Having basically exhausted the low-hanging fruit near our hotel in Letterfrack, we looked around at options for a day trip further afield. I had originally wanted to see the Cliffs of Moher, but it just seemed too far to go in one day after all of the driving we had already been doing. I also figured that if we ever go back to Ireland, that general area is the most likely place we’d look to stay. Fortunately, we were only about two hours away from the Aran Islands (one hour by car to the ferry port, and then one hour by ferry). The Aran Islands are pretty scrappy, desolate places, but the largest– Inishmore– is popular with tourists because of its Bronze and Iron Age hill fort. Sounds good, we’re in.
Our ferry arrived with probably a hundred or people in it in Inishmore’s “town” which was basically a couple of bike rental places, two or three restaurants, a hotel, and a couple of wool stores. The best way to see all of the sights on Inishmore probably would have been to jump into a minibus and go for a tour. But would it have been the most fun? We didn’t think so, so we rented some bikes. It turns out bikes that spend their entire lives being abused by tourists on a wet, salty island are not exactly top-notch riding. We set off toward Dun Aengus, the hill fort, and I immediately regretted getting the bikes. There was a cold wind blowing, which caused an agonizing pain in my ears that I’ve never experienced before. It took me about 10 minutes to realize I needed to put my hood up and tie it as tightly around my face as possible, but suffice to say I was NOT a happy camper. I basically wanted to get to where we were going as fast as humanly possible on a rusted out bike (that’s me pedaling ahead of Severin below).
Eventually we arrived at a small parking lot and dumped our bikes– thank god. Then we started picking our way up a deceptively big hill toward Dun Aengus. Along the way, we were warned of the perils that await: falling of a cliff with water below, falling of a wall, slipping on rocks, tripping on rocks, going up stairs, falling down stairs, falling off a cliff with no water below, and hitting our head on things. Because they can’t just say, “be careful.”
If you could get a bird’s eye view of Dun Aengus, it is comprised of four concentric defensive walls perched on a 100 meter cliff. Apparently they used to form a complete circle (or oval), but the cliffs on one side have collapsed and so now they form a “U” with an ocean/cliff view. The walls are 2500 years old!
My poor handsome husband, I am always hollering at him to get in my pictures so I can show scale. And if I’m not hollering for him to get in the pictures, I’m hollering for him to get out of them. He humors me.
These rocks were scattered outside the walls. It’s not actually a natural formation, but a defensive tactic which makes the land impassable known as a cheval de frise. It is typical of Iron Age forts in Northern Europe, apparently.
And here are a few snaps of the (natural) hillside to get you a sense of how rugged this place is:
Rocks up close– the little crevices are apparently called “gricks.”
Of course I wanted to see the Cliffs of Moher, but I figured this was a pretty good compromise. The cliffs were 100 meters tall in some places, and you could walk right up to the edge– no ropes, no fences, no nothing. With the sheer drop and wind blowing, it gave “dizzying heights” a new meaning!
Having seen what we set out to see, we made our way back to the port to find some lunch. It turns out we took the wrong route to get to Dun Aengus– well, not so much wrong so much as hillier, and without the sea views. The easier ride (and having figured out the hood trick for my ears) put me in a much better mood and I was able to enjoy the ride back a bit more (which means Severin probably did, too!) We had lunch and checked out one of the wool shops, where I bought my mom some mucklucks. Once I was warmly re-ensconced on the ferry, the ocean rocked me to sleep and I slept the whole way home.
