House and Garden
Sept 2003
One of the pleasures of visiting Ireland is that you can take dogs by ferry
from Britain without worrying about pet-passports or quarantine. As my trip
to Donegal in the far north west of the island was to be a walking and driving
holiday, my Airedale who regards my car as his second home, came too. We stopped
in Dublin on the way, staying at the excellent Merrion Hotel whose art collection
rivals that in the Irish National Gallery over the road. My appetite for dramatic
landscape suitably whetted, I took the circuitous route via Sligo to visit W
B Yeats’s grave in Drumcliffe churchyard beneath stunning Benbulben mountain.
Having “cast a cold eye on life, on death”, I did not “pass
by” but headed into the adjacent Drumcliffe Tea House where another Yeats
quotation - “All things can tempt me” – was printed on the
menu. The place was packed. “Yeats is popular,” I remarked to a
waitress. “I think people come for the food,” she laughed, and certainly
the cakes and puddings all looked very poetical.
It was a lovely golden evening as I headed up the coastal road through Bundoran,
where Blackpool meets Bath in a heavenly mix of seaside kitsch and Georgian
architecture, to the small town of Donegal whose central triangle called The
Diamond is full of cafes and tweed shops. Next day I hurtled to Ireland’s
most Northerly point Malin Head, having heard the name often in shipping forecasts.
Usually predicting gales. Appropriately rain was sheeting down so the poor dog
cowered in the car while I wrestled with my “all weather” ordnance
survey map and grumpily decided there is not much point in stunning scenery
if you cannot see it. An hour later, in brilliant sunshine I could not complain
- except that it would take forever to explore all of Donegal’s wild peninsulas
where Gaelic is still spoken, music spills from the pubs and you can go for
miles meeting no more than the occasional sheep.
For the ultimate thrill visit Bunglas on the Slieve League peninsula where a
steep single track with terrifying switchbacks close to a sheer drop leads to
the highest cliffs in Europe. The sea was so far below, I could barely hear
its roar. Again the dog stayed firmly in the car but near St John’s Point,
at the end of a low thin headland jutting six miles into Donegal Bay, we had
a magnificent sweep of golden beach to ourselves. I picked up tiny pieces of
coral while he frolicked and barked at the waves. Nearby was a pretty thatched
shed housing Cyndi Graham’s handweaving I bought a deep red linen shawl
she had just taken off her loom. Its colour will remind me of the setting sun
sinking into the firey bay just beyond her window.