Glenties
As we approached Glenties the landscape became more familiar with long rolling hills and peat bogs. Our bed and breakfast is on the main Street and charming. We were greeted with a tray of extremely strong tea and scones just taken out of the oven. My father used to come to Donegal once a year and do some triage of patients at the local hospital. Those in need of lung surgery would be referred to the Dublin hospital where he worked. Dad seemed to have an affinity for patients from 'the country' as we called anywhere outside Dublin. He was a taciturn man for the most part but he seemed to get on particularly well with these patients from far-flung parts of the country. They in turn seemed to like him. We used to camp near a town called Killybegs and I remember one day coming back to the tent at the end of the day to find a huge freshly-caught salmon had been left at the entrance from an anonymous donor as a token of gratitude. One grateful patient was the owner of a shop in Ardara and used to send a gift of Waterford Crystal every single Christmas for well over a decade. The shop was called Kennedy's of Ardara and I went looking for it today. To my immense sadness it has recently closed and was up for sale. I had intended to go in and find out more about the patient dad had treated so many years ago.
As I sit writing this in our bedroom the smell of peat smoke permeates the house. It is such a powerful evocation of another time when I was very young and only starting on the long road that has now brought me back here in a sort of circle.
We settled into our bed and breakfast and then wandered out into the dark main street. As we went out the owner apologised for the front door behing shut. " There's a funeral coming through tonight and it's the custom." In Ireland the body of the deceased is removed from place of death to the funeral home and relatives and friends gather there on the eve of the funeral service. In my father's case the removal involved him being driven in a hearse from Dublin to Glendalough, a distance of 50km on a blisteringly cold winter night. The road winds up around The Sugar Loaf, Wicklow's highest mountain. The hearse was followed by a small procession of cars. Just at the top the hearse lost traction on the icy road and was immobilised. We had to walk to a nearby house to borrow shovels to throw grit under the wheels. The line of cars was stalled until we managed to free the hearse. Somehow, I felt my father would have appreciated the black humour of the situation.
The main Street of Glenties was bitterly cold and everywhere was dark and shuttered. Tattered bunting with the local sports team's colours hung across the street and the smell of coal smoke and peat hung heavily in the air. We went into the only hotel in the town, The Highland Hotel. Inside was a comfortable empty lounge with a roaring fire and two wing back armchairs on either side. Obviously they knew we were coming. The owner came to take our order. Gillian couldn't decide between soup and dish cakes. The lady gave decisive advice in a soft Donegal accent, "Have the fish cakes. Sure you can have soup any time". Gill agreed and the fish cakes were delicious. I opted for fresh Donegal mussels. Unlike New Zealand mussels which are large and, to my palate, slightly rubbery, these were tiny succulent morsels in a wine ceam sauce and tasted of the sea.
After we had eaten, a couple wandered in to look at the fire. They were locals living 10 km away in Ardara. I asked them about the Kennedy's and they told us the shop closed two years ago as the children of the family were not interested in keeping it going. They knew the current owner and where he lived and told us that they would tell him about meeting me and about how grateful my father was for the gifts that had been sent. We walked back and saw ice crystals forming on the roof of our car parked ok no the street. Tomorrow should be a fine day.
We had a good night's sleep and went down to breakfast. Our table was beside a roaring fire and a fresh fruit salad which included strawberries ( in November!) Greek yoghurt and lots of cereals waited on a side table. I had a full Irish breakfast which in addition to sausage, bacon, egg and potato bread came with a side dish of more bacon, more sausage and black and white pudding, presumably in case I felt that my main dish was not adequate. There was a basket of fresh walnut bread and white bread and a rack of toast soon appeared. Gill had porridge and then scrambled egg with a massive amount of smoked salmon. I had hardly started into my meal when the host came in and wondered if I'd like another egg. I politely declined. We only just managed to make our way through all this when the host reappeared with two plates and forks. " What about a wee freshly made pancake to finish off?". It would have been churlish to refuse. The "wee" pancake turned out to be a plate of six delicious fresh pancakes which melted in the mouth.
I had forgotten just how good it is to stay in a bed and breakfast where instead of a hotel commercial kitchen there is someone who has freshly made and cooked just about everything you are eating. I had also forgotten the taste of small Irish pork sausages and bacon . Gill tried the black and white pudding and was pleasantly surprised. As if all this were not enough the coffee was delicious. All in all a wonderful start to the day. I can't wait to do it all again tomorrow.
We decided to drive south towards Killybegs today and sample some of the wild Atlantic coastline. The weather was overcast with moody low clouds clingimg to the tops of the rolling hills. We drove for miles through barren peat bogs with stooks of drying turf dotted around. We came across deserted golden beaches hemmed in by black foreboding rock walls. We saw isolated farmhouses clinging to the side of hills with white peat smoke drifting up from their chimneys. Folorn sheep stood in fields enclosed with crumbling stone walls which date back centuries. Every now and then we'd spot an original thatched cottage.
Yesterday evening we went over to Ardara to a pub called Nancy's which has been in the same family for seven generations. It was a quirky place with lots of small rooms filled with antiques. We had a meal but the place was deserted with no armosphere. So we decided to drive back to Glenties. There was a small pub opposite our bed and breakfast called Leo's so we decided to venture in. It was deserted except for five people at the bar avidly watching a football match. The local team was playing in the County Gaelic Football final. The publican apologised for his deserted pub saying that everyone in the town had gone to watch the match. That also explained why Nancy's had been deserted. We struck up a conversation with a couple who were sitting beside us at the bar. He was a butcher who regaled us with yarns from his colourful past. One was particularly intriguing. He had once sliced into his finger with a filleting knife and nearly detached a two inch long piece of skin. Bleeding profusely he had asked a friend to stitch it up as accident and emergency was a good half hour drive away. Apparently this do-it-yourself surgery is not unknown in butcher's circles given, I suppose, that stitching meat is one of the requisite skills.
His colleague had refused and told him to go to A&E. Our friend decided to put some plasters on and wrap it in muslin in the hope of stopping the bleeding. Stoically he then went out on his delivery round with the muslin becoming more blood soaked as time went by. His first delivery was to an old farmer who immediately noticed his bloody finger and asked what he had done. After examining the deep cut he took the butcher out to an outhouse, grabbed hold of a huge cobweb, rolled it in his palms and proceeded to stuff it under the detached flap of skin. " The bleeding will be stopped by the time you've done your round" The butcher claimed that the bleeding had indeed stopped. We were not entirely convinced that this wasn't some tall story that he produced when gullible people such as ourselves came into the pub. However when I googled the topic today I found that the story held water.
After the game was over and the local team was celebrating victory on the TV screen, the barman told us that one of the patrons wanted to buy us a drink . We looked over and it was a man of about 70 who had been sitting quietly the entire eveningg. We thanked him for his s generosity. He shrugged and said "Sure didn't they win." He then put in his coat and left. The kindness of strangers on our travels never ceases to delight us.
