Ireland, Day 3: Across the Bogs

The road to the ferry took us across the peat bogs, and in the morning we were in such a hurry I took no photos. So on the way back we dawdled, stopping here and there for pictures.

The process of digging peat fascinates me. Who would ever think you could dig up the ground, dry it and burn it to heat your home and cook your food? Someone long, long ago discovered the magic of peat, and many homes are still dependent on it today for fuel.

One of the first things to greet us. And we could see both ends of it! But no pot of gold, although it may be buried under the water maybe?

Harvested peat.

And the trenches left where it has been dug. You can see how wet this area is, though it looks deceptively dry.

Blooming heather.

We came into a greener area, and there were many cars--and a crowd of people. In the middle of what seemed nowhere. We were mystified, especially when an elderly, well-dressed gentleman standing in the middle of the road signaled to us to turn left. Larry obligingly turned, then rolled down his window and asked, "Where are you wantin' me to go?" The man replied, "Park over here. You are here for the funeral, aren't you?" "Well, no," Larry said. "But we could go if you want us to." I think that's the first time we've ever been invited to the funeral of a stranger. Everyone there was grinning and laughing at the mistake, a little levity on a sad occasion.

Peat stored away for the winter in someone's shed.

Heather and gorse in bloom together. So pretty.

A small roadside waterfall.

Then we were back into the bogs, and the Twelve Bens in view.

More peat stacked by the road, ready to be hauled away.

It was getting late in the day, but there was one village, past Roundstone where we were staying, that I wanted to see, so we continued through town and on along the peninsula.

Thatched roofs are not inexpensive. It costs, we were told, about 10,000 euros to do one, and they have to be re-done every few years.

 Here's what I cannot figure out: how do they set those posts and poles in such rocky soil??

And then we arrived at the place I wanted to see. A small village, lots of tourists there because it has a beautiful beach, but that's not what drew me.

It was this: the name of the place. Bally means town in Gaelic, so this was Conneely (or Connelly) Town. There was little to see, but since that's my maiden name, I had to set foot here.

Rocks, rocks and more rocks. Whole mountains of rocks! I was in heaven. Although I would not want to try to garden here.

And finally back to Roundstone, and to our room to rest. No pub this night, we both too tired from our long, interesting day. We were in bed by 8:00pm. The next day we would be off to the Burren and Doolin.

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