21
Mar 26

Fort Dunree

It was a somewhat shorter day — our last day, sadly — touring around Ireland. This week we went west, and then worked our way north. This evening we have to drive back down to Dublin. We’re flying out tomorrow morning. But that’s tomorrow, and there’s still today. And we have a few more sites to see.

When you go to Dunree Head you’re really going to Fort Dunree. There are several old barracks, the view of the water, Lough Swilly, below and the Fanad Peninsula across the way.

There’s a museum, and a few historical pieces outside on display. Your basic fort features, really. Like, for instance, the 90 cm carbon arc searchlight. Their predecessors were put in early in the 20th century, these were installed in 1938. They were intended to light up enemy ships and assisting the Royal Navy steamers.

The light was so bright it lit up the Ballmastocker Beach we saw yesterday and the village across the way. That’s more than three miles as the crow flies. The story they tell is that you could read your newspaper, at night, from the strength of that light.

The light was manually moved. A soldier stood off to the side several feet and steered the thing around. He was stationed to the side because of the heat the light generated.

You send some electricity through carbon rods and the reflection off the concave mirror does the real work. It could be used as a pinpoint light, or in a moveable wider arc, which turned all of night into day on the water. There are two of these on display, at least one of them would still work. They last used it in a 2011 ceremony.

There are also two QF 12 pounder CWT guns, made by the Elswick Ordnance Company in 1893 and installed here in 1925. The idea behind this weapon was harbor defense against small vessels. They were in service until 1956.

The gunner stood to the left of the weapon. He threw his arm over the shoulder piece, trying his best to look cool. The left hand elevated and depressed the barrel. The right hand rested on a pistol grip, and there he fingered the trigger.

It fired a 3-inch shell, and could average a round down range ever four seconds.

Another key element of the fort was the Mark XVII sea mine.

This is a contact mine, the standard British armament. If your ship bumped up against this your ship would go boom. It was an update on World War I British mines, an evolution from their German counterparts.

There were switches in those horns, now painted red, and this was the standard device during World War 2. Here, they were used defensively, meant to deny access to the waterways. (Historians still debate their effectiveness.) Inside of the mine was a mix of ammonium nitrate and TNT which apparently made for a lower quality explosive. The explosive charge could range between 320 and 500 pounds of explosives. I have no frame of reference for what that means.

In the old rooms of the fort there are little displays, highlighting things like the uniforms and tools and the forge that were all fixtures of the place when it was in active service, which was the case between 1798 (We’ve seen multiple references on our trip to the French fleet that came in to support the Irish Rebellion at the turn of the 18th century.) until after World War 2.

The water here is an important geological feature, one of just three glacial fjords on the island. The water is deep, and there is a sheltered, safe harbor to the left as you look at the photo above. If you sailed to the right, you’re quickly in the transatlantic shipping routes. The British used Lough Swilly’s deep water for much of that time. And here, on top of this cliff, close to the mouth of waterway, the fort commands the best views and any traffic that tried to come through. During the Great War, they erected a boom across the water to protect the British Grand Fleet from a U-boat attack. The British gave over the fort over after the Irish gained independence.

This was the last place handed over to the Irish. There was a brief, small ceremony on Oct. 3, 1938. Not a lot of people saw it, but there was romance and pageantry. A major marched 32 men from the 17th Heavy Battery Royal Artillery to the peak of the fort. Waiting there were 26 men from the 5th Coast Defence Battery Artillery Corps of Ireland.

It was a cold and windy day. It was October, over the North Atlantic. They’re all hunched over with a certain sort of military acceptance and proficiency.

The Union flag was lowered, the Irish tricolour was raised. Sergeant Arthur King lowered the British flag. Quartermaster-Sergeant Michael McLaughlin raised the Irish flag. They were brothers-in-law.

King married a local girl. And the way the signage reads, not everyone was in on the moment. He said they were “keeping this fort in the family” and explained that he was related, by marriage to McLaughlin.

McLaughlin had signed up at 19, in 1922. He stayed on here until 1940, when his service took him to Dublin. He stayed in the Irish Army for another decade after that. When the quartermaster sergeant died his coffin was draped in the flag he hoisted here in October, 1938.

After World War 2 the Irish coastal defense forts were reduced in size and then closed. The guns were fired in their last training exercise in 1964. They were never fired in anger.

In 1989 Fort Dunree was considered strategically unnecessary. The next year, it was formally closed as a base. There was a gale blowing over the Atlantic that June day, but the waters here were said to be perfectly calm. The flag was lowered by a man named Captain William Donagh. He gave the flag to his father, Major General Bill Donagh, pictured above, who had been the officer in charge when the Irish took control in 1938, 52 years earlier.

The place was already a museum by then, since 1986 in fact. When they opened the museum, it served as a reunion, of sorts, for the men who’d served here. They gathered together for this photograph.

That photo was taken 40 years ago. They could tell a lot more stories beyond the excellent signs inside, I’m sure. Hopefully someone jotted them all down.


21
Mar 26

Lisfannon Beach

This is our last day on the Wild Atlantic Way, and our last day in Ireland. It is back down to Dublin tonight, and a plane in the morning. We had to make today count, and did we ever. We warmed up with two quick stops.

Lisfannon Beach on Lough Swilly is in a natural heritage area. It is an important wetlands site for birds. Meanwhile, a short walk away is Fahan Wood, noted for oak, hazel and rowan. The beach itself is a big site for vacationers and it offers some lovely views.

Near here you can sail in some of the same seas that Englishman John Newton sailed, and survived. Born in 1725, Newton went to sea at age 11 with his father. In 1743, he was pressed into the Royal Navy. He got involved in the slave trade, became a slave himself in Africa. Rescued and brought home, he eventually captained several slave ships himself. Along the way, he found his faith. The story goes that he encountered a bad storm in the waters near here, and that was part of the personal catalyst. It was a bit of a slow burn for him, but he eventually became an English evangelical Anglican cleric and abolitionist. He stared hard into what had been some moral blind spots, and wrote a tract apologizing for his role in the slave trade that became popular enough to require reprinting. He also wrote hymns, including Amazing Grace.

The British Empire ended their role in the African slave trade in 1807, just months before Newton’s death.


20
Mar 26

Horn Head

This was our last stop on the day, our next to last day discovering the Wild Atlantic Way. The golden hour here is delightful. And it’s quiet, and mostly empty. At the first point two guys were briefly there. Pictures and laughs and gone. At the second stage there were three cars in the small car park, but they were getting set to leave as we arrived. The only downside was the wind, which brought in the chill as the sun retreated. But it was beautiful, nevertheless. This is Horn Head.

First is the way point, with the marker and the tourist sign. They want you to know about the seabirds. This is the summer home of the largest bird colonies in the country. Right now, the birdies are flying in, and in all they’ll be right here by the thousands. And it’s a regular haunt, the same birds, the puffins, the guillemots, the kittiwakes, come to these cliffs, which grow more than 650 feet above the sea. It was all carved by ice and the ocean, of course, and the cliff faces themselves are safe spots for nests.

The fulmars use the bare ledges, as do the kittiewakes and the guillemates. The puffins burrow into the grassy slopes. There are razorbills here, too, and when they aren’t sitting on eggs they’re diving for fish. They put on a great show for the shags, which raise their babies at the foot of the cliffs, with nests made of seaweed.

They surely picked a scenic spot.

Just a little over a mile away is the other part of Horn Head, where we saw the small parking lot, and the small group of people leaving. Once you’re parked you walk up this rock path.

Not too far away is a Napoleonic era watchtower. The idea was that the Irish were looking for French ships looking to invade. That spot was off limits. Dangerous path and old structures and all that. But there was a little World War 2 blockhouse nearby, and we walked there. It was a simple cinderblock room. A window to the front, facing the ocean, a small fireplace in the back. One door, through which some watchmen would surely have sprinted should they have seen some bad guys popping up on their coast.

The best part of the little blockhouse was that it still has its roof, and it kept us out of the wind, which was pretty intense, being just off the water as we were. We stood in there awhile and I waxed on about what those guys were doing and tried to figure out how they did it. My lovely bride was patiently waiting while I tried to figure out if the chimney was a bad idea. Probably not. Bad guys would surely assume that a watch station would be there, anyway, why waste rounds on that, and it’s better to be warm than cold. That’s why we stayed in there, after all.

Once again, the chief strategist of the trip is this one. She’s planned a great trip.

Though I prefer this photo. I can’t recall if she was laughing at me or the wind. Probably the wind.

Tomorrow is our last day out on the Wild Atlantic Way. We’ll surely make it count. Every one them has!


20
Mar 26

Ros Goill

We continue on, passing through another beautiful peninsula on the northern side of Ireland. County Donegal is a place to see. We’ve timed the weather perfectly. If you want to go swimming, wait until June. If you come in March, bring a light jacket, and prepare for variability and the wind. But do come. It’s a beautiful place, as I have feebly tried to show you here. We’ve got one more day here, but we’re already scheming for our return. How could you not come back?

Ros Goill is heathland and bog, hill and pasture. There are nearly 800 people living here, with about a third being native Irish speakers. There’s still the weekly Gaelic football match and traditional music at night.

Across the way here is Dooey, the sandy place. Many of the places here are named after landscape features. Dinn a’ Deidadh is the cliff of the sharp teeth, for instance. Poll na Murlas is the hole of the mackerel.

You wonder how the mackerel felt about that name when they first heard about it. Dooey is just on the horizon here. Off in the distance is Sheephaven Bay, a big game fishing destination. Giant bluefin tuna is the catch of choice. Apparently, when you get off the big road and up into the peninsula here you get a taste of the traditional Ireland.

Just up from the Ros Goill marker, you round a curve and with no warning, no pull off, no parking lot, no nothing, you get this view. Click to open it in another window to get the full effect.

That’s just Ireland for you, round a bend, see something amazing. And the Wild Atlantic Way is perhaps some of the best of it. Of course we’re planning how and when we’ll come back.


20
Mar 26

Island Roy View

This region is full of diverse wildlife habitats. Coastal Ireland has vegetated sea cliffs, grasslands (which were once ancient beaches for ancient tourists) and boasts a variety of rare species of plants, animals, and birds. But the freshwater lakes are a unique feature to this region. They generally have enough nutrients for plants, but not enough for algae. So the plants, like special ferns, don’t have competition. Somehow this ties into being an enticement for water fowl. There are ducks and sanderlings across the peninsula, as well as endangered falcons and Chough (think of crows) and plenty of other critters.

Sitting in the middle of this is Island Roy, or “the isle.” You can just see it in the background, below. Previously, this place was filled with farming, fishing, seaweed and shellfish gathering. If you were on the mainland and needed to get on to the isle, or vice versa, you crossed on stilts.

On a map it looks like a crude U, or a hand frozen in an arthritic position, with fingers going this way and that. It sits in the back of a shallow bay. The first causeways connected the island to the mainland in 1927. Finally, in 2001, the local community could officially call themselves an island. And, during high tide or particularly bad storms, it very much is one.

Here you can see the Harry Blaney Bridge, which is County Donegal’s longest span. Blaney was descendent of an IRA commander, and himself a local politician and farmer. At one time it was alleged he might have been an arms dealer during the Troubles. He denied it and the claims apparently never went anywhere. Over the years he and his brother built up a successful political machine. An Irish nationalist who resisted partition or compromising Irish sovereignty, his bio reads like he was the sort of socially conservative, rural populist man beloved by the locals who knew him, and devil have the rest. Now he has this bridge in his name. I wonder how many times he was on it between when they opened the bridge and closed his casket, four years later. He’s buried three miles away, but you have to take an indirect route, the sort so typical in watery regions, to get there.

The bridge with his name, though, turned what used to be a half-hour trip into a five minutes drive. Can you think of a better rural memorial than that?

Lovely as these roads are, anything that gives you back that chunk of time on routine trips is, you would assume, a welcome change. Of course some of the folks didn’t think the bridge was necessary.