Ireland-Donegal, the wild North-West
125 images Created 17 Apr 2009
The northernmost and wildest Ireland. A moving landscape of bog and skies that never stop, where clouds, water and land can not be split. The best kept secret of Ireland, with his Gaelic culture, folk music, lighthouses perched on cliffs sharp as knives, kings without a kingdom and islanders toughest than the granite of their islands. The Donegal begins after the old castle of the O'Donnell chieftains in the town of Donegal, and after Killibeg, the fishing harbour of a country of farmers and shepherds. The fish is still there but the fishermen have become owners of B&B and the true Donegal begins few kilometers north, with the breathtaking cliffs of Slieve League, the highest of Europe. In the village of Kilcar the latest weavers still weave the traditional tweed. The World’s End here begins at the end of each strip of land but another lighthouse and another promontory are caught farther north, where the Gaelic past materialises from the sliding fog above a field of yellow flowers with the dark stone of Grianan Ailigh ring fort.
The last lighthouse is Malin Head, the northernmost tip of Ireland, but the real Irish World’s End world is Tory island, a Island-myth where Gaelic language is still spoken by the two hundred souls living there, with a hundred sheep, often isolated by storms of the rugged Tory Sound. In 1974 the Irish authorities, after the island had been cut off for two months, proposed to the inhabitants to move to the near mainland, but many remained on the island. Every evening in the People's Pub His Majesty Patsy Rodgers, Patsaí Dan Mac Ruaidhri for his subjects, plays a wild accordeon. It is the last chieftain of Ireland, heir of those who, when not engaged in bloody feuds between clans, resolved long-standing disputes over pasture and miserable inheritances. Patsy, one of the best known painters of the island, every morning materializes on the pier with his accordion, waiting for everybody coming with the small ferry from Bunbeg. Storms and windy sea, but in the island the only thing that never fails is the Guinness, along with the time to talk, especially when the lighthouse’s yellow light glides over the dark expanse of the bog.
The last lighthouse is Malin Head, the northernmost tip of Ireland, but the real Irish World’s End world is Tory island, a Island-myth where Gaelic language is still spoken by the two hundred souls living there, with a hundred sheep, often isolated by storms of the rugged Tory Sound. In 1974 the Irish authorities, after the island had been cut off for two months, proposed to the inhabitants to move to the near mainland, but many remained on the island. Every evening in the People's Pub His Majesty Patsy Rodgers, Patsaí Dan Mac Ruaidhri for his subjects, plays a wild accordeon. It is the last chieftain of Ireland, heir of those who, when not engaged in bloody feuds between clans, resolved long-standing disputes over pasture and miserable inheritances. Patsy, one of the best known painters of the island, every morning materializes on the pier with his accordion, waiting for everybody coming with the small ferry from Bunbeg. Storms and windy sea, but in the island the only thing that never fails is the Guinness, along with the time to talk, especially when the lighthouse’s yellow light glides over the dark expanse of the bog.
