“The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.”     – W.B. Yeats, Irish Poet, Nobel Laureate

The Burren

The Burren is a striking and otherworldly landscape found along the Atlantic Ocean coast in County Clare. It’s a UNESCO Global Geopark, acknowledging its unique geological and ecological importance. The three Aran Islands stand sentinel  offshore.

Burren comes from the Irish word, Boireann, meaning “rocky or stony place.” Hence, the moonscape-like terrain with its bare, grey limestone pavements, crisscrossed by deep fissures called grikes, and flat slabs called clints. Despite appearing barren, the rocky landscape actually supports a surprising diversity of plants.

Our tour took us through The Burren towards Galway, 1.5 hours north. The roads here are narrow and winding, typical of rural western Ireland with its unforgettable, scenic landscape that gradually unfolds from stark, rocky beauty to greener, softer countryside.

Cattle graze sparsely among the rocks. Gradually, the rugged monotone of The Burren softens into rolling, green fields. The contrast of green pastures with grey stone is distinctive and remarkable to witness. Small villages began to appear as we got closer to Galway.

Galway

Galway, (pop. 86,000), is a harbor city in County Galway, known as the “City of Tribes” for the 14 merchant families who once ruled here. The Lynches, one of the 14, built their stone medieval castle in the heart of town. Galway still feels like a place shaped by community and story with every turn of the corner.

After the quiet wildness of The Burren, Galway felt like a burst of lively energy and vibrant sounds; after all, this is a university town. Its medieval, historic lanes twist along with colorful shopfronts, pubs spilling over and a youthful vibe with buskers all about. There’s a lot going on in Galway!

Especially now, as we hit upon the city in the throes of its annual summer cultural event, the “Galway International Arts Festival.” Over 450,000 attended over its two week run. Our tour group landed in the midst of the wonderful, exciting chaos, traffic and all. We had but a short while to roam the spirited and bustling streets on our own.

On Shop Street, David and I paused to listen to buskers filling the air with fiddle tunes and guitar songs. Around them, crowds of people stopped, clapped, and smiled, and suddenly we felt folded into the rhythm of the city.

I just don’t know if it’s manifest destiny, but we always come across some fabulous bakery and in Galway, it wasn’t any different. (Could it be David’s sugar addiction that automatically leads us to bakeries?!)

The “Bake Box” is a tiny, compact space with just a small wall counter. The selection of sweet treats was uncanny with so many choices. What to choose?! Well, we managed to squeeze into a spot and enjoy a rich latte, accompanied by a glazed cinnamon bun and a bursting, jelly-filled donut … you can figure out who ate what.

I wished we would have had more time in glorious Galway; where the wild Atlantic meets Ireland’s west coast charm, ancient stone meets youthful spirit. It was a missed opportunity, but a little taste will entice us back – especially to the Bake Box Bakery ~ “Mm! Mm! Good!”

Westport

Charmsville, Ireland, aka Westport … is another fabulous stop located along the Wild Atlantic Way in County Mayo (pop. 7,000). It’s definitely one of Ireland’s most beloved and scenic towns set about beautiful, lovely landscapes.

It easily earns a place on many travelers’ “must see” lists. Fortunately for us, this will be our home for the next two nights for a good dose of “craic” (fun).

Unusual for Ireland, Westport is a planned town from the 18^th-century. It was designed and created back then as a place to live for the workers and tenants of John Browne at his historic family estate, Westport House.

Westport’s allure lies in its overwhelming charm and character on the Carrowbeg River and its colorful, cheery storefronts, bars, and restaurants; a supermarket stop provided fun browsing and buying, schlepping back home some unique, Irish foodstuffs as edible souvenirs.

There were many festive pubs and eateries lining the downtown streets to choose from, but we yearned for a welcomed break from pub grub. á Thai Noodle Bar beckoned and we savored some delicious Asian cuisine: dumplings, spring rolls and noodles satisfied a craving.

Their clever slogan, “Where East Meet Wesht” says it all – “Wesht” is local Westport dialect, for “West,” referring to the town’s location on Ireland’s west coast. A taste of the East was a pleasant and tasty change of pace.

Sligo and Yeats

This morning, we drove to the north of Ireland, to Sligo, the county that carries the nickname, “Yeats Country,” and it didn’t take long to see why. William Butler Yeats (1865–1939) spent his childhood holidays in County Sligo, where his mother was from. It always remained his “country of the heart.” Johnny Cash’s 1971 song, “Forty Shades of Green,” perfectly expresses all the Irish beauty and vividness brought to life …

“Green, green, forty shades of green

I close my eyes and picture
The emerald of the sea
From the fishing boats at Dingle
To the shores of Donaghadee

I miss the river Shannon
And the folks at Skibbereen
The moorlands and the meddle
With their forty shades of green …”

Yeats is considered one of Ireland’s greatest poets and he was awarded a Nobel Prize in Literature (1923). His verse blends Irish myth, folklore, and the landscapes of Sligo with themes of love, politics, and spirituality.

Yeats used the occasion of his Nobel Prize acceptance speech at the Royal Academy of Sweden to present himself as a standard-bearer of Irish nationalism and Irish cultural independence.

His poems, “The Lake Isle of Innisfree” and “Under Ben Bulben” draw upon Sligo’s lakes, mountains, and legends. Though he lived much of his life in Dublin and abroad, it was Sligo where his imagination drew from. His striking bronze statue stands across from the Yeats Building, home to the Yeats Society.

His grave at Drumcliffe, beneath Ben Bulben, a steep-sides, flat-topped mountain in County Sligo, makes the connection between poet and place eternal.

The coastal seaport town of Sligo (pop. 21,000), has the hustle and bustle of a market town, yet small enough to wander about on foot, as it brims with character. The River Garavogue cuts through its center, and stone bridges bring you from one side to the other.

O’Connell Street, is where the modern blends with the old; vintage clothing and souvenirs shops sit beside traditional butchers, and cafés. We ducked into Hargadon Bros., a pub that wears its history on its walls.

Established in the 1800s, it’s part merchant shop, part tavern. It’s one of those rare “grocer’s pubs” that once dotted Ireland; where you could buy a pint, a pound of tea, or a wedge of cheese all under the same roof. Today it carries a well-stocked wine cellar and gourmet treats.

Here, our group was welcomed by a Yeats scholar, Mr. Damian, bedecked in bow-tie and rumpled, vintage summer jacket and chinos, looking very professorial. He’s an ardent admirer, and student of all things W.B. Yeats.

Over the next two hours, over a leisurely and literary lunch of smoked salmon, soda bread, fried goat cheese salad and wine, Mr. Damian would read us passages from some of his Yeats’ works to acquaint us with aspects of his fascinating life, his stories and poems.

Departing Hargadon Bros., much learned with information, and intrigued enough, gave us the inquisitiveness to check out a Yeats’ exhibit at the National Library on our final day in Dublin. We left Ireland feeling a little more literate and schooled in Yeats.

Atlantic Sheepdogs

From highbrow to the dogs … Liam mentioned a surprise up his nonvintage sleeves.

With the striking landscape of rolling, green fields (with its 40 shades!), distant mountains, and the Atlantic and its robust breezes just off in the distance (many of which contributed to Yeats’ inspirations in his words and mindset), we were to experience a different kind of spectacle, not of geography, history or castles, but of dogs and sheep.

On a picturesque, hillside farm, is Atlantic Sheepdogs, where we gathered for an exciting sheepdog demonstration.

Owner Martin Feeney, the shepherd, gave a sharp whistle, and suddenly his Border Collie, Mo, lying by his side, suddenly sprang to life. What had seemed like a patch of calm pasture became a stage.

With subtle commands, sometimes shouted, more often whistled, the dog circled, crouched, and darted, gathering the flock into a tight cluster as if by magic. It was a dance of instinct and discipline, centuries old, yet still astonishing to watch.

The sheep, stubborn and suspicious, made their bids for freedom, but the dog anticipated each move with a mixture of patience and quicksilver speed. At one moment Mo lay completely still, eyes locked, the very image of concentration; the next, she shot across the grass, turning the whole flock in a heartbeat.

Martin explained that each dog knows dozens of whistles and commands, yet much depends on trust between man and animal.

Sheepdogs, especially Border Collies, with their intelligence, stamina, and instinct to herd, are a vital part of farming life in Ireland’s west; where fields are vast, rocky, and the unfenced dogs are the only practical way to gather and guide flocks.

When the demonstration ended, Mo trotted back, tail wagging, and was suddenly just a happy, farm dog once again; the sheep quietly returned to graze, nonplused, save for a bit of running exercise.

I realized this was another kind of poetry, no ink, no verse, just movement, skill, and the land itself. Yeats may have captured Sligo in words, but here, life itself writes the verses … alive, messy, and utterly captivating.

Shannon River Cruise

We had just one more stop on our way back to Dublin, Carrick–on–Shannon, County Leitrim, for a gentle cruise along Ireland’s longest river. The water was calm, the air crisp, and the morning light painted the reeds in soft gold.

Onboard, a steaming pot of tea and a plate of warm scones awaited. It was accompanied by the ship’s captain, and his musical sideline, played and sang for us traditional folksongs … his melodies seemed in sync with the Shannon’s soothing, calm lull.

There’s something magical about sipping tea while drifting past farms, cottages, and herons gliding over the water. Each bend of the river revealed a new scene.

Carrick’s bridges and steeples receded behind us, leaving only the slow rhythm of the river and the simple pleasure of a morning cuppa. It was a moment where comfort and landscape blended, and the Shannon whispered its timeless stories, one sip, one glance, at a time.

As seen on the way to Dublin …