The Road to Bundoran

An early start in unexpected rain, and a very predictable headwind, gets us to Rosses point in a miserable state of mind.  According to the board, it was here that W B Yeats and his younger brother Jack played in the waves as children.  No danger of anyone doing that this morning.

Turning back from the pointless point, the skies brighten and we make good time to Drumcliff, bypassing the Pink Clover cafe, our chosen breakfast spot. We are pleased to retreat and find that it’s right next to St Columba’s church, the resting place of Yeats and his wife George.  Inside the cafe we also find out more about Jack Butler Yeats who, it turns out was a respected artist in his own right.  The boys seem quite attentive this morning, so I give a recital of The Lake Isle of Inishfree.  They seem to appreciate it, which I take as a good sign.  Quite appropriately, we will be Under Ben Bulben for next three hours as that is how long it would take me to digest that particular piece of work.  

Back on the road, we have something of a debate about whether it’s really worth doing a circuit of Raghly.  We go for it, of course, and enjoy a gentle circuit of a quiet deserted headland.  The board there claims that Raghly people are rightly proud of its maritime tradition.  But I have my doubts about this, as there no signs of any recent activity at the harbour and fewer than twenty houses dotted about, some of which are holiday homes.

For our next stop we take a detour out to Streedagh head, a long dogleg peninsula with a golf links and several miles of sand dunes.  It was here that three ships from the Spanish Armada foundered with the loss of 1200 men.  There were only 300 survivors.  So 500 men on each ship, which seems a huge number.  According to the board, there were 22 of these sinkings off the coast of Ireland in 1588, so the Atlantic must have been very wild that year.  

We stop in Grange for a good lunch, where I consume a rebuke I have received for confusing a dogleg with a side-track.  Quite why they’ve waited seven days to tell me is another enigma.  

Onward we go for a loop of Mullaghmore, a very pretty little village with a harbour at the end of yet another peninsula.  There is a memorial to a man named Freddy, a local man who died in poverty and was discovered to have burned all his wooden furniture, including part of his bed, in order to try and stay warm.  There are other memorials to Lord Mountbatten who was bombed here, in his boat, by the IRA.  But it’s a sad business and we don’t go looking for those.

From Mullaghmore we zip along to Bundoran, our resting place for the night.  The Bundoran area attained significance in the 17th century as a Franciscan centre and as the principal base of Mícheál Ó Cléirigh during his compilation of the Annals of the Four Masters, an Irish history masterpiece.  However by the late 19th century Bundoran was known more for being one of the most popular seaside towns in Ireland.  Its status waned when the railway line was closed because of the impact of partition, but it is still a fairly busy resort (a bit bleak today) with a pleasant seafront, good surfing, and the usual trappings of such a place.  After an enjoyable night of traditional Irish music in Sligo, we might be looking for something a bit more modern here in Bundoran…

Donegal