Co. Donegal, Ireland.

These touring trips of Ireland are turning out to be an annual event. Last year the Burren and this time Donegal. In particular Glencolmcille; one time home of St Columba. It turns out that this summer I’ve accidentally been on a slight Columba pilgrimage without planning it. First Iona, then Oronsay, then inland to various priories visited by Columba himself or set-up by his monks. It felt strange to happen upon the place where he started out, before he left Ireland on his self-exile to the Scottish western isles.

Anyway, true to form we toured Donegal seeking out all the ruins and carved crosses, megalithic tombs and ancient holy wells we possibly could, fitting in walks on beaches and up pretty golden hills for the whippets and tweed mills and little cottages where sweet Irish ladies sold their hand knitted jumpers. The soundtrack to all was Enya (who allegedly lives as a recluse in an island castle on the coast of Donegal, but who knows....). Anyway, particularly awe-inspiring were the gigantically imposing mountain cliffs of Slieve Leauge. Totally solitary, in their moody winter colours with the killer sea beating insignificantly at their feet and in the ghostly grey, gossamer dusk we were both touched to tears as Pax Deorum boomed from the car speakers on our approach.

Enya - Pax Deorum

or paste http://www.youtube.com/watch?gl=GB&hl=en-GB&v=alAiENqhRxM  into search engine.

Maybe it ought to have been, but it wasn’t an authentic food tour. We were far too busy being artistic historians to think about food. But we did eat a lot of potatoes. In all forms. That’s Irish, no? And on the last night heading back towards Shannon, we stopped for a blissful feed at Moran’s Oyster Cottage. There we feasted on local oysters, crab claws, clams and Irish soda bread washed down, of course, with a Guinness.