Now that summer is nearly over for me, I’m finally getting around to posting about my beautiful swimming (and other adventuring) trips these last two months. In early June I went to Ireland where, within my first hour of landing at the Dublin Airport, I was swimming in the sea. From that moment until the last, it was a magical trip. I tried to keep this account to my swims, but that was impossible. I tried to keep it brief, but that was also impossible.

Day One

Sheila, Angie, and Aoibhinn picked Hazel and me up from the airport at the bright (literally) and early hour of 5:30.

They whisked us away to the Forty Foot, a storied swimming spot on the southern point of Dublin Bay, made famous first by James Joyce and more recently by the television show, Bad Sisters. People (until 1974, men) have been swimming here for hundreds of years and when we arrived at 6:30 am there was already a large crowd.

Walking down the slippery metal steps into the churning sea was daunting, but as soon as I was in, the water was pure bliss. Clear and grey-green (not the “snotgreen” described by Joyce’s Buck Mulligan), it was the perfect kind of cold, enough to zap life into you, but not so cold it hurts. There can be no better way to greet a new country or cope with the discombobulating effects of jet lag.

We then piled into the car and drove to County Mayo. Hazel and I promptly fell asleep and so for us, Mayo is a mere half hour from Dublin, though it’s actually hours away on the other side of the country. I awoke to a beautiful wooded manor, Moore Hall, where we walked through beech, elms, and wood chestnuts and admired the mansion, still somehow grand in its decrepitude.

There was a lake nearby, which we had planned to swim in, but we talked ourselves out of it after reading about mysterious sinkholes. Instead, we drove to the coast and swam in the magnificent Clew Bay.

Bertra Beach was spectacular, with Crough Patrick rising up behind us and the hundreds of islands (one for every day of the year) rising out of the clear, green-blue sea in front of us.

After our second swim of the day, we retired to the stunning and peaceful airbnb in Louisburgh, our home for the night. Big windows on every side look out over the wildflower strewn hills and the Atlantic Ocean with its smattering of green islands.

After a bit of a relax, we were ready for another swim.

There was only one other car in the parking lot when we arrived at Silver Strand Beach. We walked over a little bridge to a huge expanse of sand, without another soul anywhere in sight. The water was perfectly clear and calm, with rocky outcrops, surrounded by rolling green hills, rock, and grazing sheep. It was pure magic.

The sun was finally starting to set (it was nearly 10pm) as we left the beach and we found a pub to enjoy the first Guinness of the trip and soak up the incredible day.

Day Two

We woke up later than planned and had to race down narrow country lanes (stopping for some stray lambs) to catch the ferry to Clare Island.

Amazingly, we made it. We had only a short time on the island (the ferries don’t run all day and it was either leave in less than two hours or wait until the end of the day) and so we took a vigorous walk across the island to an old abbey with medieval drawings on the ceiling.

The walk took us past sweet cottages and adorable sheep, sweeping views of the water, further islands, and the mainland. The rubble remains of famine cottages sat adjacent to new houses as wildflowers wove color into the bright green of the hills. The abbey and cemetery were a similar mash-up of old and new. There were gravestones so old the etchings had long worn away and there was one that had been freshly erected the week before.

With our ferry leaving in less than an hour, we called a cab from the tiny store/post office to return us to the marina in time for a swim.

We got to the beach, stripped off our clothes, and plunged into the gorgeous, aqua water. It was amazing.

Just look at the color of the water!

We managed to tear ourselves away in time to catch our ferry back to the mainland where we returned to the AirBnB to have lunch, clean and pack, and head out for our next adventure: Croagh Patrick.

There were two things we wanted to do today: visit Clare Island and climb Croagh Patrick, the holy mountain. At first, it seemed like too much to try and do both, but thanks to Angie and Sheila’s ceaseless energy and to the long days of Ireland in June, we figured we could manage it.

We arrived at the base of Croagh Patrick in the late afternoon when most people were heading back down. The sun was a hot furnace blazing down on us (I thought Ireland was supposed to be rainy?) and the path was steep. I wasn’t sure I was going to make it up. I wasn’t sure I wanted to. But we agreed to get to the first saddle and reassess from there. Hazel and Aoibhinn didn’t seem to notice the heat nor the incline: they practically ran up, while we stumbled along slowly behind. We reunited at the first saddle and took in the gorgeous views.

We decided to carry on to the base of the steepest part at least and, of course, once we got there, there was nothing to do but keep going.

The view from the top was utterly magnificent with the hundreds of islands of Clew Bay laid out like a tapestry of blues and greens and grays.

There’s a chapel at the top and a makeshift shrine with pictures and words for loved ones of previous climbers to this peak. Croagh Patrick is a pilgrimage site–climbing the mountain (often barefoot) and then attending mass at the top (or somewhere else within the week) will grant one plenary indulgence. As I understand it, a plenary indulgence is a kind of forgiveness of sins that one can secure for themselves or for another person who has already died. Knowing this made the pictures in the shrine all the more poignant as I imagined loved ones making this climb for the uncertain souls of their dearly departed.

The sun was beginning to set as we made the climb back down the mountain and the clouds were wildly beautiful.

As was this lamb reuniting with its mama:

After our epic climb, when the rest of us were ready to fall asleep, our super-hero driver, Sheila, drove us back across the country to Tawin Island in Galway. Tawin Island is the place Angie and Johnnie have a house, a place I’ve been hearing stories about for years. We arrived late, well after dark, but I was immediately captivated by the warmth and charm of their house. Each detail felt infused with stories and with love and we had a cozy dinner and then fell into a deep sleep.

Day Three

Angie woke me up at 9:00 and announced it was time for a swim!

Ok!

We grabbed our stuff (Sheila had already left earlier that morning to return to her family) and walked down the road to Angie’s swimming spot. It was too dark to appreciate the scenery on our drive in last night and so now I took it all in. A quiet countryside surrounded by water, sheep, cows, and farmland; cottages and windy roads. It was an idyllic scene.

For years Angie’s regaled us with stories of swimming in Tawin and I was so happy to slip into the cold water of this beautiful cove.

Afterward, we met up with Angie’s sister, Anne, and her new puppy and traipsed off to the Kinvara market. I loved the town of Kinvara with its brightly colored houses, quaint shops, and ships bobbing in the harbor. We had a stroll around the market and a yummy breakfast/lunch.

Day Four & Five

For the first time since I arrived in supposedly rainy Ireland, I woke up Saturday morning to rain. We didn’t let it stop us from wandering down the road for a swim.

After that wonderful start to our day, we met up with Angie’s sister, Collette, and explored the Burren perfumery with its lovely herb garden and went on a hike through a Hazelwood forest to a Bronze Age fort overlooking a steep canyon. Each day I’m struck by how much ancient history is woven into the landscape here.

We spent the evening at Angie’s brother, Colm’s, house where I reveled in two of my very favorite things: babies and lobster.

The next day we swam at Tawin again and then had a day of visitors and relaxing in the garden. Angie and I went to pick up Kevin, who was finally arriving to join the fun. Sheila came back, along with Jeff this time, and we had a big bbq to celebrate (after first shopping for food and a bbq).

Day Six

Sheila, Angie, and I tried to start the day with a swim, but the tide was so low it was more of a walk and then a flop into a shallow puddle.

We enjoyed it anyway!

We all then went for a gorgeous hike in the Burren, where Collette gave us a fascinating tour of the plants, the history, and the archeology. It was like having our own private tour guide.

We walked through beautiful Hazelwood forests, which kept surprising me by being there as the scenery seemed devoid of all but the sparest of trees. It would seem like nothing but rock for miles and suddenly, the path would dip and we’d find ourselves in a dense forest.

Hazel loved the Hazelwoods and I thought we’d never get her to leave.

Collette brought us to a beautiful ruins of a hermitage.

We were all very hot and sticky after all that hiking and we went straight to Lough Bunny for a swim. It was wonderfully cool and clear with dramatic clouds for extra beauty.

Day Seven

When I woke up this morning I thought how much I’m going to miss waking up to the sounds of cows lowing in the distance, to the smells of grass intermingling with the briny water surrounding us.

We did not get in the water this morning, for the first time since we arrived. Instead, the gang dispersed; groups peeling away to do different things. Angie, Liadh, and I headed to Thoor Ballylee, or Yeats’ Tower, where the poet lived and wrote for a time and which is now a museum.

I, the poet William Yeats,
With old mill boards and sea-green slates,
And smithy work from the Gort forge,
Restored this tower for my wife George;
And may these characters remain
When all is ruin once again.

We met Anne there and the four of us were just getting started on our tour when we found out that today was Yeats’ birthday! We were stunned by the magic of having come on such an auspicious day and the rest of the tour took on greater significance.

The tower is kind of amazing–all stone and steep spiral stairs; dark rooms that smelled of the earth and made me feel as if I’d stepped into a fairy tale. Truly a tower, it was narrow, with rooms stacked on top of each other, windows looking out over the ever-heightening distance from the ground. As someone not keen on heights, I got increasingly uneasy as I climbed. It didn’t help that the top floor is apparently haunted and felt like it.

When I got to the top, I took only a quick peek over the edge. But then I noticed Anne on the river bank below, painting, her puppy beside her. It was such a lovely scene that I braved standing there long enough to take a picture.

One of the best things about the tour was Yeats’ writing desk (thankfully on one of the lower floors, where I was comfortable lingering). I could imagine him sitting there at the desk, looking over the water, finding inspiration in both what he sees in front of him and in the history steeped into that tower and its land.

My House

Meditations In Time Of Civil War

An ancient bridge, and a more ancient tower,

A farmhouse that is sheltered by its wall,

An acre of stony ground,

Where the symbolic rose can break in flower,

Old ragged elms, old thorns innumerable,

The sound of the rain or sound

Of every wind that blows;

The stilted water-hen Crossing Stream again

Scared by the splashing of a dozen cows;

A winding stair, a chamber arched with stone,

A grey stone fireplace with an open hearth,

A candle and written page.

Il Penseroso’s Platonist toiled on

In some like chamber, shadowing forth

How the daemonic rage

Imagined everything.

Benighted travellers

From markets and from fairs

Have seen his midnight candle glimmering.

Two men have founded here.

A man-at-arms

Gathered a score of horse and spent his days

In this tumultuous spot,

Where through long wars and sudden night alarms

His dwinding score and he seemed castaways

Forgetting and forgot;

And I, that after me

My bodily heirs may find,

To exalt a lonely mind,

Befitting emblems of adversity.

It turned out it wasn’t just Yeats’ birthday, but also the launch of the Yeats Thoor Ballylee Poetry Prize. Created in honor the 100th anniversary of Yeats’ Nobel Prize for literature, the poetry competition is open to poets worldwide (deadline August 18 https://www.zealous.co/thoorballylee). There was a celebration to inaugurate the prize in the lush green, stone wall-enclosed garden with music and poetry readings, and fascinating stories about Yeats. Angie and I stood listening to it all in awe, under a dark and thundering sky that never gave way to rain. It was an amazing experience to be a part of and we couldn’t believe our luck to have stumbled upon it. Afterward, there was even cake and champagne.

From there we went to Cave, where Anne and her husband Paul live in a waterfront stone cottage that totally captivated me. I can’t think of the words to describe it: Quaint, adorable, magical all come to mind, but don’t quite get at it. I already said Thoor Ballylee felt like stepping into a fairy tale so I hate to say it again, but it did feel like that. Despite my captivation, I didn’t take any pictures.

Soon after we arrived, Anne, Angie, and I wandered across the road for a swim.

Eventually, the rest of the gang joined us and we had a fabulous night with dinner followed by lots of singing around the wood-burning stove. Anne’s husband Paul played the guitar and seemed to know all of our favorite songs, plus had a bunch more to teach us. It was a truly special night.

Day Eight

Today was our last true day in Ireland–tomorrow we clean and pack up and travel to Dublin for a very short overnight before a very early flight. We spent the day in Galway; while Kevin and Hazel had been, I’d still not visited and today was the day. The others went into the town center and Angie and I picked up her 85-year-old Auntie, Angela, for a swim at the Ladies’ Beach in Salthill.

Auntie Angela swims at the Ladies’ Beach nearly every single day; as Angie’s mom also did and her grandmother before that. It was a beautiful thing to get to make this pilgrimage with Angie and to swim with her aunt. Even more so to witness the lovely community her aunt has at the beach: She has a big group of friends who sit against the wall for a chat before and after heading into the cold, clear water of the Atlantic.

We were especially inspired by one of her aunt’s friends, Norah, who has MS and uses a wheelchair. With the aid of two friends, she made her way down the beach and into the water where she then sped away as agile as a dolphin. It was an amazing testament to friendship and the healing capacity of the sea.

After our swim, we returned to Auntie Angela’s for tea and then I left them to explore the city. I loved it. I wandered around, hungrily taking in all of the sights and sounds, eventually making my way to an amazing bookstore where I spent a very long time. I reunited with everyone for dinner and pub-hopping.

After sampling the Guinness at several pubs, we wound up at the Crane for some fantastic traditional Irish music.

Ireland was a truly magical place and I am already scheming about how I can get back again soon.