Woman on Her Way

August 4: Belfast

Guest blog from Dennis R. Blanchard: (Photo left caption: “today’s plan is already yesterday’s – the streets that were there are gone.”)

Snipers were shooting at my father. This wasn’t World War II, it was Belfast, Ireland, 1969. I was doing my military duty in Germany and took leave to ride my BSA motorcycle over to Ireland to be with him. My brother, Tom, had been killed in action in Vietnam the previous year and my mother thought it would be good therapy to get away for a while.

I was on Oranmore Street, Belfast, where my aunt lived. It was just after dark and while standing in her entry way, I witnessed a fellow getting hit by a sniper’s shot. The poor fellow was just trying to get across the street to get home. I ran out and grabbed him by the collar and dragged him to the doorway, out of harms way. He was screaming in agony, and begging me to tell his wife that he truly loved her and regretted that things ended this way.

There was no visible blood, which puzzled me. I ripped open his shirt and found a huge welt on his chest. It was then I realized that the bullet had ricocheted from a building and hit him. He had actually somersaulted through the air from the impact, and I suspect the crash-landing on his back on the cobblestone street may have hurt even more! Although, in pain, he was going to live.

It was then I spotted my father at the end of the street, walking with my Irish grandfather. I yelled for my dad to take cover and unbelievably, he retorted, “They didn’t get me in World War II, they won’t get me now.” As if by some miracle, he and my grandfather, walked boldly down the street and arrived safely. I can’t explain it.

Later that night, I volunteered to go act as an unarmed guard at the new schoolhouse they had built next to the Clonard Monastery. (Right: The school is no longer at the end of this street.) The Catholic community there had just built it, and they were concerned that someone might try to burn it down. I had ridden to Belfast, Ireland with a fellow American GI, George, and the two of us volunteered. We were joined by a young Irish lad of 13, and a man who I would estimate was about 70. We took up our positions at the four-story schoolhouse and stood guard.

Almost immediately, we came under small-arms fire. Petrol bombs (Molotov Cocktails) flew at us constantly. We plugged up all the drains for sinks in the building and let the water run onto the floors to hopefully keep the fires from spreading, all the while, dodging bullets. We tried to stay on the higher floors so that the bullets would come up from the ground level at such an angle that they would miss us. This worked well, but we had to run downstairs often to put out fires. This went on all night. After sunrise, we made several attempts to evacuate the building, it wasn’t worth dying for. However, each time I would go down to check the exit door, the only one we could use, I would poke my shirt out, on the end of stick, and somebody would fire at it. Being able to take a hint, I would run back up the stairs.

Eventually, around two in the afternoon, I heard somebody down on the first floor. I peeked down through the stairwell and could see a man working his way up the stairs; he had a rifle. I grabbed a two-by-four with a nail in the end that I had prepared earlier and waited. I had a good position to take him out when he reached the top of the stairs. I waited. I could hear my heart beating and I don’t think I breathed at all.

As he neared the top he called out softly, “Are you okay? I’ve come to help.” I didn’t know whether to trust him, or take his head off, but finally decided that he was there to rescue us. He was a young man, a total stranger to me, with a WW I Springfield rifle and ten rounds of ammunition. I took a chance and greeted him. He told us he was there to get us out. The IRA (Irish Republican Army) had sent him. He fired several shots, the first fire that had been returned since being there. Why nobody came and killed us during the night, I’ll never understand.

He told us to go down and try to escape. I went to the door that previously was a shooting range and when I stuck the shirt out, nobody fired at it. One at a time, we ran from the doorway, up the street and dove through a small opening in a wall behind the Monastery. I was the second to last one out, and as I flew through the opening, not having a clue where it went, or what I would land on, I landed in front of a priest with a silver tray and he asked me, “Lad, would you care for some tea?”

The family that lived next to the schoolhouse had to be evacuated, so George and I went back to help them move their things out. It was evident that their house wasn’t going to survive. Everyone was grabbing whatever they could and hauling it up the street. We had met with the family the previous day and they were terrified. As George and I were going up one side of the street with some things, a shot rang out behind us and the family’s 15-year-old son, just across the street from us, Gerald McAuley. fell dead, carrying a mattress from his home. I’ve never understood why he was killed and not George or I?

I’ve had many close calls in Belfast. I was caught there at the worst possible time: July, 1969. There we many other hair-raising experiences, but these were the most vivid.

Today, Jane and I revisited where many of these events occurred. Many of the streets are gone, as is the schoolhouse. Looking back at it all, I can’t really understand it. Civil wars are crazy situations. All wars are terrible, but somehow, I think people from very similar backgrounds killing each other, are the worst. I was pretty choked up emotionally walking around there today, it seemed so surreal. It brought back so many memories, some good ones, but so many that I wish I could forget.

Somehow, I didn’t expect this backpack trip across Europe would come to this.

The streets may be gone, but the memories are not.

August 3: Belfast

If only we had known that we could not get to Belfast from Clifden, we could have saved over €70 by buying the cheaper round trip bus tickets from Clifden to Galway, and then Galway to Dublin where we took the train to Belfast.

We arrived in Belfast around 7 PM. There were no city maps in the station and the Tourist Center was closed, as were most restaurants and cafes in the area. Without an internet location, we could not search room availability.

If only we had known that Belfast was hosting the World Police and Fire Games, we might have made alternate plans. With over 10, 000 participants, many with friends and relatives, the city’s accommodations were nil– we got the last room in the city for a whopping £130 ($200). For that price, you would expect a clean fully functional room and free WiFi. What a rip off!

On our way to the hotel, we passed St. Anne’s Cathedral (of the Church of Ireland) with its Spire of Hope (pictured above, left). Dennis commented that it looked like the world’s biggest lightening rod. Across from the street is Writer’s Square (left). There are quotations from 27 deceased Northern Ireland authors inscribed in stones around the square. Dennis and I are glad to note that our names are not in there, especially since we are not deceased, even if we don’t qualify as Irish.

August 2, Clifden

Today we celebrated our 39th wedding anniversary with a kiss atop Diamond Hill in the Connemara National Park. We asked a French woman to take our picture and everyone tsked-tsked us to stop kissing. After climbing up 400 meters (over 1300 ft) in blustery 60 to 80 mph winds, we were happy to embrace and commemorate our special day. (To see how windy it was, click on the link and notice how the umbrella flies at 90 degrees from my body. 2013-08-02-Clifden 038.)

As we climb, the wind was very strong and cold. My nose was dripping and before I could pull out a hankie, the wind blew the snot right off the mountain. At times, it was all I could do to stay where I was, waiting for the wind to die down a bit before taking the next step.

At the summit, we were rewarded with a break in the wind, a bit of sunshine, and fantastic views. We could see Kylemore Abbey, which was built as a wedding gift and is now a tourist attraction and abbey for Benedictine nuns. Dennis and I exchanged platinum rings as wedding gifts; he did not build me a castle, though I have often claimed to be Queen of Blanchardom.

On our loop walk, we spotted the Connemara ponies, known for their athleticism, versatility and good disposition, and a donkey. Since it was so windy, we did not see any of the Connemara carnivorous plants. As we sat at the summit eating a banana, I did see a yellow jacket…how it managed to fly in that wind is a wonder.

We returned to the Vaughan B & B in Clifden, had a celebratory meal and bottle of wine, and retired early. Tomorrow is a travel day; we will make our way to Belfast.

August 1: Clifden

Weather predictions for today were for 100% rain; for this reason, we did not leave Clifden. We donned our rain gear and took our umbrellas to hike a 6K loop around the city. The mountains were fogged in and we did not see the Twelve Bens, a mountain range that provides a wonderful backdrop to the town.

“Why do people like them so much? Palms had to be the ugliest trees ever. ” Forbidden Fire by Kimberly Kinrade.

I never associated Palm trees with Ireland but the Gulf Stream moderates the climate, making it mild enough for them to grow throughout the island. In southern Ireland, it’s rarely very warm, but it’s also almost never very cold either, so they thrive.

On our walking tour we saw the gateway to The Clifden Castle, originally built in 1818 by John D’Arcy, the founder of Clifden. During the potato famine, the D’Arcy family could not collect rent from the starving tenants, and the manor went into disrepair. Now the castle is privately owned.

Clifden sits on the Atlantic Ocean. The two churches in town make for a picturesque panorama of the quay, where one can see lobster traps on the docks and sailboats on the water. I am sure sunshine enhances this town’s charm. Luckily the inclement weather did not stop us from appreciating its beauty and, by limiting the tourism in town, it made it easier for us to get into bars and restaurants.

Upon returning from our hour-long walk, Dennis went “foraging” for a sweet to go with his tea. Deciding which of these treats to choose was not easy for him. Mindful of his health, he tried to select the most healthy dessert (if there is such a thing.) Which would you have chosen?

July 31: Clifden

Breakfast at the Bayberry House B & B was the best we have had in the past three months. The sideboard was filled with fruit, compote, yogurts, nuts, cheeses, cereals, homemade granola, and juice. The owner made a creamy porridge served with warm fruit compote of apples and mixed berries—the combination of flavors tantalized the palate. The breadbasket overflowed with white and whole-grain toast, soda bread, and toasted hot-crossed buns; all accompanied with dishes of marmalade and raspberry jam. In addition, if we wanted, she would have cooked a traditional-Irish breakfast.

Fortified, we left in a downpour to catch a bus to Clifden, the largest city in Connemara. On the way visibility was low. We passed lakes and mountains whose tops were enshrouded in clouds. We saw peat set out for drying, but becoming rain-drenched. Today’s plans for hiking no longer seem accomplishable. Since the weather will be noncompliant as well tomorrow, we booked a room (left) in the Vaughans Pub, Bistro, and Accommodations, one of the city’s oldest building, for three days; tomorrow will be a working day. Hopefully, on Friday we will be able to explore the area.

In the evening,we went to several pubs to listen to the Irish music, have dinner, and relax. Dennis so enjoyed the singer, Pat Coyne, that he bought his CD. The second bar promised a band at 8-ish, but they were just setting up at 9 P.M when we left. The best music was at the last place we visited. As I looked at the older patrons (mostly tourists) who were singing traditional music, clapping to the rhythm, and obviously enjoying themselves, I tried to visualize them as younger pub-goers. Sometimes people retain their younger facial characteristics; other times they change completely.

In one bar, we were treated to a Sean-nós dance (Irish broom dance) by an award-winning performer who is also the bartender. I imagine if done improperly, the dancer could lose the family jewels as he quickly jumps over the broomstick while dancing.

July 30: Galway

Helen, a recent graphic artist graduate and our “free” city tour guide, said that she was not paid for her work but was compensated by “tips” based on what we perceived was the value of the tour. She obviously did her homework, and we learned in a humorous way a lot about the city’s history and points of interest.

On Eyre Square (aka the John F. Kennedy Memorial Park and simply “The Square” by locals) are 14 flags representing the 14 clans or tribes that governed the city in the past. On the walking tour, we visited the courthouse, the cathedral, the old port, the Spanish Arch, the old city, and St. Nicolas church which Cromwell used as a stable to show his contempt of the Catholic Church.

According to legend, the Lynch Window (right) is the origin of “lynching”. During the 15th century, James Lynch was mayor of Galway. His son committed a murder (various stories why/how). James the senior believed that everyone should be treated equally under law, and death was the penalty for murder. Though the younger man’s friends tried to intercede and prevent the hanging, the father placed a rope around his son’s neck and threw him out of the family home’s second-floor window, proving that no one was above the law.

After the tour, we visited the Museum (free) and walked in the old part of the city. Since this is race week, the city was filled with tourists; hardly a seat was free in the cafes and restaurants. The layout of this part of the city has not changed since the city was walled in: the roads are narrow, the buildings are original stone, and even some of the light fixtures are converted gas lamps. Many modernized interiors retain original beams and flooring, making this part of the city very attractive.

In this part of Galway City, there are people playing the harp, penny whistle, or guitar; mimes standing so still they earn the name “living statues”, and a sand sculptor creating this realistic-looking dog.

At the Visitor Office, we researched what to do next. I am becoming a wimp and do not want to hike and camp in the cold rain, which is the prediction for the next few days. We decided to go to Clifden where there are accommodations and many circular walking trips to points of interest. Even if it pours, we can warm up in the shower and dry off overnight. What a princess I’ve become!

For dinner we both had Irish lamb…simply delightful…and a meal anyone visiting this part of Ireland should sample.

July 29: Galway

We arrived in Galway yesterday on the 5 P.M train from Dublin and tried to find our way to the B & B in Salt Hill, an area “just a 5-minutes drive from downtown center.” With lack of street signs and our need to constantly asked for directions, it took us nearly one-and-a-half hours to hoof the 2 miles. After settling in, we went to Salt Hill to walk on the beach, see the sights, and grab some grub. On the way, we purchased a full-day tour to The Cliffs of Moher and the Burren.

At this morning’s breakfast we were treated with a full rainbow, a harbinger of how great our day would be. The rain fortuitously came when we were on the bus or inside a building and the sun came out when we needed it.

The Burren in County Clare boasts a unique limestone landscape. There are rocks everywhere! Our first stop was the Connolly Family Farm, an actual working ranch. Derrick, the guide and nephew of the owner, told us that the land and mountains are owned by the farmers, not by the state as in other countries. The limestone makes for very fertile soil, ideal for cattle grazing. In the past fifty years, a reforestation has increased the amount of trees from 3 to 15 percent, mostly fir. Though the ubiquitous rock walls divide property, the rock walls over the mountains (see picture above) do not; they were built during the potato famine. The purpose of these ‘famine walls’ was to create employment for and provide income to the starving communities at the time of the potato famine. They divide nothing from nothing. Prior to the famine, Ireland had 9 million people. During the famine 2 million died from starvation and its related diseases and 2 million emigrated to other countries. You could hear the emotion in the guide’s voice…it is still difficult for the Irish to think about the famine, knowing that during that time (1845 to 1852) Ireland, then under British rule, exported large amounts of food to the English and their colonies.

In Lisdoonvarna, we saw The Matchmaker Bar. Every year in September and October, there is the Matchmaker Festival, a tradition for hundreds of years when farmers would come to this site to find a wife. If they failed to find a suitable partner, they would return to their fields until the following year. If interested, the festival this year is between 31 August 2013 and 07 October 2013.

The Cliffs of Moher is an “awesome natural spectacle.” The cliffs rise 650 ft above the sea and stretch for five miles. We were fortunate to have a clear day; it is often fogged in. I saw a Peregrine falcon, but not the orange-beaked puffins known to this region. The ride to the cliffs was an adventure and I have a lot of respect for the bus drivers that manipulate the narrow winding roads, competing with cars, trucks, and other buses for the tiny lane.

We stopped for a photo shoot at a 16th century Dunguire Castle. It is now open to the public for medieval banquets. Don’t we look the happy couple?

We returned to Salt Hill and ate at a Russian restaurant, a first for me. We were both delighted with the fare.

July 26: Aberdovey

Glorious day all around. Cloudless deep-blue skies and mild temperatures (mid-60s to start, and then lower 70s) made this the perfect day to explore Aberdovey. As we waited for the bus, a local to Plas Panteidal (where we are staying) offered us a ride into town. I love how helpful people are in Wales. The town is only a five-minute ride away, but the road is so narrow and windy that walking on it is prohibited.

This coastal village is much richer than Tywyn, very upper scale. It has 840 inhabitants, fewer than it had about 150 years ago. A third of the population is retired, and 40% of the homes are holiday rentals or second homes. The shops and restaurants are expensive, as are those in most resort towns. Two pubs and the library have WiFi.(Guess which we picked).

At the pub, I had a tasty carrot and coriander soup with a warm baguette and creamery Welsh butter, so much better than the one at home.

On the pier was an Outward Bound class teaching the students how to jump off the dock. The youngsters wore diving pants and boots since the Atlantic water here is as cold as that at Old Orchard Beach, Maine. This young lady jumped without hesitation, while others needed coaxing and screamed in terror.

After we returned to the cottage, we cleaned and prepared for our departure in the morning, heading to Holyhead to take the ferry to Ireland. I will again be entering a new country.

July 25: Tywyn

Today started off rainy and cool (upper 60s), but ended up glorious. We hoofed the mile to the road, and then waited almost an hour for the bus to Tywyn. (toe-in). This seaside town does not have the charm of Machynlleth, but it did have a few interesting buildings. The Market Hall (left), once known for its great bargains, is a recent construction (1898) and is still used as a market. On the other hand, the Assembly Room (right) is now a movie theater.

St. Cadfan’s Church, originally built of wood, was destroyed during Viking raids, and then rebuilt of stone during the mid 12^th century. In 1692, the tower collapsed, burying the altar and the 13^th century Sanctus Bell, which was recovered in 1811 when the church was fully renovated. Inside the church is the Cadfan Stone; the inscriptions on its four sides are considered some of the oldest written Welsh.

There are two train stations in Tywyn: the commute train, and the Pendre Station, home of the Tal-y-llyn (tal-a-thlin) railway, the world’s first narrow-gauge, steam-engine locomotive; it was designed to carry passengers and slate. This “great little train” is now maintained by steam-engine enthusiasts and is the first railway in the world to be saved and restored for the tourist industry. At one stop, the Cei Tywyn station, a museum houses Britain’s best collection of narrow-gauge artifacts.

Instead of taking this train, we did the Pendre Station Walk, an easy four-mile stroll through the valley. It was quite enjoyable; with the clouds gone and the air warmed to mid 70s, I was able to take off my jacket. This is the weather that Dennis likes–cool and dry, whereas I like it much warmer.

We passed through a “kissing gate”:

We met several anglers along the Afon Dysynni (avvonn duss-unny), but the fish weren’t biting. It was breezy along the river, and a red sailboat glided along on slightly choppy water. We only saw one swimmer, even though it is mid-summer.

There were few walkers along the path. Passing a family of three, I noticed that all were wearing long-sleeves. Since Dennis often kids me about being a chilly-willy, I felt vindicated in that I was sleeveless.

Entering a wood, we came upon signage describing the Ynysymaengwyn (unniss-mine-gwinn) Manor. We asked a local how to pronounce the name. Once it rolled of her tongue, Dennis said “Well, that’s obvious.” We all laughed.

The manor was used by refugees after WWI and as a camp for the Royal Marines during WWII. In 1948, the estate was given to the Tywyn Council. Since it was in disrepair, it was burnt as a exercise for the local fire department, and then flattened by the army.

Most of the buildings are now in ruins. There remains an eight- or 10-foot high wall with several arched entrances. Inside, is a mowed field about the size of an acre with picnic tables strewn about. We did not explore all the pathways and gardens, but we did pass the dovecote, a building for domestic pigeons (see below). Looking at the building makes me wonder how many birds were kept here.

When I was in Spain, I enjoyed Principe Cookies. I have found a new love, a chocolate ginger biscuit by Border. The box describes the cookie as “The perfect balance of crisp crunchy ginger biscuit and devilishly dark chocolate…If our Dark Chocolate Gingers banged your gong, you can vote for them at …” Guess I will do this, once I have WiFi access.

July 24: Machynlleth

We took the local bus into Machynlleth (mack-unth-leth); the bus drivers are skilled in maneuvering the bus on narrow and winding roads, sometimes skimming the bushes as we passed the on-coming vehicles. I think I have been walking too long; riding in a vehicle seems very fast, almost scary.

Welsh names are difficult to pronounce, even for the English. Recently there was a kidnapping and murder in this town, and the newscasters really messed up the pronunciation, so much so that at least three people told me about it.

The clock tower (77 ft.) is the most imposing structure in town. Constructed in 1874, the tower is a relative newcomer to the town that traces its Celtics origins to 500 B.C., and meriting it the title as the historical capital of Wales.

There are prehistoric ruins, remains of an old circular Celtic fort, Roman roads and bridges, and ecclesiastical references dating back to 1201. The language spoken in town is a modernized language of the Celts and is one of Europe’s oldest living languages. On the return bus, Dennis asked a woman sitting beside him if the 3- and 5-year-old children spoke Welsh, and she replied that they spoke it better than she since she was originally from “down south.”

Celtica (right) was erected in 1653, but it has been refurbished several times and is now a historical and interpretive museum of the history of the Celts, and its archives are available to anyone interested in Celtic history and culture.

Wednesday is market day, and vendors set up stalls to sell vegetables, meat, fish, bara brith (spicy fruit loaves), dishes, clothing, hardware—just about everything. There are also many independent shops selling local food, colorful fabrics, and clothes and several cafes and eateries, a few with WiFi. you can enjoy local lamb, tasty Welsh cheese (mostly cheddar), creamy yogurts, and potent beer.

Since there were marketers in front of the parliament building, we took a photo of the backside. This stone edifice was built in the early 1400s to commemorate the site of the Welsh senedd-dy which convened in 1404 to elect Owain Glyndwr, a Welsh hero, as the leader and is the start of an independent Wales. This was 600 years before the current parliament.

The buildings in town demonstrate the town’s long history. Some buildings are a mixture of the old and new (to the right is the terracotta entrance to the smithy, which is now a private home); old stone buildings abut Victorian shops; and a Georgian style hotel and gentry homes make the town very quaint with its rich architectural variety.

Below are pictures of the two main streets. On the right, you are looking down Hael Maengwyn; on the left, you are looking up Hael Penrallt.