Ill Concieved Plans Poorly executed

An Easter break in Ireland

A couple of the lads from the caving club had been over to Ireland and come back with stories about caverns measureless to mankind and glasses of Guinness that never emptied. My appetite was whetted so I acquired a few guidebooks for the County Clare area and started plotting. It was easy to get a few others interested and after a little bit of research the accommodation was booked. Tony our long-suffering minibus owner was drafted in for the transport and before long we were heading up to Holyhead to meet a ferry.

After a long journey we arrived bleary and tired in Doolin ready to start our Irish adventure. After the details of where to sleep were sorted out and gear was spread liberally around the hostel no one really wanted to go underground. It had been a long day. We opted for an easy way to fill the hours till opening time. The nearby Cliffs of Mohir seemed like a reasonable place to go. Five of us set off on this little trek leaving the others to test the bunk beds. We wandered over the cliff tops that soar to 300 feet high in places and looked out onto the Atlantic Ocean. There was nothing between her and America but sea. The weather was perfect. I had been told so much about Irish rain that I had started to believe that the whole week would be shrouded in mist and gloom, luckily for us the forecast was for a week of settled weather. At the top of the cliffs we decided to take a breather. Someone suggested crawling to the edge and peeking over. I'm not good with heights; I always feel the forces of gravity pulling me over the edge when I'm near a drop. Mary went first, peeked over the edge and then yelled, "Look at those seagulls, they're mad!" Before long all of us were lying on the edge of these very high cliffs watching the seagulls swooping in the thermals, squabble, argue make friends and live life how seagulls do. And then, well I'm not really sure what happened but I woke up peering down into the sea. I must have fallen asleep, my mouth was dry and I had that just woken up feeling. I edged slowly back from the drop trying not to think about what might have happened if I'd rolled over. I looked round for the others. There they where, asleep, drooped over the edge of the cliff. Do I wake them? Do I leave them? Or do I just sit here and see what happens? I sat there. Within the next five minuets each of them emerged from there slumber, released what had happened, edged back and then joined me to watch the next on wake to find the ground had disappeared.

That night we got acquainted with our evening venue for the next couple of days. It was here that I developed a taste for Guinness, helped by the atmosphere of the bar and the lavish attention to detail that the barman took in pulling the pints. The area we were in is known for it's music and each night we were surrounded by musicians who just seemed to wander in, sit in the corner and join in with the music. It was all so, well so Irish. Full of fresh air, Guinness and whisky we slept well that night.

The Hostel was almost next door to a cave system, what's more there was a through trip in the system. Even better we had Dave whose memory for cave descriptions and survey was almost legendary. With all this in our favour it would have been rude not to visit it. The journey started in the middle of a field where water ran down into a small limestone fissure. We followed the stream along the passageways, through clean washed limestone tunnels and past a few decorations. It was a joy to splash around in a new underground river and poke around in the side passages. All too soon it came to an end. Owing to a lapse in Dave's famed memory it took a while to find the way out but eventually we found day light by following the smell of farmyard. Luckily we had dropped the ladder down the correct hole before starting out which meant that we didn't have to reverse the whole journey.

After a long and successful trip the only course of action was to visit the local and congratulate ourselves on our caving prowess.

It's a well known fact that too much caving will make a persons face go pale, force them to walk with a stoop and grow a big bushy beard. It is also true that if you don't make and effort to look around you'll gain a detailed knowledge of the underneath of areas of outstanding natural beauty. To guard against these consequences we hired some bicycles for a pedal round the Burren. Hire bikes are never the same as your own but Trevor decided that a few minutes of adjustment were required. After a frenzy of spanners and screwdrivers he thought he had it just so. It's a shame really, as the moment his back was turned the rest of us set about undoing all his good work. Strangely he complained about the bike all the way round. The rest of us just sniggered.

The plan was to follow the coastline north until lunchtime and then head in land and wobble back. It was a plan that lacked detail but this shortfall was made up by generalisations. The group soon split into the tortoises and the hares, strangely the groups seemed to mirror the drinking groups that had emerged over the last few days with the hares having the higher Guinness intake. The three of us forged ahead whilst the others pretended that there slowness was due to a greater appreciation of the scenery. It was magnificent scenery too. Bare rocky hillsides with the barest covering of bright green grass and the odd knarled tree fighting for a foothold against the wind. Unsurprisingly it reminded me of Yorkshire.

The thought of dinner started to weigh heavily on the minds of the hares. We decided that the next pub would be our dinner venue. As if by magic a pub serving food appeared on the horizon. We left the bikes where the others would see them and set about exploring all corners of the menu. We sat by the window with our post lunch pints surveying the debris of our meal and waiting for the others. Eventually they turned up looking very hungry. It's a shame that the chef had just left and they had to make do with a few sandwiches. We took great delight in describing our meal in great detail.

The return journey was a little more sedate. The hares were weighed down with the weight of dinner and had to stop frequently to answer the call of nature. The long climb to the top of the Burren slowed everybody down to a snails pace, but the views from the top were outstanding. Somewhere near the top was a sign to a megalithic site. I'm a bit found of megalithic sites and a sucker for stone circles. A sign like this might as well say, "head this way". In the middle of a field stood a dolmen. A slab of rock capping two upright lumps of rock. All around the main event there where endless little models made by passing tourists. Hundreds of them all over the place. The more you looked the more you saw. By the time we got back to the bikes there were at least ten more.

The morning came late, it may have been something to do with the cycling but more likely it was something to do with the ever-increasing amount of Guinness we were consuming. At some point in the evening we had discussed caving. It was after all the reason we where here and a few of the others actually wanted to do some. Dave and Tony spent a few minutes flicking though the guidebook and found a suitable venue. Jon and I had got to the state were we would agree to anything.

Not for the first time I found myself entering a cave with a hangover (me, not the cave). Normally in these circumstances I would head for the nearest cold water and leap in to wash the pain away. Dave and Tony had chosen a dry cave. No running water in sight. This was going to be painful. The cave was meant to have one of the largest free hanging formations in Ireland. It could have had a London bus in it for all the attention that I paid. From about one hundred yards in I just had the rising urge to get out and sleep. Before long it became too much. I just turned round and left. After a few hours sleep in the bus I was woken by chants of "light weight" and "slacker". I probably deserved it. Now I ready to go caving but the rest of them were gently falling asleep in the van. Lightweights.

The next day, Easter Monday, was our last in Ireland. We spent most of the day travelling and sight seeing eventually reaching Dublin via Galway. Now I'm not a great scholar of Irish history but I was vaguely aware there was something significant about Easter Monday which made wandering down O'Connel Street and being English feel a little uncomfortable.

We arrived at the ferry port in plenty of time and were ushered though customs. Unsurprisingly we where stopped. All our wet and muddy caving gear and a few bottles of Irish whiskey hidden around the van.

"Been anywhere nice sir?"
"Potholing on the Burren"
In the back we were all muttering "go on search the wetsuits" in the hope of seeing a couple of customs officers getting really muddy.
"Students?"
"Mainly" said Tony, who looks nothing like a student.
"Oh, off you go then".

All too soon we were home.