|Cliffs of Moher|
Most of our group retreated to the dryness of the cafe built into rocky hillside but a few of us remained to feel the wildness of this place; to know something of it untamed existence which can be examined by men but never controlled. It reminded me of the vast and frighteningly immense gorges of the Kimberley and made me feel as small, but the privilege of the experience countered that readily enough.
For a third day, we hugged the shoreline on narrow roads, at one stage being face to face to another coach. Unable to pass, we reversed a hundred metres or so and and into the thinnest of extra space so we could pass, the exterior mirrors kissing as we did.
We stopped on The Burren, an area where the parent limestone has no top spoil and the only plants eke an existence in joint cracks in the rock. Its another wild place, swept by wind and sea spray and often referred to - inaccurately - as a lunar type landscape.
|The Spanish Arch at Galway|
There is a story, not told until now but one which continues to plague Sue. It harks back a few days to Peter's Eve, the day before my birthday. In a shop which specialised in woollen jumpers from the Aran Islands, we had purchased some treats for the children when my eyes fell on a black woolen cape with a golden yellow lining. It came with a silken golden scarf with a Irish traditional pattern. Having been told to look for a present for myself and told it was totally my choice, my selection was vetoed by Sue on the basis of cost.
The rest of the coach has reminded her ever since.