Donegal to Galway – Day 6
Exploring Ireland’s Wild Atlantic Way: Fairies, Beaches, and Sheep
We waved goodbye to Harvey’s Point, a lakefront slice of heaven and hit the road — again grateful Finnbarr was behind the wheel and not one of us. Because the “road” was a winding, hedge-hugging lane where your GPS just shrugs and whispers, “Good luck, friend.”
We were tracing the Wild Atlantic Way, Ireland’s northern scenic route which stretches the west coast of Ireland from Donegal in the north to Cork in the south, with mountains, beaches and many sheep.
Cruising past Benbulben, a 1,726-foot flat-topped limestone mountain on the County Sligo landscape. W.B. Yeats was obsessed with it, wrote his poem Ben Bulben shortly before his death.
Under bare Ben Bulben’s head
In Drumcliff churchyard Yeats is laid,
An ancestor was rector there
Long years ago; a church stands near,
By the road an ancient Cross.
No marble, no conventional phrase,
On limestone quarried near the spot
By his command these words are cut:
Cast a cold eye
On life, on death.
Horseman, pass by!
Our first official stop was the Fairy Bridges and Wishing Chair in Bundoran, still in County Donegal (just barely). The Fairy Bridges are sea-carved arches which create blowholes when the tide is right. As far back as the 1700s, locals believed the area was home to fairies. The blowholes weren’t blowing (tide performance issues), but the views of Donegal Bay and the Sligo-Leitrim mountains were postcard material. Meanwhile, a few brave surfers from the surfing school located on the Tulland Strand beach were in the cold North Atlantic water, either warriors… or lunatics. TBD.
Dan and Finnbar, Dunes behind Tulland Strand, Sligo-Leitrim Mountains, Bridges, Dan at Tulland Strand
Next to the bridges sits the Wishing Chair, a mystical stone seat allegedly marking the grave of O’Flaherty, a chieftain who ruled the land. We followed tradition, sat down, held the stone armrests, made a wish, and tapped the seat twice to seal the deal.
Good wishes were made
There was a plane crash memorial for a Halifax aircraft who was providing protection to Allied shipping convoys bringing supplies from North America to Great Britain. It crashed on January 23, 1994. All eight on board died.
Crossing into County Sligo, we stopped at Enniscrone Beach — a 3-mile stretch on Killala Bay, known for its golden sands, cold water, and eternally optimistic locals who still go swimming. We dipped our toes in and confirmed: yes, the water is very cold. We watched a kite surfer attempt to ride the waves, but the strength of the wind thwarted his effort.
Lunch was at Flannery’s Bar and Restaurant in Cornaroya, County Mayo — a cozy spot where I had mushroom and bacon penne with Parmesan cream sauce, which I’m officially ranking in my Top 5 Irish Meals That Did Not Include Potatoes.
Next up: Killary Sheep Farm, high above Killary Fjord in northern Connemara, County Galway — the kind of rugged landscape where sheep roam free and the Wi-Fii is almost non-existent. We met Tom who runs the sheep farm with his brother. They also have a mussel farm in the Fjord below it.
Killary Sheep Farm
The sheep farm has approximately 200 black headed horned ewes and lamb which roam the mountainous rocky terrain. There coats are painted with a color signifying to which farm they belong. Black headed sheep are hearty and can survived the harsh winters there. The rain started when we arrived at the farm, but it did not damp our interest in watching Tom verbally direct his well-trained border collie to move a flock of sheep area a five-acre area and into a pen. Tom selected on of the sheep and sheared her with hand clippers, a feat which required substantial strength to hold the squirming animal. We thawed out in a cozy stone outhouse with coffee and “biscuits” that bore a suspicious resemblance to graham crackers.
Killary Sheep Farm
Next stop: Galway! Or at least it was supposed to be. But the universe had other plans. A multi-car pileup turned our drive into an impromptu roadside meditation retreat. We sat in traffic for 90 glorious minutes.
We finally rolled into the historic Hardiman Hotel around 8:00 p.m., dumped our luggage like it was on fire, and made a beeline for the restaurant. We arrived at 8:15, only to be told — with great theatrical flair — that the kitchen closes at 9… and that means “food must be served by 9,” not ordered by 9.
Starving and slightly salty, we pub searched for one which would provide sustenance and eventually found a bar still serving food. Dinner was late, unpretentious, and consisted of burgers and fish & chips. At that moment, it was Michelin-star level.
And so ended Day 6 — full of uncooperative blow holes, mythical chairs, heroic sheepdogs, , and a reminder that in Ireland, plans are merely suggestions.
