Ted, I'd love a pop tart.

We spent much of today at the spectacular Cliffs of Moher, and then a 2 ½ hour journey to Galway. Interestingly, the map says the distance is about 70 kms, but these roads are like nothing us antipodeans have ever seen. You can barely fit two cars juxtaposed, and each side of the road has dry-stone walls right at the edge. I doubt whether they could even spell verge, let alone recognise one. This is bad enough, but when a fully laden bus is coming in the other direction, you’ve nowhere to go. Most of the time I close my eyes and hope for the best (I’m exaggerating about closing my eyes, it’s Alison who does that – I just scream with panic).

The Cliffs of Moher - not bad, are they?

Pretty foggy at this time of the morning, but the sun did eventually shine beautifully.

I hope you're not sick of them yet.

 

Alright, we drove a long way to get there - give me a break.

The Cliffs of Moher are, as I said, most spectacular. To give you an idea, think the Twelve Apostles on the Great Ocean Road, and you’d be pretty close. In fact, although the Cliffs are great, I don’t think they’re any better than the Apostles. Nevertheless, there are literally thousands of tourists there, from all over the world (although I didn’t see anyone from Swasiland). 

While we were there, the most amazing thing happened. When we arrived, the place was so foggy you could barely see your own hands, and very chilly indeed. To help abate the cold, I’ve taken to wearing my Geelong Cats scarf. It has been a bit of a running joke that someone would eventually come up to me and ask, ‘Isn’t that a Geelong scarf?’ Sure enough, sitting minding our own business a little kid approaches out of nowhere. I thought for a minute he was going to ask for my autograph (some people think I look like Father Ted), but no, he simply said, ‘Is that a Geelong Cat’s scarf, cause I reckon they’re crap; Collingwood is much better’. After I stepped on the kid’s toes, by accident of course, we got talking. He was with his brother and dad, and they were on holiday from, you guessed it Melbourne, of all places. Dad spoke with a very thick Irish accent, although he’d lived in Melbourne for thirty-seven years, and even the son had a slight Irishness to his voice. We spoke for a while, joked how Malthouse was making a goose of himself at Carlton, he commented that he thought Collingwood would win the flag, and I then pushed him over the cliff. I think they last spotted him somewhere in the North Atlantic (serves him right, precocious brat!)

Looking back from the cliffs - ah, it's more Irish than the Irish.

After having walked along the cliffs for what seemed half-way to Galway, and gingerly avoiding about 38,000 young French and Italian teenage girls taking selfies while dangling from the edge, we left the rat race that is the Cliffs of Moher and headed for Galway.

The landscape heading towards Galway.

The county could only be described as rugged, I mean John Wayne rugged. I’m talking desolate, stony, barren, people-with-two-heads rugged (although this last reference could technically apply to most of Ireland). It reminded me very much of the sort of landscape immortalised in Father Ted. Driving through it, all I could think was,” I’d love a pop tart, Ted”.