Oughterard, Ireland

This is nuts! We are standing in the recess of a building, watching rain pound down onto the street. We have our umbrellas, but this downpour would still make any venture into the outside world miserable.

We stepped off the bus at 10:40 after a seventeen mile ride from Galway, in western Ireland. Things weren't looking good during the ride over. Wet drops continually pattered on the large glass of the bus, constantly wiped away by the rifle-sized wipers. Swish, shwash, shwish, shwash . . . And the houses and the fields that we watched pass by through the window were all bogged down with puddles and mud. What did we expect? This was, after all, the Emerald Isle, and there is no other way that it could reach such verdant colors without a lot of rain.

Once off the bus, we made a brisk getaway to the tourist office, our umbrellas over and in front of our heads, to the point that we could barely see. You see, Oughterard was not our first choice for a day-trip from Galway. No, our plan was to travel to Clifden, a quaint little village on the Atlantic Coast. That is the place that I researched. But once we arrived in the Galway and I got looking at the bus schedules, I learned that public transportation in Ireland wasn't quite as efficient as it was in other places in Europe. In short, we decided that a visit to the completely unknown village of Oughterard was the best use of our time. It was a roll of the dice. Either way, our objective was to experience an authentic Irish village.

“How may I help you?” asked the lady in the tourist office. She spoke in a contagious Irish accent and quickly gave us a rundown on what the little town of 2,000 people had to offer. She gave us a complimentary map and pointed out where a candle-making factory was located. West of town, along the main road there was a waterfall.

We couldn't help but notice the life-size cardboard cut-out of John Wayne in the room. In 1951, he starred in the locally filmed movie “The Quiet Man” with Maureen O'Hara. After nearly sixty years, the Duke is still an icon here.

We left the tourist office and passed some time inside a local grocery store, hoping the rain would end. Then we found this little shelter next to someone's doorway, which is where we stand now. We are right on Main Street - tiny, two lanes and laid back. A miniature car moves past and water spews from its tires. Like any Irish town, the buildings all connect together; some gray, yellow, lavender, or white. Smoke wafts from the smokestacks of the chimneys.

After ten minutes, the dial on the rain is turned down and we decide that this is our chance. With umbrellas over-head, we venture into the open. We walk west, not sure exactly where we are going.

Before long, we approach a church. It immediately captures my attention. The lady at the tourist office said nothing about this building, but I can see that it is the quintessential Parrish church in Ireland. To be exact, it is the Kilkummin Parrish Church. The exterior walls are made of gray stone and the arched windows are pointed with lattice motifs. The bright blue door matches my jacket.

Nobody is on the grounds and the door is locked. Suddenly we realize that the rain has stopped completely and we put away our umbrellas. The church itself is simplistically beautiful, but what catches my attention the most is the graveyard that is within the fence of the church. This is one aspect of Irish churches that fascinates me. It is as if the juxtaposition of the church and the graveyard create a more sacred atmosphere. We walk along the rain-soaked churchyard and admire the headstones. Some are block stones, others crosses. Yet, it is the Celtic Cross that I admire most - a large cross with a ring around the intersection, a truly iconic figure throughout Ireland.

After the church, we continue our stroll, walking west along Clifden Road. A bridge crosses the Owenriff River and soon we find that we are no longer in the center of town. The houses are no longer stacked side-by-side with virtually no room between them. Now they become further apart, with miniature manicured lawns in front. Giant green shrubbery grows along the road-side.

Along the road there is a modest, little park along-side the Owenriff River. A picnic table sits atop the grassy river-side, and a stone bridge crosses the swiftly-running river. The river is probably small by Irish standards, but good-sized compared with streams in Utah. The water appears clear and cold, with black sand beneath the current. Green comes from everywhere: thick blades of grass, leaf-laden branches, and moss growing up the trunk of the trees. A web of roots seem to protrude everywhere along the ground.

Jenelle and I walk along a skinny sidewalk until we arrive at a narrow alley-way on our left. The lady at the tourist office explained that this would lead to the waterfall. A five-foot high rock fence on both sides, just wide enough for me to touch each wall when I spread my arms, creates this path that leads directly between two houses. Even though the rock wall separates us from a neighboring back yard, I feel like I am trespassing. Making the walk a little more intriguing is that there are large, moss-covered, gnarled trees right in the middle of the path. The rock walls are covered with splashes of moss also.

The walk, however, is anti-climatic. We reach the waterfall and it is no Havasupai Falls, but rather a patch of quickly descending white-water. Oh, well. The adventure is in the journey.

We return the way we came. The streets are still wet. I notice a banner hangs from wires, spanning from one side of the street to the other, with large green letters reading, “St. Patrick's Day Parade Oughterard at 1 pm.” That is in just four more days. We will be in Dublin.

We return toward the center of town, coming to the bridge that crosses the river, but instead of crossing the bridge, we stay on the left bank and find a small path that follows the river, now with no other roads nearby. A gray-stone fence is on our left and the Owenriff River, as clear and clean as a river can be, is on our right.

The path meets up with Glann Road where we see a large field with a stone fence, and two horses feeding on grass. These horses appear to be shorter than a normal horse. I immediately wonder if they are Connemara Ponies. I have no way to tell, and have no                                                                           reason to speculate this other than the truth that we                                                                                 are in Connemara.

One of them breaks from feeding and steadily walks toward us, offering herself for us to pet. Jenelle strokes the gray forehead and cheeks. Her neck has a hint of brown and the mane looks like the hair of a fifty year old man, who once had beautiful dark hair, but is beginning to gray. We take turns with the animal, then let her return to feed.

We continue on our journey, not knowing exactly what to expect next, but knowing the general direction that we want to go. A narrow, unpaved lane turns off of Camp Street, and we follow it past fences crawling with vines and small pastures with cattle and a horse. We arrive again at the Owenriff River, although now it is not running swiftly and is much wider than it was before. The map identifies this place as the boathouse. Several small skiffs of multiple colors are docked at the shore. All are worn and many are half-filled with water, showing that it has rained several times since last used. Canvas tarps are wrapped around to protect some of the motors, and oars are strapped across the seat. Old tires are positioned between the boats to keep them from bumping each other.   

The reason for the river becoming wider at this point is because the Owenriff River is approaching Lough Corrib, or Corrib Lake as we Americans would say. We leave the boathouse and head in the direction of the lake. We turn onto another narrow road. They are all narrow here. Small enough for one vehicle. We are on Pier Road. We walk along, admiring the verdant pastures and green shrubbery that appear to grow everywhere. Daffodils are in bloom now. Occasionally we spot a country home with a narrow dirt drive leading to it, usually placed back, away from the road, nestled within a grove of trees. The lane we follow is very quiet, and there are no vehicles to drive by and molest us.

We travel the road as far as it will take us and arrive at the pier, a small cement walkway that creeps into the waters of the lake. Lough Corrib is the second largest lake in Ireland and supposedly is an anglers paradise, full of brown trout, salmon, pike and perch. It drains through the River Corrib to the sea near Galway, approximately twenty miles away.

We aren't here to fish, however. Only to swing our feet off the edge of the pier and perhaps dip our fingers into its frigid waters. The lake is large, and we are only able to see a few hills off in the distance.

We leave the lake and turn onto another narrow lane, this one gravel, with large trees creating a canopy over the road. The web of branches on our right and left block any view of what lies beyond. The graveled lane gives way to a two-track road with grass growing between the two ruts. Bog Road is the name of this passageway, and rightfully so as we our view now opens up to acres of bog-land, yellow and orange in color. We still catch glimpses of the lake and the little dirt lane that we walk on has caught puddles of rain water from the last several days.

We come along a pile of peat, surely that had been dug from the mire of the bogs, and stacked along the side of the road in rectangular-shaped bricks. I had heard of peat in Ireland and how they use it to burn in their stoves and heat their homes. The peat is dark in color and has the same appearance as steer manure, without the smell.

Not too far beyond the peat stacks, the land opens up and on our left is a modern cemetery. We don't have a whole lot of time before we need to catch the bus, but we use what time that we can afford to wander through its lanes. Names like O'Connor, Clancy, and Maloney abound throughout, on old headstones, new headstones, plain, and elaborate. Some inscriptions are in English and others in Irish. With particular interest to me are the Celtic Crosses. It is a symbol that has persisted through the centuries, existing on the most modern memorials.

We arrive at the main road that leads into town, having completely circumvented the entire northern half of the village. A narrow sidewalk next to Clifden Road is the pathway we walk on now, passing fields and empty pastures, and then arriving to the larger clusters of buildings, the white and lavender-colored houses connected together with sharply pointed roofs and chimney stacks coming out of each section. We also pass a traditionally thatched cottage.

We come to the bus stop and realize that we still have twenty minutes until the bus comes. Nearby there is a pastry shop that is almost vacant of people and pastries. We                                                                        both find something from the scarce selection and satiate                                                                            our tummy's while sitting at a table.

Not a bad day considering that we were worried that it wouldn't stop raining. We didn't even get a chance to explore all we wanted. A couple of miles east of town is Aughnanure Castle. As we travel toward Galway in the bus, we look for the castle, but can't find it. It must be positioned further off the road.

We watch the countryside and listen to the radio from within the bus. There is a major security breach at Heathrow Airport. A man with a rucksack walked onto the runway.