Connemara: The Quiet Man’s place

For a while, we debated whether or not to go to Connemara. I had heard the scenery was gorgeous, but what could you actually do there? In the end, we decided to try it. I think, like the Aran Islands, it’s among my favorite places now.

After the first three days of risking life and limb on narrow Irish regional roads, we went into Galway, fully prepared for traffic from the horse racing crowds and more narrow roads. To our surprise, the roads were much wider and almost like American roads. Angels sang and there was great rejoicing. I finally relaxed my white-knuckle grip on the handrest when we pulled onto the N-59. A tip here: N roads = good. R roads = bad. N roads are what I’m accustomed to, here in the states. R roads are where you try to squeeze two cars in the space of one lane. And you put a stone wall on one side. They are absolutely terrifying.

But in Galway, at last we could actually drive the speed limit. (Aside–the Irish speed limits tend to be optimistic. I swear, the traffic folks were laughing their heads off. They will put a 100 km/h speed limit on a one line road that winds up a mountain. And then they will paint SLOW on the road. I think the attitude is–hey, if you can drive 100 km/h without killing yourself, more power to you!) We almost never drove the speed limit for fear of dying a fiery death.

Amazingly, the road stayed nice and wide throughout the trip. The scenery started to grow rocky and mountainous with mriror lakes and intensely green hills. Here’s a larger photo. Occasionally, suicidal sheep wandered near the road and we prayed they would decide not to throw themselves in front of the car. I have never seen scenery as lovely or as rugged as this. I could almost picture William Wallace screaming a war cry while leading his men into Connemara.

We stayed at Byrne’s Mal Dua House (great place!) in Clifden and then ventured toward the town of Roundstone, famous for the bodhran drums. Although we followed the directions given by our host, we were convinced we had gone the wrong way. The roads were so narrow, we had to swerve the car into a hedge a few times to avoid oncoming traffic. At one point, we thought we might have to drive into the Atlantic Ocean. The coast was littered with stones while fuchsia hedges and blackberry bushes lined the stone walls.

At last, we reached Roundstone. The drum factory was built on the site of an old monastery. Inside, you can see both modern and antique woodworking tools to prepare the wood and stretch the goatskin. I bought a small drum for my son, and they’ll engrave the child’s name for free. For my daughter, I bought a penny whistle. I swear, I’ll pay for that one later.

Then, since our hosts hadn’t steered us wrong on directions before, we decided to take their suggestion on the way back. There’s a road off the main R-road, that is simply marked “Clifden.” It is the Road That Must Not Be Named. Some of the locals call it the bog road, but truthfully, it’s unnamed. It wins my award for Best Road Ever. Because there are almost no cars on it (thank goodness!) and you drive right through the Twelve Bens, the mountains that rise up all around you. The landscape is harsh, with gray stones rising all around you, heather blooming amid the rocks, and sometimes you’ll spot a wild pony. We saw one standing atop a rocky hill, as if he were king of the world. Simply amazing. The road bounces your car, and sheep are everywhere. The sheep are spray-painted blue and red to mark them.

Here’s a picture of us as we parked the car and ran in the midst of bog territory for a quick photo. If you ever go to Clifden, definitely drive down the Road That Must Not Be Named.