we drove past the City Airport, the runway of which seemed to be under water. We heard later on the news that a newly-opened underpass which was part of the city's motorway system had flooded to a depth of 8 metres. Glad we avoided that since it would have been a bit of challenge, even for the X-Trail. As it turned out, we had no problems finding our way in the torrential rain to Lisbane where we had booked four nights in what turned out to be the grandest B&B ever encountered. Anna's House is a beautifully appointed place with five en suite rooms and a grand sitting room called the music room that has two-storey high windows looking out over the tiny Lough Tullynagee and the Mountains of Morne. It ain't cheap, but if you're ever in the area, it's worth it. Anna is a delightfully friendly lady in her 70s who cannot do enough for you. She'll even drive to the local pub/restaurant in Lisbane and pick you up after so that you don't have to drink and drive. Husband Ken loves to talk, is passionate about music and was thrilled to discovered that Gail hailed from the Andrews family who had more than a little involvement in the area over the past three centuries. Link is www.annashouse.com There was also a lovely garden, full of hedges and hidden areas, each with its own character.

Mahee Island. Lisbane is just a few miles down the road from Strangford Lough and Mahee Island which sits on that Lough. The Andrews family had a house on Mahee for about 25 years from the time Gail was about 12. The return to the North was to revisit Mahee, see old friends who still live there and take a look at the old house. You can drive to Mahee - the island is connected by a causeway to another island called Island Reagh which in turn is connected by a causeway to the mainland. We were invited to Sunday lunch to old friends Di and Peter Brown who had invited along a number of others. Of course no one had changed at all in the 20 years or so since we'd seen most of them and the stories came thick and fast. It was such a good afternoon that I can't even remember what the weather was like, although I do recall it actually being sunny when we called by at Bunty Portig's place further round the island later that afternoon. The next day we returned to Mahee to see the old house. The present owners were only too pleased to show us round to see all the changes that had been made. And there were a lot, to the extent that it was unrecognisable in parts. However the magnificent view over the lough with Rainey Island in the foreground remains exactly the same as it ever was, albeit the rain was pelting down. That evening we returned to the island to meet the other long time inhabitants, the Chamberlains. Despite advancing years and not brilliant health, they were on good form and Sheila as ever came out with one of her famous malapropisms, gently corrected by her husband David. Talking inevitably about the weather, global warming etc, she declared that she didn't really agree with global warming, since these things are all cylindrical!
	Rainey Island from the Mahee Island foreshore

	Gail revisiting an old playground

On our final day in the North, we felt we couldn't leave without wandering around the foreshore of Mahee and Gail wanted to climb the ruins of the old castle by the bridge where she and Laurien used to play for hours. It's fenced off now of course - some EU regulation no doubt - but that didn't stop her.

We then took a drive around the Newtownards peninsula to Portaferry and took the ferry over to Strangford. The sun was actually shining and we called in at a wildlife sanctuary nearby in the hope of wandering along the paths round a small lake where normally you can see a lot of birds. As you can see from the photo, the rains had made access to the paths a little difficult.

We felt we couldn't leave the North without a meal at Balloo House, a pub and restaurant down the way from Lisbane at Balloo. Gail had worked there as a waitress about a hundred years ago, although then the restaurant wasn't upstairs. It fully lived up to its good reputation. It's pretty small - about 6 tables, but the food was excellent and they served one of the best pannacottas I've ever tasted. A bit pricey at about £90 for two including pre-dinner drinks, but as we were to find out, eating out all over Ireland wasn't cheap.

Ireland

On Wednesday 20 August, we headed for the South by of course driving west. The sun was shining and the weather got better and better the closer we got to Donegal and our first destination of Killybegs, a fishing village on the south side of the peninsula that goes out from Donegal. The pre-booked B&B we'd found on the great site of www.bnb-network.com, a site that is particularly good for places to stay all over Ireland. Inishduff House was run by the delightful Ethna Diver and she too made us extremely welcome. Unlike many B&Bs, Ethna had purpose-built her house for B&B which meant that bathrooms were bathrooms, not converted wardrobes, and the internal walls had a sensible thickness, ensuring a minimal noise level from adjacent rooms. Like Anna's House, she even had free wifi on offer. In her Irish way, when she wrote the password down for me, it was all in capital letters and without batting a eyelid, she informed me that it was to be typed all in small letters.

That evening, we took a long walk along the coastal path in the sun, saw a farmer and his two sheepdogs round up sheep with just a series of short, sharp whistles and then drove back into Killybegs to see the harbour and try the Guinness. The light in the harbour was amazing and there was even a seal bobbing around enjoying himself.

Slieve League. The next morning, we knew we had broken the run of bad weather: it was sunny! On Ethna's recommendation, we headed off along the peninsula to the Slieve League cliffs, the highest sea cliffs in Europe that rise some 1972 feet out of the Atlantic. The drive up was precipitous, but a good single track road and we were surprised to hear comments in the car park that people thought it hairy. It was much like the roads around Gupole but with tarmac. It turned out to be a gem of a place. The bore-o-crats from the EU Office for Ruining Your Fun haven't been there yet and so although there is a viewing platform, the rest is just paths without fences. And in the sun it is truly magnificent. If you're ever nearby, in London for example, make a side trip, it's worth it.

After the excitement of Slieve League and sun all at once, we had a cup of coffee to calm down and then headed off to explore a bit more of the peninsula. Very pretty, but towards the end of the day, the clouds started to roll in.

Eating out in Killybegs was a little underwhelming. The first night we ate traditional fish and chips at a place in the town that was highly recommended. As it turned, it was just a fish and chip restaurant. The second night, again on recommendation, we went to the Clock Tower Bar and Bistro that's on the road between Killybegs and Inishduff House. Obviously these things are a matter of taste, but for us the decor was cross of 70s middle-aged pub eatery and a Wimpy Bar - you kind of expected scampi and chips in a basket with Val Doonican playing on the sound system. The food lived up to the decor - it was dull and unimaginative. A rather boring English couple also staying at Ethna's, whom we bumped into there, told us enthusiastically that they liked it so much the previous night that they were eating there again. Mmm.

Liscannor & the Cliffs of Moher. We'd booked two nights with the lovely Ethna and so on 22 August we headed off south towards Galway and the Cliffs of Moher. We'd booked the next two nights in a B&B in Liscannor where we arrived in the wet stuff. The B&B was OK but not in the same league as either Ethna's or Anna's.

The Cliffs of Moher are, it seems, on the list of must-dos for everyone touring the west (I just unintentionally mistyped that as 'wets'!) of Ireland. They are indeed very dramatic. Trouble is the best views we got of them was by looking at the postcards. On the day we were there, the rain was touring the area as well and really enjoying itself. The resulting mist kind of took the edge off things. Unlike Slieve League, The Cliffs of Moher certainly have been visited by the theme park brigade - there's a coach park, entrance fee, underground museum, atmospheric movie of the area shot from a helicopter with haunting Irish music playing and an interactive info thing that teaches you all about the geology and shows you how wonderful the scenery is on the odd sunny day. Outside, the walk along the cliff tops is extensively paved and there is a wall to prevent you from throwing yourself over the edge. Some of the more gung-ho tourists - mainly Spanish and Italian teenagers, walked beyond the limits of the wall, ignored the 'don't go any further because you might die' notices that admittedly were only in English and Gaelic so they might not have understood, and stood precariously balanced on the cliff edge having photos taken and waiting for the force nine gale to whisk them into the Atlantic. I stood with camera poised, but the wind didn't oblige. I looked at the Cliffs of Moher site and feared for Slieve League.

Our B&B was a mile or so from the village of Liscannor. The walk along the country lanes was enhanced by a profusion of bramble hedges laden with blackberries. On the two evenings we walked in, we ate our desserts first from the hedges. The eateries in Liscannor comprised a ridiculously over-priced pub-restaurant to which apparently people came from far and wide. €25-30 each for a main course was enough for us to stay far and wide and eat at the pub a few doors up. Somewhat more reasonable prices and good beer. Sitting outside, having dried off the chairs, sipping our drinks and wrapped in our fleeces, we looked with a new benevolence on horseflies.

Ring of Kerry. Liscannor was really just a stop on the way to the Ring of Kerry where we had booked three nights in anticipation of great walking and great sights. The B&B was just outside Port Magee with a lovely view over to Valentia Island. We arrived mid-afternoon in glorious sunshine and Mary, our B&B lady, told us that there was a great walk on Valentia Island up to a tower at the end where sometimes you could see whales out at sea. Carpe-ing the diem, we dumped our bags and headed off. She was right; a good walk and great views but sadly no whales. A few miles out to sea we could see the Skellig rocks, the larger of the pair soaring hundreds of feet out of the Atlantic. It seems that for reasons best known to themselves a bunch of monks spent several hundred years there from about 600 AD onwards creating a tortuous path up the rocks and living in huts that look like stone igloos. The sheer privation they endured with no land on which to cultivate anything, no resources of any kind together with bitter winds and winters is unimaginable. A boat trip there and a few hours trying to working out what had inspired the monks to cut themselves off from the world and wait for the Vikings to come and hack them to pieces was a must-do for all visitors to the area. We looked out at Skellig and decided we'd be there the next day. Then the mist rolled in, the wind got up and we never saw Skellig again. In fact we never even saw the top half of Valentia Island again from our B&B. And with the seas rolling ever higher, all boat trips were cancelled for the foreseeable future, certainly for the duration of our stay.


Port Magee from Valentia Island	Skellig Rocks

For the remaining two days in the Ring of Kerry we did the only thing you can do in bad weather when you're touring, we drove around. Certainly not what we had intended or wanted, but short of sitting in a B&B that is just designed for sleeping, there ain't much choice. We made it as far as Dingle, which seemed to be quite a nice little fishing town, but it loses the edge in the rain. Our B&B lady, Mary, commiserated over the weather and agreed that although it had certainly been a bad summer, it was never reliable in that neck of the woods. She was about to give up for the season and return to her house in Watford!

On 27 August, we headed east along the south coast of Ireland to Rosslare where we had booked the ferry to Fishguard in Wales. The highlight of Rosslare was a visit to the cinema to see Mamma Mia! where we were sold half price senior citizens' tickets without even asking for them! Fun movie.

Arriving in Fishguard in an Italian car inevitably resulted in our being stopped again and another cheery 'Buongiorno' from the port bobby, this time with a strong touch of Welsh to it. A little surprised by the British passports, he asked how come we were driving an Italian car. On such occasions, a number of remarks spring to mind, none of which is wise, especially since he was being friendly. Having told us all about his hols in San Gimignano, he sent us on our way.

The Road to Gupole. A couple more days at Alderminster and then we were on our way back to Gupole. On our drive to Dover, we had arranged to meet a friend to discuss wills of all things in a pub in Purley. So that we had a lasting memory of the glorious weather and British traffic, the clouds gathered and we had a repeat of the storm we'd had arriving on the M25. The result of this was two bad accidents blocking access into south London and endless queues. We made it to the meeting, but rather late and we were glad to arrive in Dover where the sun was shining. In Boulogne, it was straight to the trusty F1, no detours this time, and back to the town square for another round of moules. Delicious and the lads were still charging up and down on their motorbikes.

We splashed out in Chambèry on the way back through - enough was enough with F1s and an Ibis seemed the height of luxury.

Eight thousand kilometres after leaving, back at Gupole the sun was shining - I don't think it had stopped since we'd left apart from one storm at Ferragosto the resulting devastation from which largely missed Gupole - and there were still a few horseflies to greet us. Attractive little things.

Lough Mask, north of Galway. I thought I'd include it since it's a nice shot.