Welcome to the Burren

The Burren is aptly named for this region of Clare County. Meaning "The Rock" in Old Irish, no name is more suited for this rock covered area. Yet when you say "rock," one rarely thinks of beauty or even uniqueness. Yet the Burren has this in spades. Gray stones cover the earth, often in odd and curved patterns and yet, as if not to be outdone, flora springs up between the rocks, creating a very captivating mix of green and grey. Instead of rolling hills of green, it is dotted hills of grey, all splashed up against a dramatic coast that boasts some of the tallest cliffs in Europe.

The Cliffs of Moher are said bluffs. Perhaps better knows as the Cliffs of Insanity (for those Princess Bride lovers out there), these ridges look as if one had cleanly sliced them with a knife, leaving them to drop directly into the water in a very riveting way. There is little bad that can be said of these cliffs, aside from the fee of eight euro to park ones car--which I felt was a charge to see the cliffs and how can one be charged money to see something natural and nature made? I do feel that these cliffs, however, are a victim of over hype. While they are amazing, the packed coast of tourists and the ugly tourist center slapped onto the side detract from the beauty. Or perhaps I am just jaded, and prefer my enjoyment in solitude. I still find that the cliffs of Bray Head stand paramount in my mind. This could be for their allure, or perhaps because they were the first dramatic cliffs I saw and thus I have been imprinted. I have no way of knowing.

After the cliffs, I headed to Aillwee Cave, a thousands and thousands of year old cave that dives miles under the surface and with stalagmites and stalactites on the early age of ten thousand years. Bones of European Brown Bears, extinct in Ireland for over 10,000 years, have been found in the caves, along with natural waterfalls and chasms. The fun part was when, deep in the bowls of the cave, the tour guide cuts the light and you're given your first (and most likely only) glimpse (so to speak) of pure darkness. There is no light, not a star or a moon or a flame, and the pitch is absolute. If you've ever heard the phrase "can't see ones hand before ones face," this has all knew meaning for me. There isn't even so much as a shadow of ones hand and all you can hear is the dripping of water as you try to widen your eyes to grasp anything in the blackness. It was quite the experience.

Also, as part of the Aillwee Cave tour, we got to see the Burren Birds of Prey Center--an exhibition for birds of prey. I arrived in time for the flight show, which was amazing. I've never seen birds so large, some absolutely dwarfing the guide. When an eagle owl was brought out, the guide asked if anyone wanted to hold him. My hand was up before I even registered what he had actually said. I don't think anyone else stood a chance.

I came up in front of the crowd (albeit a small crowd), and he put a thick leather glove on my left hand. "Are you squeamish?" He asked, as he reached into his side pocket.

"No," I assured him.

"Good. Because he eats mice." And in his hand was a still white mouse.

"Uh, it is dead, right?" I asked, and the crowd found this very humorous--as if I were part of the act.

"Of course," says the guy as he sets the dead mouse onto my hand.

The owl eyed it, then refused. "He has me trained," laughed the guide and he placed a bit of chicken leg next to the mouse. This seemed to be enough for the "lazy" bird (as the guide called him), and it lunged into the air, massively wide crimson eyes on my hand.

I left my arm out there but squeezed shut my eyes. If its going to claw my eyes out with those sharp, furry talons, I don't want to see it coming, right?

He was surprisingly light for such a large bird, and almost gentle as he ate his dead mouse. "Hello," I cooed, my head still a bit drawn back. I feared for my eyes. When he tried to jump off, his claw got stuck and I dropped to the ground with him, afraid he would be injured. I had to slip off the glove even as the bird snapped and screamed at his snagged claws on my fingers.

After my affair with the birds, I set for Poulnabrone Dolmen--a portal tomb preserved from pre-historic times. Its a massive stone table, possibly dating back to 3000 BC, and once excavated in the 1980s, the remains of 16 people were found. The mystery of this ancient tomb is not only the unique structure, but how the massive boulders moved and lifted in the first place--what with being pre-crane time and all. The capstone alone (top stone placed over two vertical standing stone walls) weighs five tons. It really makes one pause to wonder.

Following Plulnabrone, I went in search for a small and little known abby, called Corcamroe. The beauty in this place is that it is relatively unknown, meaning that I was the only person there. Perhaps I have a bit of the luck of the Irish (what with the wonderful weather and all--9 days and counting of no rain), because the one woman who did show up was a local historian and tour guide. She showed me the unique structure of the walls--the Romanist pillars and archways, the old carvings into the plaster over stone of what once should have been done, but they abby never had the funds to complete. She pointed out a dragon on the outside wall, and a viking ship scratched into one corner. The abby was a rare find. Having a personal tour guide was even better.

Lastly, I headed to Dunguaire Castle, which was closed by the time I got there but I was able to take some nice photos of the outside. I almost got run over by a tour guide bus--those horrific eye sores of the Irish country side (and the name of the game really is staying well ahead of these buses, or well behind, anything not to be in the same place at once). I went in search for one last castle, Gleninaugh Castle, a castle I never found but the route brought me all along the coast--a wonderful chance to see the rocky edges before cerulean blue water--and at times the shadows of mountains over the harbor looked so fantastical, I had to assume they were clouds--until it became obvious otherwise.

I spent the rest of the evening at Fizpatrick Bar, where they play traditional Irish music not just every night in the summer, but all year around. i would find myself learning a little bit of the Irish dance, being taught by a local as myself, some Irish guys, and some girls from France all took a crack at it.

Doolin in a dangerous place only in that one is reluctant to leave. Sadly, I must push on or else spend forever in this quaint, very Irish town--which would not be such a curse at all.

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