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ADVENTURES IN IRELAND
— DESPERATELY SEEKING CHOWDER —
PART 2
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THE
BURREN
What’s this?! Lisdoonvarna was colorful
alright — with banners hanging across the roads, and traffic wardens in neon vests and
white gloves directing traffic to a standstill. I had forgotten. In September Lisdoonvarna
takes on the frantic aspect of the world’s largest singles bar with its renowned
Matchmaking Festival. Local tourism promoters have reinterpreted an old rural custom when
a few isolated Clare men came to town at harvest time to cash their crops and
look for brides. |
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The new custom attracts singles from throughout Ireland and elsewhere to meet,
mingle, flirt, dance, and imbibe at the towns several bars and dance halls. The so-called
festival is part Sadie Hawkins Day, part meat market, part orgy, part parlor game, partly
serious, and mostly Guinness. I’m told the event reaches its frenzied heights on
weekend evenings at about 3AM. Today is Tuesday and it’s about one o’clock in
the afternoon and already the roads and sidewalks of town are jammed with trawlers. I
suddenly wished I had worn my wedding ring.
The road northeast to Ballyvaughan was
impassable with gridlock, so I took a little alleyway that led east and uphill into the
Burren. In a few seconds the clamor of Lisdoonvarna was behind me and my Ford was wedged
between hedges on a semi-paved single-track lane without horizons. With the sun mostly to
my right, I knew I must be driving east, but not very quickly, and not with any particular
goal. Once the hedgerow to my left dropped low enough to exhibit a meadow full of cows. A
few minutes later the lane plunged into a creek valley, exposing a rocky hillside on the
other side of a stone bridge. Then, blindly, an even less paved lane disappeared to the
left, and I took it, thinking that it would take me in the general direction of seafood
chowder. And, after five more minutes of driving with blinders, suddenly a stop sign and a
cross road of two lanes.
I turned left and put the sun to my back. This
should direct me toward Galway Bay, if not Ballyvaughan itself. After two minutes of
driving this empty road I saw both shoulders ahead parked full of cars, with not so much
as a solitary barroom in sight. Once again, Monk’s could wait. I pulled over and got
out of my car. |
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THE POULNABRONE DOLMEN |
On the south side of the road sneaker-clad
tourists were clambering over the rocky limestone turtle-backed outcroppings of the Burren
for about 200 yards. A steady stream of folks were heading away from the road and an equal
number were on their way back. I joined the parade of lemmings. In fifty yards I could see
the goal of this pilgrimage —
the Poulnabrone Dolmen, Ireland’s top-ranked
megalithic site. It was cute. I had already seen England’s Stonehenge—which made
me wonder if prehistoric man had too much time on his hands. Poulnabrone seems a much more
practical monument. It was constructed only of five or six stones, which no doubt were
selected from the |
monuments immediate
surroundings in this rockiest of Irish garden spots. Moreover, the
monument is not of monumental proportions —
one can imagine Eagle
Scouts constructing one like it to earn a megalithic merit badge.
The biggest problem with things prehistoric is
that—while full of wonder—they do not inspire a lot of conversation. I’ve
noticed mostly whispers and sniggers coming from others I have observed at the various
mounds, hill forts, ring forts, standing stones, barrows, and cairns I have trudged to
visit. Nothing new to report at Poulnabrone, except to say that it occurred to me the
dolmen might make a good shelter in the event of a thunderstorm. I concluded the ancient
Irish were a practical people, turned back for the road, and began focusing on chowder
again.
But oh the temptations! Here on the right was
the Aillwee Cave, more proof that there’s tourist gold in the Burren wasteland.
Stalactites and stalagmites alone must not be enough of a draw here. The ownership also
makes and sells their own Irish farmhouse cheese, hazel wood charcoal, and mountain crystal
gems. All well and good, and I’m sure worth an hour or two, but—if golf at
Spanish Point wasn’t enough to tempt me away from chowder at Monk’s, then the
Aillwee Cave experience had no prayer of distracting me. So, past Aillwee, then a few
switchback curves downhill, and I’m suddenly out of the Burren and in sight of Galway
Bay at Ballyvaughan.
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BALLYVAUGHAN
Today, Ballyvaughan is the
anti-Lisdoonvarna—quiet, with almost no traffic, and nary a soul on the sidewalks.
Its rows of neat pastel painted cottages line the town’s main street as a hedgerow of
houses, hiding any clues about what happens in Ballyvaughan. A fountain marks the meeting
of the town’s three roads at the town "square", which is really more of a
triangle. The road I have taken comes from the Burren and the south. The road to the
northeast leads round the bay to Galway. The road to the northwest is a scenic route that
follows the coast to Black Head and the overlook of the Aran Islands, those sanctuaries of
ancient Irishness that protect the entrance to Galway Bay. This is my road to El Dorado,
and, within 30 seconds I am parking the Focus under the Monk’s pub sign. |
MONK'S,
BALLYVAUGHAN,
COUNTY CLARE. |
MONK'S
There are three other cars parked at
Monk’s. I enter and take a seat at the bar. Three tables are occupied inside the
adjacent dining room. I hear only American accents at the tables. The barman welcomes me
cheerfully. It’s after 2PM and there are no signs of a lunch rush—the place is
spotless, and solidly middle class, detailed with lots of heavy furniture in dark varnish
with brass trim. Could be a country club lounge. He’s Patrick—or, possibly Padraig—but quickly Pat to me. I ask if I can eat at the bar and instantly receive
his best Irish "No problem." I order a Guinness and a bowl of seafood chowder.
Six hours on the road to Monk’s has made
me hungry. I expect the Guinness will fuzz my head if I drink it without food, but I know
it has to settle for a few minutes anyway. By the time the chocolate stout is primed my
chowder arrives along with a stack of sliced, mildly coarse Irish brown bread and sweet
Irish butter. The milky chowder fills a wide bowl to the brim, and is flecked with butter.
A little steam carries a mild fish fragrance into my face. Wasting no time, I plunge my
big soupspoon into the soup and bring up an assortment of chunks of fish and shellfish in
the thin, creamy broth. Chowder, brown bread, and Guinness at Monk’s by the pier. Pat
asks me how I like it, and I tell him I like it fine. Then I tell him that I’ve
driven six hours to sample Monk’s chowder on the strength of a recommendation from an
Irish friend. Pat feigns enthusiasm, but it’s clear to me that he’s often heard
similar tales. Maybe those other Yanks sitting in the restaurant have come just as far or
further. |
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Pat knows Monk’s seafood chowder is a
minor legend in Ireland, where legend often carries much more weight than fact. Still, I
couldn’t help feeling that Pat might be muttering "These meshugeneh
Americans oughtta get a life…", except in Gaelic. Get a life? Desperately
seeking chowder in Ireland is a life, a grand one that has much to recommend it.
Slαn abhaile. Have a safe trip home! |
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TAKE YOUR OWN ROAD TRIPS IN IRELAND. IF THERE'S NO GOLD
AT THE
RAINBOW'S END, AT LEAST THERE MAY BE CHOWDER.
TO GET THERE, SEE:
HOME AT
FIRST'S IRELAND |
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