Doolin and the Wild Atlantic Way

I watched my bus back to Galway drive off into the distance and I felt my pulse quicken; I didn’t even know where I would be staying for the night in this tiny town of Doolin. The bus had dropped me in front of a pub, and though it was only a little after midday, I ordered a whiskey to quell the adrenaline. After talking with a couple of the bartenders I learned that most of the hostels and even the bed and breakfasts were closed for the season. But one guy thought he knew a of place, and after making a quick phone call on my behalf, found me a room at the Rainbow hostel just up the road. I thanked the bar staff warmly.

The Rainbow hostel was much smaller and more rustic than anywhere I had stayed thus far. The inside had a real log cabin sort of vibe with lots of woodwork and dim lighting. There was an extra large kitchen with a glass door to the back patio where glorious green meadows stretched out as far as the eye could see. The common room was full of cozy couches and chairs surrounding an old wood burning stove, and purposefully lacked a television. The hostel owners were an old Irish couple who lived in the house next door. They claimed that their guests found a greater sense of camaraderie without electronic luxuries like cable TV. They were right.

The friends I made at the Doolin Rainbow hostel were among the most memorable characters I had ever met while traveling. There was Leander, a friendly German guy who was over the moon to talk to me in his native language; Bryttnie, a love-filled free spirit from California; Marc-Antoine, a funny amateur actor from Quebec; Thomas, a wide-smiling and cheerful young French guy from somewhere just south of Luxembourg; and Charlotte, a lovely French girl from Strasbourg who joined me in some fireside yoga shortly after arriving. Without all the usual hostel amenities to distract ourselves with, we occupied ourselves instead with long conversations, sharing stories, music, and pictures—but most importantly—cooking and eating meals together.

One of my fondest memories with this group of travelers was taking long nighttime walks under the bright starry sky to the pub a couple kilometers away. The lack of streetlights and light pollution in general let the stars glow with all their glory above us. It was magical, though with the one exception that since we were without flashlights we would occasionally have to throw ourselves off the narrow road as cars came racing around corners with little warning or apparent concern for human life. Upon reaching the warm inviting atmosphere of O’Connor’s pub, there would be local music playing and a warm hearth for us to enjoy. While you may have a preconceived notion of Irish pubs being full of loud and rowdy hooligans, the patrons of truly authentic ones like O’Connors are kindhearted and have great respect for the musicians who entertain them. They crowd in close to the band, always sing along if they know the words, and loudly “SHHHH” whenever the band grows quiet so that the full effect of a crescendo may be appreciated. When Bryttnie was so bold as to go up and sing an Irish folk song with the local musicians, I followed her lead and offered to play guitar and sing a couple songs during the band’s break. Liking what they heard, the full band rejoined me for a fun jam session on Bob Dylan’s Wagon Wheel. In that pub I felt much more in tune with local culture than anywhere else I’d visited so far.

I decided early one morning in Doolin to rent a bike from the hostel owners and pedal my way back toward the Cliffs of Moher to do some more exploring. Using my phone’s GPS to get me going in the right direction, I made my way through Doolin and began the long uphill struggle to the cliffs. It was about five miles of steady incline, but the cool breeze and gorgeous scenery provided constant sources of motivation. Once I arrived at the cliffs, I had to lock up the bike and continue on the narrow rocky trail on foot. I was pouring sweat despite the cool weather, and I stripped off my jacket and T-shirt to the bewilderment of the parka-toting tourists about. I hiked and I hiked, far beyond where tourists ventured from their tour buses. Even though I was hundreds of feet above the sea I could still taste sea salt on the tip of my tongue as I went. It seemed that the views of the cliffs grew more dramatic the farther I hiked, and the Aran Islands in the distance became clearer as the sun climbed higher and the sea mist retreated.

I eventually came to a point where the trail veered away from the sea and the cliffs and turned into a paved road again. A small wooden sign informed me that I had reached North Mullaghroe, just a few miles short of the town of Liscannor. Had I had the bike with me, I might have continued on to see what the town of Liscannor had to offer. But as daylight was scarce and I had yet to relieve myself on a single castle, I decided to turn back. Having already taken all the pictures I wanted of the cliffs, I jogged most of the way back to where I’d left the bike. Instead of going back down the main road I had come up earlier, I decided to take the bike along a section of the Wild Atlantic Way trail that followed the coastline. It was a delightful downhill ride with seemingly endless scenic views.

As the trail began to level out, I came around a corner and found myself confronted by a tall watchtower that I soon discovered to be the remnants of Donagore castle. A low metal fence surrounded it, but I tested the gate and found it surprisingly unlocked. I had a long look around until I was startled by an Irishman who shouted at me from the gate that I was trespassing on private property. I made my way over to the disgruntled gentleman who demanded to know how I had unlocked the gate. I told him I found it that way and that I assumed the fence was there to keep out roaming sheep (of which there were plenty) rather than roaming tourists. Scratching his head about the unlocked gate, the man let me go without any flogging. I followed the trail all the way back to Doolin, where I stopped for a lunch of Guinness stew at O’Connors pub again.

Shortly before my bike excursion came full circle, just as my hostel came into view, I was promptly hit by a car. A woman had come around the corner and apparently had had her face buried in a text message conversation on her phone when she heard the clunk of an American roll onto her windshield. I had heard the car approaching from behind and was hugging the shoulder, expecting it to go around me. Needless to say, I was more than a little bit startled when the sedan connected with my back tire and flung me backwards onto the hood. The bike skittered off to the side, narrowly avoiding getting run over and I grabbed onto the car’s windshield wiper and passenger side mirror to avoid a similar fate. This worked briefly until the driver screamed and slammed on the brakes. I lost grip on my handholds and hugged the hood of the car with eagle-spread arms as I slid forward with her stopping momentum. When the car finally came to a jerking halt, I popped off the hood and onto my feet with a certain jack-in-the-box finesse.

The driver got out of her car in a fit of hysteria and waving arms to see if I was okay. My reaction to this incident, as with most things of startling nature, was to laugh heartily and dance around a little. Nothing felt injured; no broken bones or open wounds or anything like that. Even the bike seemed relatively unharmed, save for some paint being scratched away. As for the woman’s car, it wasn’t so much as dented. We just had to readjust her side mirror a bit and it was like the whole thing never happened. After assuring her that I was fine and insisting that I didn’t need a ride to the doctor, she pressed a handful of Euro notes into my hand and promised to stop texting while driving. Sometimes I look back on my experiences and am seriously impressed that I’m still alive.

I spent one more night with my new friends at the rainbow hostel, where we cooked a delicious Mexican meal together. Mexican food is my ultimate comfort food, and to share that with these new friends was very special indeed. The mature white Irish cheddar cheese we ate with the meal was also quite possible better than any cheddar I had ever eaten back home in the States. We feasted, talked, and laughed in the hostel dining room long into the night before finally turning in. The next morning I would attempt hitchhiking again, and unlike my first failed attempt in Dublin, it would turn out to be one hell of a successful endeavor.