The Cliffs of Moher along the Wild Atlantic Way are the most famous landmarks on Ireland’s west coast. One must have the luck of the Irish to view them entirely, however, for it is Mother Nature with her thick, rolling fogs who decides whether you will see the cliffs, or only hear the sound of the waves pounding the 702 foot drop. Mother Nature was also responsible for their formation over 300 million years ago, when flooding deposited sediment into the river, creating a delta that eventually compacted into rock. With the spectacular views of the waves crashing against the sandstone, shale, and siltstone, you may be inclined to hike all nine miles of them. You wouldn’t be alone. It’s estimated that every year over one million people visit the Cliffs of Moher to climb into the bracing air, walk along the serpentine ridge, listen to the roaring surf and the scores of birds, perhaps glimpse a pod of dolphins shining in the mist, or on a crystal clear day, the distant Aran Islands. The Cliffs of Moher, and the area known as “the Burren”, form a UNESCO (United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization) Global Geopark, a landscape with a geological heritage of international significance, which belongs on everyone’s bucket list.

Formed 350 million years ago, the Burren’s 220 square miles of mainly exposed limestone is located in the northwest part of County Clare. The Gaelic name for it is Boil Boireann, which translates to “Great Rock.” Edmond Ludlow, the Cromwellian General who served during the forfeiture of land and forced relocation of the Irish wrote, “The Burren is a county where there’s not enough water to drown a man, wood enough to hang one, nor earth enough to bury him,” when the Irish were given the option of death by hanging or banishment to the inhospitable land west of the River Shannon with the choice, “Hell or Connaught.” In spite of this tragic history, visitors find the region an incredible work of nature, not unlike the Badlands of South Dakota. In stark contrast to the miles and miles of unproductive terrain are limited patches of green and evidence of early life. Along the desolate, uninviting land we encountered archaeological cairns, or wedge tombs, engineered over 5000 years ago, leaving us with questions like – why here? Who? What reason? It’s amazing what ancient man can inspire in us by the simple, yet complex, placement of enormous, heavy slabs of stone. In the Burren we also discovered abandoned buildings — homes, castles, abbeys and all those stonewalls — slabs of limestone on edge. The people utilized the natural resources available to them, and survived.

Further up the coast we stopped in the harbor city of Galway, the sixth most populated city in Ireland. Upon arrival, it seems as though all of its residents are walking its streets and have taken all the parking spaces. But that shouldn’t deter you from a visit. Park at the very visible Cathedral, Our Lady of Assumed into Heaven, which offers plenty of parking at affordable rates. From there it’s a short distance over a bridge spanning the River Corrib to the crowded streets of the Latin Quarter which prescribe a slow stroll to absorb this city’s overwhelming charm. Galway is over 800 years old and was originally walled. The “Spanish Arc” still remains from the early fortification. Though the city is a favorite of the Irish, at one point in its history you could not enter if a “Mc” or an “O” preceded your surname under the order:  “That neither O, ne Mac, shoulde strutte ne swagger, throughe the streetes of Gallway.” It’s also considered the unofficial capital of Gaeltacht, the native language still spoken in Ireland, and the claddagh ring, featuring two hands clasping a heart and topped with a crown as a symbol of love and loyalty, was the creation of a resident of Galway Bay. Our daughter proudly wears her mother’s ring, which her mother gave her. Galway is a delightful city. Brightly colored banners criss-cross the cobblestone streets, and the storefronts and pubs are bedecked with flowers. We dined at the Kings Head, a medieval pub, and then strolled around listening to musicians and enjoying this beautiful city’s ambience before driving to our final destination for the night.

The Connemara countryside is gorgeous. We encountered fields with the ponies unique to this region, according to legend the descendants of Scandinavian horses left by the Vikings and Andalusian horses from the Spanish galleons. We passed pastures filled with wildflowers, or boulders, abandoned ruins and thatched roofed cottages, and stonewalls. We chose for our night in Connemara a remote place on the coast near the small town of Ballyconneely. I’m not usually a believer in “user friendly” technology, but the GPS we used to find our accommodations was greatly appreciated. We twisted and turned, crossed one-way bridges over small rivers, around hairpin curves and along extremely narrow lanes with the GPS incessantly “recalculating”. Our Irish neighbor, when asked how narrow the roads in Ireland are, had pointed at our driveway and said, “This is wide.” Such were the roads here, and just as I was ready to give up hope of finding our hotel, a sign announcing “Connemara Sands” came into view. We selected this hotel because of its private beach. When we arrived, the sun was starting to flush the horizon orange and purple, so we walked down the sandy path to the strand and across the inlet with the ocean at low tide, witnessing a sunset which will not easily be forgotten. We collected small pieces of unpolished Connemara marble and seashells before returning to the hotel pub and ordering our nightly Guinness. Paddy, the bartender, was not bothered by our daughter’s first sips of Guinness. “The drinking age in Ireland is rather blurry,” he assured, “especially in Connemara.”

Juan Arriola