The Bloody Foreland
The plan for Tuesday was to explore every tiny road to nowhere on our segment of the map. I'm exaggerating, but not by much. We went out toward Glencolumbkille , stopping to explore dead-end roads and sieze photographic opportunities along the way. I persuaded Peter to make a detour into the Folk Village and Museum, a collection of cottages that portray village life in 1720, 1820 and 1920. It was interesting to see the changes between the cottages and compare them to modern life.
The museum also honored Father McDyer, the village priest in the 1960s who brought electricity to the area and helped preserve the village. That aspect of the museum was a bit creepy, like a cult of personality, especially the building that had all these displays on the guy's life that you could walk through while a mannequin of the guy sat at the front of the room watching you. Weird.
After the museum, we headed out to a few more sights of photographic interest. We followed a long, narrow, twisty road that bore absolutely no resemblence to our map to a small
on the water. It was beautiful and pretty much deserted. Peter didn't like the way any of his photographs from here turned out but I like this one. We checked out the
and the
We also saw a lot of sheep. The Fodor's guide said that in parts of Donegal, it wasn't unusual to find sheep on the road and have them look at you like you were in the wrong place.
Our other major photographic opportunity was the area in and around 24,000 acres of isolated mountain and forest beauty. The weather was not cooperating as it was dark, grey and threatening to rain, so Peter wasn't able to take many photographs. I've no doubt we'll be back there soon, particularly to photograph Mount Errigal.
Glenveigh was originally the estate of John Adair, whom the Fodor's book describes as "a ruthless gentleman farmer", a phrase that has oxymoron written all over it. Adair didn't appreciate having his tenant farmers ruining his view of the valley, so in 1861 he evicted them all without any sort of compensation. Fodor's also says that he destroyed all the tenant cottages, but with the number of abandoned cottage ruins with trees growing out of them, it makes me wonder if Adair got to all of them.
We did make a brief stop in the guest centre at Glenveigh because the trusty Lonely Planet guide informed us that we could buy midge repellent there. (In case you're ever there, wandering around and looking for a shop, the midge repellent is sold from wall-mounted vending machines next to the information desk. Bring 2 euro coins.) To get to the centre, we had to park the car and walk along a brick-paved walkway.
We were walking along when a pack of pigs rounded the corner at the far end of the walkway and headed right toward us. There were about 5 or 6 of them and they were small, maybe the size of a West Highland white terrier. I got within a of them before they plunged into the
snorting and rooting around for food. It was an unexpected highlight of the trip, especially after I'd been cheated at Moher Hill.
Midge repellent in hand, we set out to check out the mountains and then continued to the coast road and headed up to the small hotel we'd booked a room in - the Foreland Heights Hotel on the Bloody Foreland. Before you go thinking the area got its name from a mythic battle or an insurgency, it's because the setting sun makes the rocks look red. We thought this sounded like an ideal photographic opportunity, which it would have been if we'd been able to see the sun at all. After a couple of good days, the weather had well and truly turned on us.
We checked into the hotel and then went out for a drive up the north way. We'd come from the south, where a profusion of holiday cottages had ruined the views. The north way was much more deserted, a fact that we'd later wish we'd noticed better. We did a scenic tour around Mount Muckish and then had dinner at a pizza place in Gortahork.
It was completely dark and raining when we left Gortahork (cue creepy music). Our first problem was that I'd forgotten we were going back the northern route and was expecting a lot of holiday cottages. Our second problem was that Peter made a couple of turns where he'd go for a little bit, second-guess himself and then turn us around and head back to the last intersection. Our third problem is that it was very dark and some of the roads felt like they were going nowhere, or at least nowhere good.
I was trying to keep it together but I wasn't doing a great job. I don't like getting lost, especially not in the dark in the middle of nowhere. I didn't want to end up in the Irish version of Deliverance. I also didn't want to drive off a cliff or hit a sheep or become "carnage on the road" as the radio and TV reporters always say. And remember, it's not like there are gas stations and quicky-marts to stop for directions.
Peter became convinced that he knew where we were and that dark-scary-road-to-nowhere would take us back to our hotel. My eyes were glued to the map. I was looking at the inviting green-and-white striped secondary road and comparing it to the yellow squiggle of a country road that we were on. The green-and-white would take us to the orange road in the south that we'd used to get to the hotel that afternoon. The orange road that was lined with holiday homes and had occasional bursts of civilisation, like petrol stations and sweater outlets. Guess which route I wanted to take.
Now, I want you to stop for a minute and appreciate Peter's position. He'd spent all day driving. He was exhausted and eager to get to sleep. It was dark and misty, the rain was blowing sideways. He was convinced that he knew where he was and that he could be home in about 10 or 15 minutes. Going my way would significantly lengthen the trip and the only benefit would be to me, that it would make me feel a bit more comfortable.
It is a credit to Peter's empathy and loving character that he turned the car around and went my way. It is a sad trick of fate that my way sucked so bad. I blame myself and my scaredy-cat nature foremost, but the Irish road-labeling system and woefully inaccurate map industry are close behind.
On the map, it looked like the green-and-white road would take us to Gweedore quite nicely and efficiently. It didn't look like we'd encounter cross-roads and if we did, it should be obvious which road was ours. Right? Not quite. We blew through a couple of cross-roads and none of them were marked, leading us to believe that the side-streets were merely residential streets, not thorough fares.
Then, we got to a marked intersection that had a sign pointing to Bunbeg, 3 km. Fantastic, right near where we needed to be. Only we had no way of knowing if the sign was pointed in the right direction. Ireland still uses the quaint arrow-shaped signs on a single pole for marking direction. In theory (and in postcards), these look great. They show you which direction to go. In practice, a strong gust of wind or a couple of bored teenagers can turn the sign around without much effort. Sure, you think you're going to Bunbeg but really your car is straining up a steep hill and edging along narrow country roads, sure you've found a short cut when really all you've found is the path to a cul de sac or a dark middle-of-nowhere outpost.
We finally ended up in Derrybeg, which was good because it was quite near to our hotel. It was bad though because we never went through Gweedore or Bunbeg like we should have, so we were never on the roads we should have been on. Our arriving close to our hotel was just a matter of desperately needed luck.
At the hotel, I sent Peter upstairs to the room so that I could settle the bill, in case we wanted to leave early to photograph the sunrise. Reception was empty so I rang the bell and waited. Then I rang the bell a little more and waited some more. I rinsed and repeated a third time before deciding to have a look for someone. I went through the empty restaurant, which didn't feel strange because they'd stopped serving dinner an hour before. I walked down the long, narrow corridor to get to the bar. The hallway was dimly lit and had various doors leading to the kitchen, bathrooms, etc. Some of these doors seemed to creak and move a little on their hinges. An objective scientific mind would tell you that this was because of pressure differentials from an open outside door or wind or whatever. A less objective, borderline hysterical mind like mine would just tell you that it was really damn creepy.
And it was made even creepier by the fact that the bar was empty. Completely empty. No bar man, no waitress, no crusty auld fella holding the bar up. Nothing. Not only that, there was no evidence that there had been anyone in the bar the whole night. In Ireland, this is just plain wrong. On my hurried walk back through the scary hallway, it struck me that this isolated resort hotel was the perfect location for the Irish version of The Shining.
I spent the rest of the night in restless sleep, half-convinced that each time I got up to use the bathroom, I'd see those creepy twin girls from the movie. It was all too easy to think that an empty hotel in an area called the Bloody Foreland could host all sorts of delusion-inspired violence.
The museum also honored Father McDyer, the village priest in the 1960s who brought electricity to the area and helped preserve the village. That aspect of the museum was a bit creepy, like a cult of personality, especially the building that had all these displays on the guy's life that you could walk through while a mannequin of the guy sat at the front of the room watching you. Weird.
After the museum, we headed out to a few more sights of photographic interest. We followed a long, narrow, twisty road that bore absolutely no resemblence to our map to a small
on the water. It was beautiful and pretty much deserted. Peter didn't like the way any of his photographs from here turned out but I like this one. We checked out the
and the
We also saw a lot of sheep. The Fodor's guide said that in parts of Donegal, it wasn't unusual to find sheep on the road and have them look at you like you were in the wrong place.
Our other major photographic opportunity was the area in and around 24,000 acres of isolated mountain and forest beauty. The weather was not cooperating as it was dark, grey and threatening to rain, so Peter wasn't able to take many photographs. I've no doubt we'll be back there soon, particularly to photograph Mount Errigal.
Glenveigh was originally the estate of John Adair, whom the Fodor's book describes as "a ruthless gentleman farmer", a phrase that has oxymoron written all over it. Adair didn't appreciate having his tenant farmers ruining his view of the valley, so in 1861 he evicted them all without any sort of compensation. Fodor's also says that he destroyed all the tenant cottages, but with the number of abandoned cottage ruins with trees growing out of them, it makes me wonder if Adair got to all of them.
We did make a brief stop in the guest centre at Glenveigh because the trusty Lonely Planet guide informed us that we could buy midge repellent there. (In case you're ever there, wandering around and looking for a shop, the midge repellent is sold from wall-mounted vending machines next to the information desk. Bring 2 euro coins.) To get to the centre, we had to park the car and walk along a brick-paved walkway.
We were walking along when a pack of pigs rounded the corner at the far end of the walkway and headed right toward us. There were about 5 or 6 of them and they were small, maybe the size of a West Highland white terrier. I got within a of them before they plunged into the
snorting and rooting around for food. It was an unexpected highlight of the trip, especially after I'd been cheated at Moher Hill.
Midge repellent in hand, we set out to check out the mountains and then continued to the coast road and headed up to the small hotel we'd booked a room in - the Foreland Heights Hotel on the Bloody Foreland. Before you go thinking the area got its name from a mythic battle or an insurgency, it's because the setting sun makes the rocks look red. We thought this sounded like an ideal photographic opportunity, which it would have been if we'd been able to see the sun at all. After a couple of good days, the weather had well and truly turned on us.
We checked into the hotel and then went out for a drive up the north way. We'd come from the south, where a profusion of holiday cottages had ruined the views. The north way was much more deserted, a fact that we'd later wish we'd noticed better. We did a scenic tour around Mount Muckish and then had dinner at a pizza place in Gortahork.
It was completely dark and raining when we left Gortahork (cue creepy music). Our first problem was that I'd forgotten we were going back the northern route and was expecting a lot of holiday cottages. Our second problem was that Peter made a couple of turns where he'd go for a little bit, second-guess himself and then turn us around and head back to the last intersection. Our third problem is that it was very dark and some of the roads felt like they were going nowhere, or at least nowhere good.
I was trying to keep it together but I wasn't doing a great job. I don't like getting lost, especially not in the dark in the middle of nowhere. I didn't want to end up in the Irish version of Deliverance. I also didn't want to drive off a cliff or hit a sheep or become "carnage on the road" as the radio and TV reporters always say. And remember, it's not like there are gas stations and quicky-marts to stop for directions.
Peter became convinced that he knew where we were and that dark-scary-road-to-nowhere would take us back to our hotel. My eyes were glued to the map. I was looking at the inviting green-and-white striped secondary road and comparing it to the yellow squiggle of a country road that we were on. The green-and-white would take us to the orange road in the south that we'd used to get to the hotel that afternoon. The orange road that was lined with holiday homes and had occasional bursts of civilisation, like petrol stations and sweater outlets. Guess which route I wanted to take.
Now, I want you to stop for a minute and appreciate Peter's position. He'd spent all day driving. He was exhausted and eager to get to sleep. It was dark and misty, the rain was blowing sideways. He was convinced that he knew where he was and that he could be home in about 10 or 15 minutes. Going my way would significantly lengthen the trip and the only benefit would be to me, that it would make me feel a bit more comfortable.
It is a credit to Peter's empathy and loving character that he turned the car around and went my way. It is a sad trick of fate that my way sucked so bad. I blame myself and my scaredy-cat nature foremost, but the Irish road-labeling system and woefully inaccurate map industry are close behind.
On the map, it looked like the green-and-white road would take us to Gweedore quite nicely and efficiently. It didn't look like we'd encounter cross-roads and if we did, it should be obvious which road was ours. Right? Not quite. We blew through a couple of cross-roads and none of them were marked, leading us to believe that the side-streets were merely residential streets, not thorough fares.
Then, we got to a marked intersection that had a sign pointing to Bunbeg, 3 km. Fantastic, right near where we needed to be. Only we had no way of knowing if the sign was pointed in the right direction. Ireland still uses the quaint arrow-shaped signs on a single pole for marking direction. In theory (and in postcards), these look great. They show you which direction to go. In practice, a strong gust of wind or a couple of bored teenagers can turn the sign around without much effort. Sure, you think you're going to Bunbeg but really your car is straining up a steep hill and edging along narrow country roads, sure you've found a short cut when really all you've found is the path to a cul de sac or a dark middle-of-nowhere outpost.
We finally ended up in Derrybeg, which was good because it was quite near to our hotel. It was bad though because we never went through Gweedore or Bunbeg like we should have, so we were never on the roads we should have been on. Our arriving close to our hotel was just a matter of desperately needed luck.
At the hotel, I sent Peter upstairs to the room so that I could settle the bill, in case we wanted to leave early to photograph the sunrise. Reception was empty so I rang the bell and waited. Then I rang the bell a little more and waited some more. I rinsed and repeated a third time before deciding to have a look for someone. I went through the empty restaurant, which didn't feel strange because they'd stopped serving dinner an hour before. I walked down the long, narrow corridor to get to the bar. The hallway was dimly lit and had various doors leading to the kitchen, bathrooms, etc. Some of these doors seemed to creak and move a little on their hinges. An objective scientific mind would tell you that this was because of pressure differentials from an open outside door or wind or whatever. A less objective, borderline hysterical mind like mine would just tell you that it was really damn creepy.
And it was made even creepier by the fact that the bar was empty. Completely empty. No bar man, no waitress, no crusty auld fella holding the bar up. Nothing. Not only that, there was no evidence that there had been anyone in the bar the whole night. In Ireland, this is just plain wrong. On my hurried walk back through the scary hallway, it struck me that this isolated resort hotel was the perfect location for the Irish version of The Shining.
I spent the rest of the night in restless sleep, half-convinced that each time I got up to use the bathroom, I'd see those creepy twin girls from the movie. It was all too easy to think that an empty hotel in an area called the Bloody Foreland could host all sorts of delusion-inspired violence.
posted by -Ann at
12:52 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home