The Labyrinthine Way

On a good day, the Atlantic Drive along the rim of Achill Island reminds me of California's Central Coast minus the cars. On other days, that is to say most days, Achill is like Wuthering Heights: windswept, chilly, remote, and soulful. Yesterday was a Wuthering Heights day. Listen to the wind:

By mid-afternoon, we were ready for an Irish coffee, and the Minaun View pub is happy to provide them. I first ducked into the Minaun View on a bitterly chill afternoon seven years ago. I took my seat at the bar, ordered my Irish coffee, and listened in to the local radio station broadcast death notices ("turn it up," urged one of the bartenders) when I took a look around. I noticed a poster praising the IRA hunger strikers of the 70s, an autographed photo of Gerry Adams, several copies of his books for sale, and a large glass jug for donations to Sinn Fein.

Half expecting a gang of balaclava'd Provos to burst in with Thompsons and Uzis ablaze, I considered leaving. But it was awfully cold, and the Minaun View was the only place I could find that served Irish coffee. So I stayed, lived, went in peace, and returned year after year. One time, the publican recommended a trip to the incomparable views of Minaun Heights; this year, a different barkeep wondered whether "they" were really going to burn the Quran. The regulars, none of whom looked especially different than the regulars in any other Irish pub, seemed to find the whole idea mystifying and silly.

The publican recommended a nearby hamlet and rocky beach as being the "real Ireland." As hard living as life in the village must be, it abuts a spectacular rocky beach, aching in its lonesomeness:

We're not sure where the labyrinth came from. It took planning, time, and effort to finish. It's condition is too good to be ancient, too well-planned and executed to be the work of kids, and no adult would put in the required time voluntarily. And yet there is no plaque or marker. Chalk it up as another mystery in a mysterious land.

From there, we drove to the village Dugort, perhaps the most remote place in the most remote place in Ireland. Perched along a cliff's edge, it's notable for the absence of a pub. We inched past a low-slung house advertising "Artist's Books, Photography, and Silkscreen Prints;" in our experience, the contents of such places rarely live up to even the most modest billings. But, we often stop just to make sure, and stopping in at Redfoxpress turned out to be the equivalent of sinking consecutive holes-in-one at Pebble Beach.

Francis Van Maele, the co-proprietor, turned out to be a world-class printer and bookmaker who sells his limited editions internationally and whose work is collected by museums. I bought Archives de l'oubli, a set of found photographs from the collection of the Luxembourg Jean Delvaux. T. discovered Booksbook, a "...collection of all different kinds of books -- accounting book, manual book, family book, cookbook..." Each two-page spread features a book cover on the left and a page from the book on the right. We also invested in the Fish Box, a collection of 25 silk screen prints from 11 countries on the theme of fish, contained in a fish-and-chips box with a unique piscine surprise at the bottom.

I visit Achill Island every time I'm in Ireland, and I find something new every time. Years ago, a mainlander asked me if I had been there yet. I shook my head. "Ye have to go," he said. "The craic there is mighty."

The Day That Was Yesterday

Yesterday was quite a day, as you tell from Premium T.'s blog here. Her son -- age 23 -- is well; the diagosis, mercifully, has been downgraded from a mild heart attack to a spasm. From what T. tells me, that's essentially an angina. Moreover, there's no damage to his heart and the cardio doc seems certain that it was a function of recently prescribed meds, which to me sounds like there's little danger of a recurrence. Reilly's spirits are fine -- better than mine would be under the circumstances. He's adamant that we not return to Seattle...

I'm a substitute for another guy...

We were able to take in some of the spectacular scenery of Achill Island's incomparable Atlantic Coast Drive and Minaun Heights:

Dispatch from Carrowholly

Avant-garde composer and musician Amy Dinio is spending February at my house in Carrowholly on the west coast of Ireland. Amy writes:

"Today's exciting adventure: This morning I went squelching off in the mud flats at low tide (in high winds) with Pat [a neighbor], to his family's tiny sheep-dotted island, a ways out towards the Atlantic. They’d moved to the mainland when he was 4, but the house is still there [see photo]. Took a picture through the weather-streaked window, looked like something seen through the mists of time. He & his son were repairing fences, because it seems the sheep sometimes long for the mainland, and set out, only to be swept out to sea when the tide comes in. As you probably know, the current's very strong. He said he watched a pregnant ewe paddling away in the icy water for more than an hour yesterday. Luckily she finally made it to land, and laid down for the rest of the day. The first lamb was born the other day, cute as a button. Many more to come.

"Explored the minutiae of the key of A major at McHale’s pub last night, playing with Pat & Mick. Very merry company. There was a picture of Ginger on the wall, 3-time Irish national heavyweight champion, undefeated, drinking his second Guinness with his friend Liam, in the year 1960. Ginger was a fighting cock with his head deep in the glass....

"Yesterday dawned clear-ish and calm, so I took (some of) your advice & visited the Burrishoole Abbey, a truly lovely place, and very nice indeed to have it all to myself. Then onward at 100kph (insane speed limits on these narrow roads!) towards Achill Island. I’d followed a sign saying “Spanish Armada”, and found myself following the Atlantic Route around the peninsula from Mallaranny (Mhala Raithni), passing Gubbain Point, Dooghbeg, Gubacarrigan, Bolinglanna and Glassilaun (love those names!). Everyone waved, and I waved back. And sheep everywhere - I can't tell if their expressions are wise or empty... Their wool is long this time of year, & in that area is spray painted pink & purple & blue, all on the same creature, very punk rock. As you've probably noticed, they pay no heed to automobiles, even while sitting in the road (very punk rock!)

"Then, crossing the Gob an Choire (Achill Sound) on that tiny bridge (now under construction), I wandered around Achill while the weather improved by the minute until it was blazing sunlight once again, the big hills on the island wearing fancy wide cloud hats. I followed my whim & first did a big loop around the south end of the island, coming across some of the most stunning views I’ve seen in ages, high cliffs, crashing Atlantic waves, and no one except for the nonchalant multi-coloured sheep in sight. I hadn't written down how to get to the cell tower, so found myself at the gorgeous beach below it instead, a lovely waterfall, glorious sunlight, and something like a Gaelic crop circle made of stone in the grass. I can't wait to share photos!

"slean leat (goodbye - I just remembered it, after 30 years!)"