The Cliffs of Moher: Music and Midges

A hundred years and I couldn't show you everything we did and learned and loved about Ireland. Besides which, you would likely get bored. I mean WE'RE the ones with all the fond memories of this trip, right? I hope I'm not boring you. Let me pause for a little insecure co-dependency. Am I boring you? Is this boring? I don't want to bore you. Am I?

Okay. Just needed to get that out of the way. Because I'm going to show you the rest of this anyway. And since I'm a standup kinda gal, I'll provide a little music for those of you who would rather be cleaning your toaster oven or filing next year's taxes than reading another post about Ireland. Just listen and float away, whilst the rest of us tour the Cliffs of Moher. It's not a problem.

Right. So, on a lovely  Doolin day, I woke up, trotted downstairs to this:

Picked up a menu . . . 

 . . . and ordered this (without black or white pudding, because why would I eat pudding made of blood and fat? Über ew) . . . 

Which came with some heavenly brown bread, soda bread, toast, butter, and jam. (And which, once eaten, lasted us until dinner time. Not. Kidding. And that bacon up there? OMHeart! OMTasty! OMArteries are Slamming Shut!)

Then I ate whilst gazing out upon this:

See those little Moher-ish cliffy-looking things in the distance there? Yeah. Those are The Cliffs. The Cliffs underwhich Harry and Dumbledore stood, amid a raging sea, before entering the Cave of Ickiness. The Cliffs where many have fallen to their doom. The Cliffs of legend. The Cliffs of Insanity. The Cliffs of Moher.

Think we'll go there.

Oh look! We did. Astonishing, yes? And here's what else we found:

Plus this:

Mr. O'Brien's prime bit of real estate. And these:

And dude! This! Music! From the very talented and friendly Michael Galvan (I think I got his name right. If I didn't and you're out there Michael, correct me please!)

Feel free to dance. You will want to.

Wasn't that great? Note the sign to the left of Michael, suggesting that you not throw yourself off the cliffs  just because the rocks are doing it. Sound advice, that. The Irish are so helpful.

Indeed, so helpful that we came upon this just a few steps beyond Mr. Galvan:

And being the wise, careful, and respectful tourists we were, we promptly ignored it. Along with everyone else there. And glad we did, for the path beyond this sign offered the best views. And a near-death experience at the hands of one of these (I'll explain in a bit):

Um. Moving on.

The horseflies I referenced in this clip? They were midges, like that little green dude above. And there were a blessed bazillion of them. They swarmed us like tiny insectoid Dementors whose job it was to keep us from going through the hole in the fence. But it didn't work! Mwa hahaha! And I nearly fell over the cliff because of these loverly things. Yeah. It's always nice to prove the local sign-makers right.

Yep.

It was shortly after this clip that I took my tumble:

How, you ask? Well, let's just say it involved epic clouds of midges swarming my face in cosmic proportions, me batting them away, and my feet losing the path. Which is when I discovered that the grassy-looking stuff on the edges was much longer and further away from the actual edge of the cliff than I thought. What I'd assumed was a hill of dirt sloping gently downward was actually a cliff face plumped up by long grass and moss. There was nothing under me when I stepped off that trail. Still. I think the warning sign was overstating it, don't you? (Eep.) 

This is where I nearly fell off:

Okay, maybe that's not such a gentle slope. The Collapsing Grass of Moher vs The Dumb Tourist at Moher. At least I would have gotten really great pictures on the way down. 

Well . . . maybe this is a good substitute:

Then at last the midges got the best of me and we headed back along the trail to try the other side of Moher. We passed the hole in the fence, Michael Galvan, and O'Brien's tower–trudging down a hundred steps and back up the other side. 

And then I heard fairy music. No really. I did. Fairies! On Moher!

We rounded a corner, and here he was:

Ahhhh. And that's all I can say. Just . . . ahhhhh. Magical, yes? And fitting. In fact, on that note, we decided to depart. Alive and enlivened. What an amazing place.

And this scene of bucolic domesticity is what greeted us upon return. Life on the Irish Atlantic coast. I think those are our sheets:

Followed by this lovely bit of of allergic reaction to the 5 billion metric tons of pollen that populates the Burren:

Alien-tastic swollen eyelids. Purty.

Which we dealt with by window-shopping hand-knit Aran Island sweaters–

–and stopping at McGann's . . . 

 . . . to eat delicious Irish stew, made from a side of beef and a scattering of potatoes and parsley:

Delightful. 

And then, a farewell to the Atlantic, for we would leave the next morning:

Water as cold as ice and blue as bottle-glass, though you can't see it from here. Basalt beach looking up through the mist to the Cliffs. I'll miss this place. And I'm coming back. Someday. But now, it's time . . . 

  . . . for the comfort of home.

Bruce, get out from behind that camera, boy!