Blog: Hawaii couple tops the cliffs near Doolin

The Hawaii Independent’s Downtown editor is currently reconnecting with his Irish heritage on his honeymoon throughout Ireland. He’s sending us back the details. Read part 1 here and part 2 here. Keep checking back for more musings from a Hawaii boy in Ireland.

After banishing a hangover with a steaming bowl of latte and a sensible breakfast, Wifey and I bolted from Cork for the Rock of Cashel, an hour and a half north. We’d hoped to beat the crowds, arriving at 10:00 a.m., but were beaten by a large crowd of German tourists. The famous German efficiency is only charming in Volkswagen commercials.

I’ll not bother to describe the Rock, a staggering historical ruin, or its environs, but I will say that a chunk the size of an average family car was blown off in a windstorm long ago. And people used to flock to pray there. Now they flock there to shell out six Euros for a chance to have their on-holiday pictures ruined by bumbling journalists from Paradise.

After a lunch served by, I believe, Ginger Spice, we made for the Cliffs of Moher. Stopping first at Lehinch, an Irish beach town, I was happy to see a thriving surf industry along the promenade. I was disappointed to see that the waves were shite.

The Cliffs of Moher were thronged with tourists, but a banjo player along the walk provided at least some sense of Irish-ness amid a tangle of accents and the banal parade of bad sunglasses. Crippled by an entirely rational fear of falling, I refused to join Wifey as she strolled the ledge, opting instead to snap pictures from a place of more terrestrial certitude.

The tiny village of Doolin was the next stop, a bull’s eye on the map of my pilgrimage. We found Gus O’Connor’s, a humble but vibrant and famous haven of traditional Irish music. Supper was spectacular, fresh Irish beef and veggies with a vinaigrette salad that could have easily been served at places I save up for to take Wifey to dinner at home in Hawaii.

It was there I met Jimmy Lawler, a retired farmer who now roams the countryside singing the songs of his fathers. He found out we were on holiday from Hawaii, and the whole crowd of about 30 sang along as he played the Willie Nelson classic “Good Morning America, How Are Ya?” for us. I was quick to point out that Hawaii is different from “the States” as we shared a cigarette between sessions.

It was during that cigarette that I was to learn about the decline of the farming and fishing industries in Ireland, and that monkfish expands when you cook it. “That was what the Good Lord must have had when he fed all those people,” said Jimmy.

“Well what did he use for bread then?” I asked in an embarrassing counterfeit Irish brogue (hey, even the Germans can’t keep from affecting the accent).

“Self rising!” he roared and slapped me on the back so hard it rattled my molars.