Motoring South toward Limerick, we cruised across the Burren, a rocky area known for its flowers and cows. The cows, particularly, were a welcome sight, as they’re (a) fairly picturesque, (b) stay the hell off the roads at night and (c) make for some outstanding steaks — most of the non-seafood (and even some of the seafood) restaurants were justifiably proud of their Irish beef. One supposes that this is in contrast to any English beef that might have snuck in (such that survived the bolt guns and hoof & mouth disease incinerator pits, that is) but these cows looked decidedly content (except for the odd animal running like mad for shelter under a snap downpour.)
Must-sees are mainly…the burren. Just drive through it and take pictures. It’s like taking a trip through any beautiful area full of quaint little towns. The main activities appear to be sight-seeing and drinking, which is just fine. And the cliffs of Mohare, of course. They’re full of tourists in August — unlike when Karin went in winter, at which point large bits of the viewing areas were apparently closed off so as to avoid having unsuspecting tourists swept into the swell down below. Asking the locals about this elicits a fairly no-nonsense response; “ah, swept off, yeh, that can happen.” Whee! Splash.
All around are also eery ruined small castles and tower houses, tall hollow structures that once served some defensive purpose; Blarney castle in the far South is one of the largest and best-known of these. Far fewer grand estates than I would have imagined — apparently these exist elsewhere, but have mainly been turned into expensive hotels. Then again, you wouldn’t necessarily envision the fifteenth baron of F’tang F’tang Olay Biscuit Barrel Jones spending a week or two in a bumpy carriage to from London, the center of the known universe, just to go sit in his study with his trusty sheep dog, occasionally stepping out to take potshots at local farmers from the balcony. The roads nowadays are occasionally dodgy enough.
So, absent a lot of huge manor houses, and given the magnificent (I have been trying to avoid the use of the phrase “wind-swept”, but this is best describes the neighborhood) sea- and countryside, some outfit from South Carolina decided to plunk down a fake estate and golf course right by a protected expanse of dunes — convenient, insofar as the cordoned off nature preserve at least prevents undesirables entering the links from the amazing crescent of beach. Just outside of Doonbeg, the joint caters to a set that seems to consist mainly of middle-aged bankers who buy hideously expensive memberships — “strictly by invitation only. Enquiries welcomed”, interpret that as cynically as you will – and, oddly at first glance, has a strictly member’s only area built into the central building. This incorporates a superb bar and lounge. I know this, because I inadvertently talked my way into the place to get a beer to drink (on the outside patio, I’m not that great of a bull slinger, unfortunately. I don’t think the barman bought it, to be honest, but like most of the Irish so far, he seemed like a decent guy and a pretty good sport.)
Turns out that the member stuff is in the main house because part of the gig consists of selling suites in the hotel to club members, which seems like a pretty odd idea (I don’t play golf, so I don’t quite get the attraction of hanging out on the same course all the time, especially if you own a room overlooking it), except for the fact that the facilities, suites and restaurant are all amazing. Having a (good! Such a rarity) vodka martini while overlooking the dunes and ocean, or sleeping late nestled in an almost obscene expanse of cushions and bedding (I want one of whatever mattresses they own) in front of a fireplace is just unspeakably decadent. So are the prices, alas.
The non-members’ area are…somewhere else. Inside access is through the golf shop. Outside access is guarded by a friendly-but-determined golf troll.
The restaurants / hotels:
#1: Vaughan’s Anchor Inn — Liscannor (IE)
Out front, a bunch of French tourists snickered as they eyed our Swiss license plates and wished us a badly pronounced Louis de Funes GUTEN ABEND (HERR MUELLER), until I responded with a sniffy “bonsoir, on n’est pas des Allemands, hmf” and left them out in the drizzly cold where they belonged. Feckin’ Parisians, the infestation has reached this far North? We wondered what the hell we’d just walked into, when a smoky pub (smoking’s banned inside bars and restaurants, but they still manage to seem smoky) full of squinty-eyed locals eyed us suspiciously. Geesh, we’re horribly overdressed, the clothing code seems to be t-shirts and, well, squinty-eyed smoky-pub patron wear. The big, greasy-looking (Vaughan?) bartender gave us an equally “arrh, matey” look, and waved us to the dining room in back, a nice enough affair decorated with lots of dead shellfish, 19th century local photographs and Titanic-themed newspaper clippings. An omen of the food? Not at all — in fact, the service was good, the patrons were substantially better groomed than the pirate gang out front, and the cuisine was among the best we had in a series of generally excellent restaurants. Try the black pudding with wild duck’s egg on top, it’s so good it’s…er…really good.
Main Street
Liscannor, Co. Clare, IE
#2: Murphy Blacks — Kilkee (IE)
According to Karin, they’ve totally redone this restaurant. Murphy Black’s serves nicely prepared seafood, including some excellent fresh specials. Seems to be the kind of place where locals from the neighboring towns and villages, as well as tourists (almost all Irish) from Kilkee go for a nice dinner out.
The Square
Kilkee, Co. Clare, IE
+353 (0) 65 905 6854
#3: Doonbeg Resort
Doonbeg, Co.Clare, IE
The trip to Le Havre was surprisingly uneventful, despite an expected hour-long wait to get out of Paris on one of the first days of the great herd drive into summer. The herd, as it were, turned out to be not nearly as bad as on a typical Friday commute, and the plethora of available parking (and comparative absence of Parisians) made us somewhat loath to split from town.
