Emerald Isle Adventure

Part III (conclusion): The Land of Éire

This is Part 3 of a story about a traveler & his childhood friend whose best-laid plans go astray to make room for the sanctity of adventure.

You don’t have to read Part I (An Oaf in Cork City) or Part II (The Tourist, the Hiker, the Traveler) to make sense of this piece, but I don’t intend to start disrespecting the storytelling rule of three.

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1

The Irish people are known to be gifted storytellers. Perhaps it’s their connection to the island’s primordial history, which in turn informs their wondrous demeanor. Or perhaps it’s because the Irish embody an intrinsic truth that those preoccupied with strict definitions of self—ethnic, cultural, or otherwise—often overlook: just as much as genetic code and ancestral history shapes us, how we choose to interact with others on a daily basis makes up the core of our identity.

“So you kissed the Blarney Stone, did you?” Gene’s Irish accent cuts through the sound of the wind in my open window. “Did you enjoy being upside down?”

I lean my head out of the window to see if the two female hitchhikers are still waiting at the bend.

“Oh, not to worry,” Gene handles the winding road leading out of Glengarrif with ease. “They’ll have found their way to Castletownbere by now—that’s Baile Chaisleáin Bhéarra in Irish. It’s just as safe as ever to hitch a ride in West Cork.”

The verdant landscape rushes past the window, brushstrokes of green just beyond the windowpane. As Gene navigates the undulating coastal landscape, I shift my focus to the sun, to the way it glistens off the ocean, to the weight of the white cumulous clouds dolloping the sky, which hangs like an impressionist painting above the land of Ireland Éire and its ancient beauty.

the weight of the white cumulous clouds dolloping the sky

2

This land has been called many different names by many different people over many thousands of years. C. S. Lewis even invented his own name for this place: Narnia. Yes, the story of Éire is as fantastical as Aslan’s. "The history dates back to neolithic times,” Gene tells us, “and further back still. Did you know there was once a bridge of ice connecting my homeland to present-day Scotland? 15,000 years ago. Imagine that.”

We wind through sleepy seaside villages nestled into rocky, fallow bluffs. We pick up speed to climb the hills where blooming meadows of golden buttercups are waiting. With a vantage point over the landscape, Zach and I can’t help but remain silent at our windows, lapping up the exquisite, bucolic sight of white clusters grazing fertile grass below, flocks of sheep who spend their lives communing outdoors.

“The government has programs for shepherds to come down here to harvest the wool and the meat,” Gene says. “But the sea is what has fed this region, historically. Of course, everything’s changing now. The fishermen’s quality of life isn’t getting any better, is it?  Just like the Irish language, the fish, too, are disappearing.”

“Most of the sea creatures in the bay—white fish, crab, lobster—are overfished and sent to Spain or France. Everyone’s eating the local fare but the Irish these days, it seems. Did you know it’s cheaper for local restaurants to buy from the continent? Makes no sense, does it? Buying from France instead of right outside our front door! But that’s the way it goes. It’s a hard life out on the sea, always has been, always will be. Still a beautiful place, though. Over the hill, just up here, you’ll see what makes this particular coastline famous.”

The van climbs up a steep country road that wraps around a high hill like a scarf. I lean forward in the passenger’s seat to look out over the windshield, and there, from on high, looking out towards the ocean, it’s as if our van were descending straight down into the churning waters of Bantry Bay.

A view of Éire from Oiléan Béarra (Bere Island)

3

“Welcome to Bá Bheanntraí, my friends. The British occupied Bare Island until 1930,” Gene points out tomorrow’s hiking location. “One of the deepest harbors in the world, if you can believe it. You see those ships out there on the horizon? Some of the largest shipping vessels in the world.”

We pass a majestic home perched on a cliff overlooking the whitecaps. “A friend of mine bought it for cheap, just over seventy grand, or so he says. Used to be an old schoolhouse. He fixed it up proper and turned it into a vacation home. You can’t beat the view, can you? Blue as far as the eye can see.”

As we approach the town of Castletownbere, Gene points to a small mountain on the horizon. “Made of limestone, that. Dates back three or four million years. But don’t ask me what came before—I wasn't around!"

“Grew up in Glengarriff, of course. Used to meet lots of folk like yourselves—Americans, French, Russians, beauties from South America … most of the lads were too afraid to speak to ‘em, but not me. Ah, it was a different time. I’ve been happily married for forty-two years now. My sweet Eleonore. She’s Swiss and she puts me to shame—speaks about six languages.”

I ask Gene how they met.

“Our story began in a pub like so many good stories often do,” he playfully leans forward on the steering wheel. “As soon as she walked in, I knew I had to say something, and when she asked who I was, I said, ‘I’m not quite sure who I am just yet, but I’m sure as hell ready to find out.’ She liked that, she did.”

And now I ask Gene what I always ask people who’ve been in love for so many decades.

“The secret? Don’t drink too much … at least when the missus is around! I’m only joking—or half joking. You’ve got to enjoy it, don’t you? Don’t take yourself too seriously. But also, seriously: don’t drink too much. Back in the seventies, things were different, of course. You could travel all across the world by yourself, no problem. Visitors would come here to hike the peninsula and get a taste of the Irish countryside. Back then, if you were brave enough, you’d see a beautiful traveler walk into the pub—from South America, say—and you’d say hello and introduce yourself and see where the night led.”

“And where would those nights lead?” Zach asks from the backseat.

Gene’s smile is reflected in the rearview mirror. The joy of his life is visible in his eyes; the light shines through, somehow, like the sun slicing into the sea. “Most of the time, those nights led to the nearest hay shed,” Gene laughs. “That was a different time, of course. But there’s no harm in reminiscing.”

4

I’m sitting in a pub called McCarthy’s now, writing down what came before. Zach takes a blurry picture of me.

On the wall is an official-looking metallic placard that says this pub has been granted the James Joyce Pub Award for being an authentic Irish pub: “this establishment remains an outstanding example of the tradition which Joyce immortalized in his works."

So what is that tradition? Perhaps honesty. Authenticity. Candidness. Real life. There's certainly a feeling of belonging to the human story here at McCarthy’s Pub in Castletownbere.

I step outside to take in the sea air. The sun is still shining and the wind is cool and the village is almost empty, and I feel wholly present alive with each successive sip of my perfectly poured Guinness (three pours, not two). When the clouds finally obscure the warmth, I return inside for another pint. Yes, I’m in a bar at the edge of a continent and I feel deeply at home, surrounded by wooden walls that have heard far better stories than even James Joyce could tell.

A vintage poster from the 18th century details the bar’s house rules:

NO THIEVES, FAKIRS, ROGUES, or TINKERS

NO SKUKLING LOAFERS or FLEA-BITTEN TRAMPS

NO ‘SLAP AN’ TICKLE O’THE WENCHES

NO BANGING O’TANKARDS on the TABLES

NO DOGS ALLOWED IN THE KITCHEN, NO COCKFIGHTING

FLINTLOCKS, CUDGELS, DAGGERS and SWORDS to be handed to the INKEEPER for safe-keeping.

I commit it to memory with my pen before joining Zach in a game of cards. We while away the hours over slow pints of Guinness, the conversation ebbing and flowing like the tides from our perch atop our barstools.

5

Hours later, Adrienne, the owner of McCarthy’s, offers us a parting glass of West Cork Irish Whiskey aged in an IPA cask. It’s warm and sweet, like syrup, but also salty, like the sea. 

Over our last glass of whiskey, we chat with Adrienne and other locals who are charming and mysterious. A young bearded man at a corner table looks at us askance. Perhaps he thinks we’re pirates, or fakirs, or rogues, or skulking loafers. One of his friends decides to investigate, approaching the bar with a tipsy smile. “The name’s Daniel,” he holds out his hand. His West Cork accent is thick. “So who are ya? And where are ya lads from? And how’ve you been!”  

A few minutes later, Daniel has bought me another whiskey, and only now do I realize I haven’t eaten since breakfast. My head is starting to swim.

“Ah, yes, get yourself some food. Wise lad,” Daniel says. “Head down to Murphy’s for a bite, it’s the best crack, they’ll sort you out. But come back afterward, if you want. Best crack in town, this is. Just enjoy the fuck out of it.”  

Halfway out the door, Daniel playfully grabs my forearm and tries to get me to sit down with his friends. “Spout your shit,” Daniel says. “This one’s a writer, or so he says! Go on, tell ‘em Sam,” but I know if I sit down now, tomorrow’s hangover will ruin the magic of tomorrow’s hike.  

“Of course. Get yourself a burger. Wise lad,” Daniel repeats. “Come back afterward and have a drink if you fancy. Just enjoy it. Spout your shit. So you’re hiking Bere Island, is it? The short loop or the long one? Get the early ferry is my advice. Best to start early in case of rain. But you lads seem lucky. There’ll be sun yet, not to fear.”

We float down the street to Murphy’s Restaurant. The owner is less chatty than Adrienne or Daniel, but he’s just as kind. “Every day’s a holiday when you’re on holiday, isn’t it lads? Glad to hear you enjoyed the dinner. Get yourself some sleep before the hike. It’s going to be a beautiful one, it is. Best to make it count.”

6

In the morning, after another homemade Irish breakfast at our bed and breakfast up in the hills, we walk the twenty minutes to the 9 a.m. ferry bound for Bere Island. Only one other person is hiking today, an older gentleman traveling with two hiking poles; he turns left while Zach and I go right.    

I’ve known Zach for thirty-four years, prehistory according to my finite timeline, but it’s been many years since I’ve seen him, and a lifetime since we spent time alone together. Perhaps this is why the hike on Bere Island defies words, summary, or analysis. I can only put one foot in front of the other and breathe, and listen; to describe the towering cliffs around the old lighthouse that we find—to try and give meaning to the sound of the pounding sea as it mists up and over onto the spongy green earth beneath my feet—or to attempt to give personal meaning to the contours of an ancient peninsula at the edge of Narnia, where sheep graze peacefully, where fifteen-thousand years of storytelling has lived—it’s not the point.

The point is we are together again, two childhood friends, reunited on an island in the North Atlantic, sitting atop an emerald isle with our backs mostly straight and forearms resting on our gangly knees. Our bodies are getting older now. Zach’s left foot aches and I have a crick in my right shoulder and an inflamed left wrist from years of writing. So be it.

Storytelling is much like walking through memory, and after so many years apart, I wonder: have we discovered something new about our shared past and respective identities here in the land of Éire? Or are we simply reconnecting with what we know has always been?

If you’re a new paying subscriber, you might consider listening to this classical piano song I wrote to accompany the sounds of an Irish river, because this weekend, you’ll be treated to a new instrumental song + film about my time on Bere Island.