Matt and I had been alone at the worm hole, blessedly left to ourselves to savor the beauty and snap pictures to our heart's content (mostly Matt's, of course) without pausing for a person to move to allow us just the right angle, the open vista, the perfect picture.
We surmised that our experience at Dun Aengus would be different. The universally-acclaimed sight to see on the island, even by the crochety old writer and tour guide of "The Back of Beyond," who generally refused to take his wards where other tourists went. This fort was on the map, the center of the mini bus tours, and a whole herd of french school children was biking toward it ahead of us.
Throughout our travels, Rick Steves, through his book, had admonished us to avoid certain places between 11 and 2, or other such popular tourist hours, to avoid the crowds. We blithely ignored him, mostly as we enjoyed our whirlwind tour and had not the luxury to plan our sightseeing visits at a more leisurely pace. We had been lucky so far, often arriving at a place by ourselves and only running into a couple more along the way. There was a good crowd at the Rock of Cashel, but still we enjoyed much of it to ourselves, and I imagine I can barely fathom the faces it would see at the height of the tourist season.
The Cliffs of Moher also hosted numerous cars and coaches, but the fog enveloping the cliffs caused the tourists not to linger long. The newly placed fences along the length of the cliffs made it cold and univiting anyway. This was not the intimate, famously Ireland sight with no fences, no rangers, and no signs prohibiting unwelcome behaviors. It would not have mattered if we were alone at the Cliffs of Moher. The personal experience was not there anymore, anyway.
(Although the awe-inspiring National Parks of the United States feature many barriers and protective devices, many trails still enable you to enter the landscape and become part of it, of course often with others unless you venture still farther in. The Cliffs over no other option, no other hike. Just the appointed overlooks and walkways. In order to preserve one of the most beautiful sights in Ireland, they have taken away its grandeur. So is the way of the world.)
Back to the point at hand.
We hurriedly cycled our way from Gort na gPall, back to the main road and up toward the fort. We could see its rock walls on the skyline. To each side of us, the fields, cut by the rock walls, faded away to the sea. Old rock ruins and graveyards graced the side of the road. There was little time to enjoy it.
We passed the slow contigent of les ecoles, squeezed through a larger group at the foot of the fort entrance, and rolled our bikes into the bike parking lot. We showed our Heritage Cards that admitted us without fee, and skipped the exhibits in the entrance hall to make sure we had time to take in the natural sights (and beat the schoolchildren if possible).
We trudged up the long path, shepherded by yet more rock walls, up and up the hill towards the promontory fort. A semicircle with many rows of defense, the fort sat smack upon the edge of the cliff, walls coming to an end neatly at the edge. Surely some of the stones have fallen in over the years?
We ducked through the opening of the outer ring of the fort, revealing a wide open grassy area and unfenced cliff, with the inner fort walls still in front of us. We could see only one person, calmly eating lunch on a ledge in front of the fort. Mostly, it was just us and the sea below, once again. After visiting the fort, I read somewhere that fences on the cliffs prevented tourists from being swept by high winds to the depths below. I would have been less eager to arrive. But unbeknownst to the guidebook, as were the walls at the Cliffs of Moher, no such fences existed. Perhaps they had for awhile and for some unknown reason were taken down. I paid no mind. For the first time in Ireland, I lay down at the edge of a cliff and peered over to the clear blue water below, pretty pink flowers clinging to the face below me.
It was windy that day. I tried to be careful. To brace myself when I walked close to the cliff edge. For all I know, a sudden gust could have carried me off. But that happens too in Marin, much closer to home. No need to worry part-way across the world.
We finally entered the fort itself; still no one around. Matt loved the historic walls; I mostly still admired the rugged cliff. I could see coastal beauty in California, but it would not be enhanced with such obvious history as abounds in Irelands. The ancient rock ruins add to the landscape. Imagine, having this view! Imagine, having to defend yourself in a fort! Did the scenery ever make up for the hardships? Perhaps not.
Maurice O'Sullivan's book, "Twenty Years A-Growing," a tale of being raised on the remote Blasket Islands, certainly includes much reflection on natural beauty. Yet he left the island at a young age, experiencing only a few seasons of fishing, not growing old with aching bones, still having to traipse across the island in search of ewes and hunting rabbits and birds. Perhaps life on the island would have erased the wonder from him.
But what a place to visit.
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