The Untamed Wild Atlantic Way – Journey to Ireland

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Photo Essay by Christopher Ludgate

Gliding up to the peak of Sky Road along its rolling hills, coastal overlook nooks, and grazing herds was a revelation in itself. The dramatic vastness of the ocean opened up before me, and I barely came to a full stop before hopping off my bike to get to the edge. I was completely enthralled. Imagine living in one of those houses along the inlet down there, I thought. The peace and quiet, the commanding beauty. My God, it was stunning.

It was a dream similar to the day before on the scenic roads in those idyllic coastal towns, overpowered at the edge of the earth, encompassed by the drama of those cliffs in County Clare, Ireland. Those untamed thrashing waves.

And then there was that sunrise at the lofty mountain peaks. The beams of light seemed to dance between the cotton clouds in the valleys of Connemara with its thatch cottages, fairy trees, and that Abbey.  

It’s not folklore. It’s the Wild Atlantic Way. And the majesty, its simplicity is just poetry.  

The City of Tribes

I set up camp at the Galmont in Galway, a lively harbour city in the Province of Connacht. One can also call these parts County Galway and they’d still be right. Ireland is like that; layers of complex history. The city of Galway is situated near Shannon Airport in the middle of Ireland’s west coast, where the River Corrib meets the Atlantic Ocean. It is an ideal locale to explore the Wild Atlantic Way. Guided tour buses practically right outside my hotel door eliminated any need for a pesky car. It was an ideal plan.

Known as the City of Tribes, which refers to prominent local families of yore, Galway is also a choice location to get a taste of authentic Irish culture. In fact, the city’s medieval ruins are still being discovered and some are even merged into contemporary structures, even shops. Other structures dating as far back as the 1300s are still functioning, allowing the charm of the city to remain intact, too.

I weaved in and out of the maze of pubs one day. Through front doors, back doors, and side doors on different levels I bounced with sounds of native Irish tongues and peppy jigs getting started in late afternoon. I felt history all around as I sat with a nip at the fireplace in King’s Head, circa 1651. Back on Quay Street, passing High after crossing Cross Street Lower, I pulled up a seat outside of Tigh Neachtain. Sipping in the sunshine, I tried spotting the Galwegians from the tourists and students. I basked in the music coming from the buskers on the street.

Uisce Beatha (Water of Life)

In the evenings, after coming back down to earth in Galmont’s serene hydro-spa facilities, I would find myself venturing out by foot through central Eyre Square. I was getting to know the City of Tribes and I wondered why my ancestors left. I wandered the locally beloved labyrinth that is Charlie Byrne’s Bookshop. I peeked into a Siege of Ennis dance practice. I passed the Druid Theater and the churches by the Spanish Arch, crossing the river near author James Joyce’s old house.

I wandered the Village of Claddagh where the rings of the same name were originally created by resident fishermen. The old Hookers with their signature red sails reflected in the current. Along the mile-long promenade hugging Galway Bay to Salthill, I watched swimmers take a ritual plunge in rough waters at Blackrock Tower as I enjoyed tea and a chat with a local Irish dancer at a café nearby.

One night, in the ambient light of the medieval heart of Galway, I stumbled upon hidden Kirwin’s Lane and dined at the restaurant of the same name. Not sure I couldn’t have asked for a better requisite Irish fish & chips experience.

On a day with the Galway Food Tour, I sampled savoury treats like Slieve Bloom and Velvet Cloud cheeses with barmbrach and chutney. My guide, Claire, poured potent potables known as Uisce Beatha (Water of Life). And I tried Ireland’s own Poitín (puh-cheen), or Irish Moonshine, which is made using local barley and bog turf like the kind in Connemara. Banned for three hundred years, it is now the measure of a celebration in Ireland, my guide regaled. Not bad for Irish Whiskey’s little brother.

Liquid Sunshine

I hopped on a Lally Tour down to the Cliffs of Moher one morning. I sat up front with my tea and watched as light drops of rain fell from the clouds onto the windshield, but I wasn’t worried.

“Liquid sunshine,” my guide, Gerry, reassured. Ah, but sure and begorrah (as my Grandmother used to say), it cleared as quickly as it came.

We were on the scenic route to beautiful County Clare during which I hopped out for a look at Dunguaire Castle by a rocky outcrop. The 16th-century dwelling once belonged to King Guaire of Connacht and has served as literary inspiration for authors like Yeats and Bernard Shaw. 

In the lunar-like landscape of Burren up ahead on the coast of Ballyvaughan, I hopped the fractured porous rocks, watching the ocean waves become streams that disappeared below and between them throughout the beach’s karst topography. I crawled into the underworld of Aillwee Cave perched on the hillside, walking the natural channel carved by an ancient river to find waterfalls and active millennia-old formations.

I climbed both sides of the Cliffs of Moher that day. I could taste the salty mist of the sea in the gusts as I marvelled at the sculpted magical brilliance, at times enjoying in pure solitude.     

Before heading back, I stopped in the lovely village of Doolin for a quick pint at the pub, naturally. On the bus, a song called Galway to Graceland came on the radio and I listened watching the ubiquitous farm animals in the countryside, drinking it all in like a tonic. We passed pretty thatch-roof cottages and we saw the remnants of tiny famine cabins while Gerry told all kinds of tales, revealing insights including the meaning of the Irish red doors I always wondered about.

The Last Fairy Tree

I sat beside the shore of An Caoláire Rua, or Killary Fjord, waking with bits of fresh scone and tea while listening to the birds of Connemara start their day. Some of the tallest peaks in Ireland sit beside the harbour. A mussel farm can be seen on the water’s surface. If you look, you’ll see ancient ruins among the Famine Walls stretching up the mountains leading to nowhere in particular. This day I was heading north to Connemara via Maam Cross.

I overheard someone telling a story about the last Fairy Tree in Connemara. Well, there are plenty of Fairy Trees in Connemara. Trust me. I wandered deep into the woodland trail at the Kylemore Estate after eavesdropping on the tours inside the castle.

Beyond the collection of specimen trees past the lake sat the Gothic church not far from the giant wishing stone and bathing sheep. On another part of the trail are the Victorian Gardens tended to by resident Benedictine nuns, and according to their testament, some very helpful fairies.

On the drive through Inagh Valley and the white beaches of Ballyconnelly and back through the artsy town of An Spidéal, it dawned on me. I could see Ireland’s people and culture reflected in this island’s landscape itself. They’re all part of the effortless allure of Ireland. There’s an earthiness and ease, a frank but reserved quality. There is a hospitable nature with a great love of music and sharp wit. And they don’t despair on a rainy day.

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