‘Let
me grab some of this sphagnum,’ our guide says, stooping down and
pulling a handful of the moss from the bog’s surface. We have come
to the Connemara National Park at a great time: it's Bog Week and we
can tag along with an interesting – and free – guide.
‘Look
what happens when I squeeze,’ our guide says. Water runs from the
sphagnum she is holding – more water than I would have thought
possible.
This
is nothing, she tells us. It has hardly rained, the bog is relatively
dry, the flowers are a month behind schedule. But the sphagnum is
interesting: during the First World War it was used to dress
soldiers’ wounds, as it has antibacterial properties. The Native
Americans used it to line their babies’ nappies. The group laughs.
‘Well,
that’s it. I’ll be returning to the visitor centre but you can
climb Diamond Hill if you like to be stuck up there with a hundred
and fifty other tourists,’ our guide says. I look up at the
mountain and marvel at the use of the diminutive word ‘hill’. The
Irish clearly have different standards.
We
decide to walk up to the standing stone at the foot of the hill. The
view of the bay is marvellous, so we do what all tourists do and take
selfies. Then we make our way back down to the visitor centre, the
air heavy with the coconut smell of the gorse flowers. We still have
a lot of time left before the bus arrives that will take us back to
Clifden, so we walk into the local radio station, which happens to be
selling books to raise funds. We can browse if we are quiet when the
red light comes on, we are told. I pick up a book and show it to my
husband: it’s called How did we get
into this mess? and looks like the
world-saving literature he likes to read. He decides it looks
promising and we return to the reception to drop our one euro into
their fundraising tin.
‘Fancy
a chat in the studio?’ a passing presenter asks while dunking his
tea bag in his cup.
‘Ohm,
no thanks,’ I say. I’m not a good talker so I immediately get out
of the invitation.
‘Honey!’
My husband says as soon as the presenter is gone. ‘Why didn’t you
say yes? I would have. I’d have told them my wife is a writer and
that she has a great blog.’
‘Oh.’
I make a face. It’s true it could have been a good opportunity to
promote my writing. And that’s my problem as a writer: I don’t
like to get attention from strangers, so I don’t seek it out.
The
other staff members, all volunteers as it turns out, are eager to
find out more about us. What’s the weather like over on our side?
Rather the same as it is here, only a little warmer, I guess. The
man behind the reception desk nods, as though that information means
something. We take our leave from the friendly volunteers and my
husband’s brother calls.
‘It’s
32 degrees at home,’ my husband relays the information. Oops, I
think, a little warmer was a bit of an understatement then.
The
bus arrives and we line up with the other tourists.
‘The
door is slow, just like meself,’ the bus driver says in his
wonderful Irish tones. I show our tickets with a smile and plonk into
my seat by the window. It’s funny to drive by the bay we saw from
the hillside: up there it looked far more majestic. On a busy road,
the driver stops to let an elderly lady get off the bus. Her house is
on the other side of the road, it transpires.
‘You
should get yourself a tunnel, then,’ the bus driver quips.
‘A
what?’
‘A
TUNNEL!’
The
bus comes back to life and on we zip along the narrow roads. The
sheep in the fields have been sprayed red, blue and green.
‘Look,
rainbow sheep,’ I say to my husband.
He
laughs.
‘They’re
very supportive of LGBT rights,’ I say in mock earnestness.
‘I
thought Ireland was firmly Catholic?’ my husband replies.
‘Oh,
Ireland isn’t Catholic anymore,’ the Irish man sitting behind us
bursts into our conversation. ‘Our prime minister is a homosexual
and our minister for children is a lesbian!’
‘Oh
really?’
‘Aye!’
He lets the information sink in. When we turn to look out of the
window again, he adds triumphantly: ‘And our president is a
leprechaun!’
