It’s a family joke, but we call them Schmid. Some years ago my lovely bride took her parents to Ireland. And somewhere along the way they met someone and that person was named Schmid, or at least misremembered as Schmid, and that got transposed on some of the sheep. And it turns out if you say Schmid in the same way that you might say “Baaaaaa!” you’ll often get a response. It was funny, it worked, it stuck.

The schmid … the sheep … are everywhere around here. Some are in fenced pastures. A great many run free. In fact, this is about the only photo I took of a roadside without schmid … sheep … on it.

We saw this one near Keem Bay and stopped especially to take this photo. It’s a winning shot, to be sure.

This one was walking by as we drove from here to there this morning, somewhere between Dumhach Beag and where we found the Spanish Armada commemoration.

This little postcard took place around nothing but the most beautiful landscape that you could imagine never being remarked on or capitalized upon in anyway.

The time stamp says I took the next photo just two minutes later.

Not to worry, I’m sure we’ll see more schmid in our journey. If you somehow missed it, there are schmid on video in the day’s first post.

Ten (!!!) posts, 42 photos, and a five minute video today. I hope you’ve gotten your money’s worth.

There will be even more tomorrow.

Here’s another two-for-one post, featuring our last two stops on the Wild Atlantic Way today. But not my last post of the day.

So it’s another quick one, just to get it all down, and to show the places, and to challenge myself to share video later. Is there video? There is video. Now I’ve mentioned it, you’re reading about it, and I must follow through. That’s how that works.

Up first is Tra Dhumh Goirt. (Or Dugort, or Doogort, or Pollawaddy, or Silver Strand … getting directions around here must be a challenge.) This is on the northern side of Mount Slievemore, so we’ve come around from where the deserted village sits on Achill Island. There are quite a few sandy beaches in this area. Also a lot of wind. And some grazing sheep and, most importantly, several lambs.

And this sign. You still see reminders like this. We should see more. I’m never sure if I’m more surprised by how people have so desperately tried to forget this, and how our institutions are largely engaged in that effort, or by the occasions when you see some reminder.

I wonder what the last such reminder will be. Will you even remember it? Someone, some day, is going to come to Tra Dhumh Goirt (or Dugort, or Doogort, or Pollawaddy, or Silver Strand) and see that sign. And then they’ll never see another one, or a rumpled piece of paper taped to a wall or window, or a battered sticker on the floor. And then one day after that they’ll try to remember the last time they saw something about the two-meters thing … “What was it called again? Ahh, yes.” Will they remember it here?

And the thing about a sign like this, here, is that you have to realize the Mayo County Council is invested. There’s no way that’s the original sign they posted here. No way that’s withstood the elements for approaching six years. Six years!

I wonder what was happening at Doran’s Point six years ago.

Functionally, this place’s pier serves a twice-daily ferry to get you over to the next island. There’s also a bus line that goes away from the point. It’s remote, rugged, quiet, ecologically diverse, and beautiful.

Also, there are monsters in the water. The Dobhar-Chu, the water hound of Celtic legend, lives out there. It’s said to look like a giant otter, but with a dog-like head. It swims the lakes and the sea, dragging victims into the water, where it kills and eats its prey. We both made it safely away from there, even if we weren’t prepared for an encounter. The legend goes that if you have a piece of the Dobhar-Chu’s skin, you’ll be protected from all many of nautical calamities. Also, you have to figure out how to get a piece of it’s skin.

And like all good monster stories, people have of course seen the thing. Most of the sightings seem to be in a lake, just six miles from where that photo was taken. Six miles would be close enough. I don’t need a piece of it’s skin that badly.

So those are our last two stops on the Wild Atlantic Way today but not overall. Not even close. This isn’t even the final post of Tuesday. What a day.

Here’s a little two-for-one update.

We visited Cuan na hAisléime — which my very English fingers find difficult to type — and Keem Bay. Both are lovely, but I’ve only got a few photos of each. Not to worry, there’s also video, and that’ll turn up here eventually.

First, Cuan na hAisléime, a simple elevated car stop with lovely views of Ashleam Bay along the southern coast of Achill Island. You’re driving on some fun hairpins as you work down, and when you’re hear you get a nice view of the bright white, jagged cliffs that stand out from the rest of the geology we’ve seen recently.

Here there’s a sign that tells you all about how the locals heat their homes. They still do a lot of peat farming — though, despite the long tradition, I have to think that’s on the way out, considering either the volume needed, the carbon released, or both. It works like this, the turf cutter is a farmer, and he works his own turf bank. It takes about a week of work around this time of year to prepare and provide enough fuel to get through next winter.

You’d work in groups, using a special double-bladed shovel that cuts peat into squared off blocks, rectangles about two feet long. You’d throw those up onto the bank, and come back later and arrange them into stacks to dry. Then, by hand, bag, donkey or tractor, you haul them home. You want them dried out, to prepare for the winter. By then, your dried segments are half the size as when you started. They say the pros can work so quickly and efficiently they could get six pieces in the air at once.

That seems … improbable. And unnecessary.

We also visited Keem Bay, which is nearby.

And this is one of those charming little places you’ve never known about, but then feels certain and right at home when you find it. Of course this exists. Of course it is as beautiful, or moreso, than you’d imagine. Of course you have it all to yourself.

The strand is in the horseshoe of the bay, and near a village that is home to just over 500 people and a bunch of B-and-Bs. At one point, this little area was home to a basking shark fishery. And because of all those fishermen, the British government operated a lifeboat station from here on the beach. That was in operation for more than a century. There’s a lifeguard shack there now, and the sign says they’ll open in June.

More recently, the bay was used as a filming location for The Banshees of Inisherin, a terrific 2022 character study. There’s a small building, just off the left side of the frame here, that was used in the movie.

A picturesque beach, and, yes, there’s more video of this coming, too.

And just up from the beach, there’s this trail. Only the bold know.

I am not that bold and we had other places to see. Let’s go see them!

Without really discussing it, I think this what we both came here for. Wild Atlantic Way is excellent branding, and here on just the second day there seems to be at least a little something for everyone. But when you say Wild and Atlantic, this is the imagery that comes to mind. This, by the way, is just a place we stopped. There’s no signage or tourist point directing you here. You just drive by, stop, and ponder: Could I build a little house up on a little hill to enjoy commanding views like these?