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At the Cliffs of Mohor, sea foam is blowing across the parking lot. To get an indication of what this suggests, consider that the cliffs are 600 feet high, and that the parking lot is set back several hundred yards from the edge. There are only three other cars in a lot that holds hundreds. At the cliff edge, the interpretive sign for nesting cliff birds is rattling, and it crosses my mind that it will tear loose from its bolts and brain me. I cannot stand without leaning forward, nor hold a camera still.

There are snatches of a jig on a pennywhistle in the wind. The effect is wonderful, like glimmers of an imagined Ireland emerging from the very land. The busker is standing unseen, behind a large sign (there’s been a proliferation of large signs here since my last visit, mostly warning people not to do something stupid, like jump, in four languages). His box with a few lonely Euro coins sits on the ground, threatening to blow away. "Why don’t you just hold your whistle out in the breeze, and finger away?" He likes that, and we chat, and I photograph. I give him the 5 Euro note that Joe Casey gave me the other day, and promise a photo. "Could you send me one of the Cliffs? That’s what I really want."

The parking gate attendent said that winds were due to increase over the next couple of hours. Increase?

It is St. Bridgit’s Day, also the first day of Spring in the Irish calendar. By Lisconnor is the holy well of St. Bridgit, an artesian spring with a grotto built around it. Within the grotto are hundred of Sacred Heart of Jesus and Mary prints, hand-written notes with prayers of intercession, candles, and a discarded crutch or two. A life-size statue of St. Bridgit with a shephardess’ staff stands outside, enclosed by a glass gazebo. She looks like she’s trapped in a clear tellie booth.

As I expected, the place is hopping. Old men and women finger rosaries and walk around the statue. In the garden above, a woman circles a stone cross three times. There’s a specific set of maneuvers for prayer here, which I discover on a laminated paper in the grotto. Circle this way 7 times, pray this prayer 3 times and such. Two toddlers are laughing and jumping into puddles, leavening the mood. The water table is so high right now that a stream is emerging from between the Lisconnor slate pavers of the grotto floor, which you have to wade through to get to the spring. The little boy in the blue rubber boots puts his finger in the stream, then holds up the wet finger to his mother.

I buy a St. Bridgit’s Cross from the pub next door.

At Lahinch, past the famous golf course, a flock of grounded shorebirds face into the wind. They are mostly Whimbrel, the big guys with long, downcurved bills, and lapwings, a stocky shorebird that resembles a cross between a jay and a grouse.

I have word of a ceili tonight in the back beyond of rural Clare. A complicated set of instructions takes me down farm roads and one lane macadam threads with stone walls on either side. When I meet another car, we both slow to a crawl and scrape the brush. I am reconnoitering the route in daylight. When I get there, I see that the village actually sits on a major route, but oh, this was far more interesting. It’s the way a local who actually knew where they were would have gone.

The news on the tellie is all about the storm. The highest spring tides since 1923 have flooded much of the coastal areas. The watefront of Galway is under 4 feet of water. Winds have been gusting to 80mph. It is supposed to stay stormy, with high tides, for the next few days.

1 February 2002

Kilrush, County Clare