No. Ireland Archives - Woman on Her Way

August 6: Giant’s Causeway Day Tour

We decided to take the Allen’s Tours excursion to Giant’s Causeway, in County Antrim. The bus driver, Ian, was a wealth of information, Irish “craic” (jokes and enjoyable conversation), and “useless bits of information.”

Our first stop along the coastal drive, was at Carrickfergus Castle (left), a 12th century Norman structure and the place that King William III of Orange (aka King Billy) first set foot on Irish soil. This was a photo shoot stop, so we did not tour the interior.

Further up the coast, we stopped at Carrick A Rede where we crossed a death-defying rope bridge 98 ft. above the ocean rocks. It was bouncy and you had to time your pace so you wouldn’t fall; I managed to do it without holding the rope rails, a personal point of pride. According to Ian, no person has fallen from the bridge, only a dog. Now the bridge has two sides and dogs are prohibited from using it.

As we drove towards Antrim, Ian told us about the “Guinness Cows” that munched on grassy hillsides. These black and white cows are Belted Galloways; someone on the bus said they looked like Oreo cookies.

We passed through the nine glens of Antrim. A glen is a valley, typically one that is long, deep, and often glacially U-shaped, often with water running through it. As we admired their rich beauties, Ian regaled us with diverse and magical stories, combining the colorful history, myth and the traditions of the communities within the glens. There were several waterfalls and even a vanishing lake. Lake Laughareema is a “chalk ‘plug hole’ bunged up with peat.” In times of heavy rain, these block up and the lake fills, only to empty again in a matter of days.

The Giant’s Causeway is known for its 40,000 polygonal and interlocking basalt columns, stone formations that resulted from volcanic eruptions 60 million years ago.

The Giant’s Causeway is steeped in myth and legend. Some say it was carved from the coast by the mighty giant, Finn McCool who left behind an ancient home full of folklore including Giant’s Boot, The Wishing Chair, The Camel, Giant’s Granny, and The Organ (below).

There are four stunning trails around the park, but since we were time-limited, we visited the odd-shaped stones, the organ, and then climbed 162 steps to the cliffs. I can see why this geological wonder appeals to so many people with its breathtaking views of jagged cliffs and bays lashed by wind and waves.

Without a watch, I was in a hurry to get back to the bus, not wanting to miss it. Dennis was lollygagging, taking pictures, and enjoying the view. I could not imagine why he was not in a hurry…it never entered my mind that we had plenty of time (15 minutes). When I got to the car park and couldn’t find the bus, I was upset and angry at Dennis for making us miss the bus. Joke on me…but bad karma for rest of day. Dennis must be a saint!

Our last stop was at the Bushmills Distillery. This was basically a photo shoot and tourist attraction, selling Bushmills whiskey and paraphernalia. Dennis and I shared a dram of 12 year old reserve. Since we don’t normally drink whiskey, we could not determine if this was better than others, but it helped improve my mood. Some people purchased a sampler (five shots of various blends). Within about 10 minutes, they consumed the drinks…I wonder if they were able to differentiate between the different liquors.

Below are additional pictures of the Giant’s Causway; it was so spectacular.

August 5: Belfast

We walked into Belfast from our B & B along the coast for 5 miles, and then through the industrial area into the city center. Because of the paved roads, shade, and not wearing backpacks, we managed to hoof it in 1 hour and 40 minutes.

Dennis wanted to see the place his mother was born; the street is now gone. The slaughterhouse across from his mother’s home is now the Castle Court shopping center. The nearby 19th century Smithfield Market is renovated and contains various shops and a cafe.

We went to the library so Dennis could research his father’s stay in Cookstown prior to the Normandy invasion. As luck would have it, he was able to find information. The library had a beautiful rotunda.

We also visited the NI War Memorial, There were exhibitions about the Blitz, the Home Guard, and women during the war effort. Artifacts included the war rations, gas masks that used asbestos, and uniforms that you could try on. The curator was very interesting.

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.