| Resonant,
Lonesome Donegal |
| Travels
in Dunfanaghy, Ireland |
| by Christopher Deliso |
| Donegal,
the wind-swept and rugged northernmost province of Ireland,
is arguably also Ireland's most beautiful region. A stark
and serene beauty pervades the barren fields and rocky hills
that make up the majority of Donegal. All around are remnants
of the Celtic past -- the ‘beehive huts’ of early Christian monastics,
well-rounded piles of clustered stones, as well as the mysterious
‘standing stones’ of the ancient Celtic druids -- slabs of stone carved
with ancient, impenetrable signs.
It is commonly
believed that if one even touches such a stone, he will be cursed
with bad luck. There have been cases of farmers having their livestock
die and houses burn after failing to give the standing stones their proper
respect. |
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| I bore this
in mind as I passed by them on the six-mile bike ride from my secluded
hostel to Glencolumcille, the western edge of Donegal where
the cliffs thundered into the sea and where one of Saint
Patrick’s ardent followers had once worshipped. On the way I passed
plenty of the beehive huts, indicators of the presence of early Christians
in this awe-inspiring landscape, one that must have been especially conducive
for contemplation of the divinity.
Upon reaching
the green cliffs of Glencolumcille, legs aching from the hilly ride, a
firm wind tearing through the clear autumn sky, I saw an even more impressive
feature of the Celtic past - one of the high, rounded ‘Viking signal
towers’ that the Irish had utilized in the 8th century to watch
out for marauding Norsemen. The towers stretched in a line
all down the west coast of Ireland; when one watchman saw a
hostile ship, he would light a fire, alerting the watchman in the next
tower down. All alone on the edge of the world, with the waves
pounding off of the black crags and no sign of human existence save for
this one forgotten tower, I felt supremely at peace with the world. The
next day I turned in my bicycle and hit the road again, this
time to meet my girlfriend in the town of Dunfanaghy. |
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| She had
been traveling up from Galway and was going to join me for a few
days of exploring on the north coast, a storied region of uncertain weather
and violent history, part of it even called the ‘Bloody Foreland.’
I met her in late afternoon and we resolved to ameliorate the situation
at once, and after a long day of travel headed down to the local pub for
a quick pint.
We walked
into the tiny, narrow pub - that is, we slid in sideways - and sat at the
bar. There were three other stools at the bar; the entire pub,
which looked like it hadn't been painted in about thirty years, was
about 10 feet wide and 20 feet long. There was space for six,
perhaps seven customers in the whole place. We were there,
my girlfriend and I, after a hard day of hitchhiking up from
Galway. We smiled at the bartender; and he smiled back, a bit sheepishly,
however. "Sorry you came in on the Monday," he apologized.
"Any other day the place would be packed out." |
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Offshore
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| We had
arrived in the sleepy Irish town of Dunfanaghy, (situated
on the wind-swept coast of the North Sea, at the very northern tip
of the country) an hour earlier; before having this welcoming
pint of Guinness we had checked into the decidedly unique Corgreggan Independent
Hostel (a.k.a. ‘the Old Mill’). Guests here are housed both in restored
vintage boxcars from the old Donegal train line, out of service
since the 60’s, and in the actual stone floored building that
once served as a mill. Our ‘room’ was a very cool red and gold
painted train car, with an interior of polished wood and smooth red leather.
Even if this was the only thing the hostel had going for it, it would
still have been remarkable, but there was more.
The whole
property, it turned out, was humming with a quiet energy that could not
be described. Stories abound about how the hostel was built over
an ancient pre-Celtic ritual site, and about the magical triangles of power
indicated by the particular placement of various rocks and buildings. I
can't vouch for that, and I didn't see any little people creep in
from the Fairy World, but on the other hand I couldn't fall
asleep for two consecutive nights. It was deadly quiet outside, but still
I was wide awake. |
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| The
place made me kind of uneasy, actually. But it's definitely worth
checking out- and who knows, there may be something to the tall tales.
In addition
to enchanted hostels and miniature pubs, Dunfanaghy is blessed with beautiful
nature. We took along bike ride through winding wooded roads
to get to the beach - one of the most perfect beaches I have ever seen,
in fact. If you looked at a picture only - crystal clear, greenish
water and fine white sand - you would think it was some exotic beach
in Thailand or Australia. Only the unbelievably frigid temperature
of the water gives it away. My girlfriend, of stout Irish constitution,
of course had no problem in diving in. As she flopped around like
a regular seal, I gasped and hyperventilated for twenty seconds before
scrambling back shivering to the beach, after all, it was the 29th of September.
Only with the help of a few rounds of Guinness, and some good traditional
music later on that evening, was warmth restored to my body. |
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