Travel Guides: All Countries / Europe / Ireland / County Donegal
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| | | | A celtic cocktail that leaves you reeling
From the Daily Mail
There's no word of a lie in it: the Irish like to talk. They also go out of their way to be helpful to strangers - which means asking for directions can be an entertaining business.
In Londonderry, I asked two men on a corner where to find a particular pub. One took me by the arm and led me into the road to point out the way; the other followed, offering advice. By now we could all see the pub, 30 yards or so away, but that didn't deter my acquaintances.
'Just down there on the left. You'll find a pedestrianised crossing opposite. It should take you, oh, the best part of a couple of minutes if you don't rush.' I was left with the feeling, not for the first time, that the one thing you will never lack in Ireland is friendship - and especially not in Londonderry.
This compact city is intriguing - and blessed with a beautiful location. Standing on the opposite bank of the River Foyle, you look across to a miniature walled city, with deep green hills behind and the silvery sweep of the river before you. Londonderry sits on a low bluff, the perfect position for a trading settlement, and, indeed, the site has been continuously inhabited since the 6th century.
Inside the 17th-century stone walls, the city is small enough that you can see clearly from one arched gate across to another. Walking the mile-long ramparts provides wonderful views over the town and river; and inside the walls lie several small gems. St Columba's Long Tower Roman Catholic church houses two exquisite paintings by Raphael. The Protestant St Columb's Cathedral dates from 1633 and is perfectly preserved.
Some 60% of the city's population is under 25, a fact reflected in the buzzy pubs, cafes and restaurants. In the Metro Bar, a noisy lunchtime crowd was demolishing pints of Harp and Guinness. From the name, I had expected trendy minimalism, but it was a solid, old-fashioned local with a mixed clientele. The bar staff were young and cheery: middle-aged housewives sat laughing together.
An old boy with a newspaper was studying the racing form and watching the bar TV as his horses came in - usually unplaced. 'I've been sitting here since God was a boy,' he said, as I commiserated. 'I'll never learn.'
That night, Oyster's restaurant, with its wooden floor and uncluttered decor, turned out not to have oysters on its menu ('except on special occasions') but it did have the best Tom Yam soup I have tasted outside Thailand, and superb pan-seared salmon.
Travel guide: County Donegal
A celtic cocktail that leaves you reeling
From the Daily Mail
There's no word of a lie in it: the Irish like to talk. They also go out of their way to be helpful to strangers - which means asking for directions can be an entertaining business.
In Londonderry, I asked two men on a corner where to find a particular pub. One took me by the arm and led me into the road to point out the way; the other followed, offering advice. By now we could all see the pub, 30 yards or so away, but that didn't deter my acquaintances.
'Just down there on the left. You'll find a pedestrianised crossing opposite. It should take you, oh, the best part of a couple of minutes if you don't rush.' I was left with the feeling, not for the first time, that the one thing you will never lack in Ireland is friendship - and especially not in Londonderry.
This compact city is intriguing - and blessed with a beautiful location. Standing on the opposite bank of the River Foyle, you look across to a miniature walled city, with deep green hills behind and the silvery sweep of the river before you. Londonderry sits on a low bluff, the perfect position for a trading settlement, and, indeed, the site has been continuously inhabited since the 6th century.
Inside the 17th-century stone walls, the city is small enough that you can see clearly from one arched gate across to another. Walking the mile-long ramparts provides wonderful views over the town and river; and inside the walls lie several small gems. St Columba's Long Tower Roman Catholic church houses two exquisite paintings by Raphael. The Protestant St Columb's Cathedral dates from 1633 and is perfectly preserved.
Some 60% of the city's population is under 25, a fact reflected in the buzzy pubs, cafes and restaurants. In the Metro Bar, a noisy lunchtime crowd was demolishing pints of Harp and Guinness. From the name, I had expected trendy minimalism, but it was a solid, old-fashioned local with a mixed clientele. The bar staff were young and cheery: middle-aged housewives sat laughing together.
An old boy with a newspaper was studying the racing form and watching the bar TV as his horses came in - usually unplaced. 'I've been sitting here since God was a boy,' he said, as I commiserated. 'I'll never learn.'
That night, Oyster's restaurant, with its wooden floor and uncluttered decor, turned out not to have oysters on its menu ('except on special occasions') but it did have the best Tom Yam soup I have tasted outside Thailand, and superb pan-seared salmon.
Travel guide: County Donegal
Donegal at a canter
'Where's the sun?' Shaun asked, not looking up from the map. He had barely looked up from it since we set off the day before.
Shame really, considering the Celtic landscapes drifting past at the pace of an Irish hunter.
I had appointed him Map Monitor, married as I am to a human compass who can be turned around in the dark in a blindfold and still point north.
So it was disconcerting to be asked for the sun.
'To our left?' I suggested wildly. 'Behind us,' said Serena, our eldest. 'In the sky,' Ben thought.
'The sun isn't ever behind us,' Alexander pointed out, rather in the way that he explains why the plughole drains anti-clockwise in the northern hemisphere.
Sadly, further explanations were absorbed by the wind-tossed sighs of the forest.
Riding is a great midwife to conversation when there are two of you but five horses walk just far enough apart, and make just enough noise, to render verbal communication infuriating.
'What did you say?' we had spent much of the holiday saying, at an uncomfortable sort of trot, trying to catch up with the snatches of conversation of the two in front.
The Donegal Trail is the brainchild of Colette and Tilman Anhold. You get a horse and a map and are left in the middle of nowhere (Ireland still has middles of nowhere) to be picked up in 10 days.
The couple who told us about it recounted terrifying tales of horses in bog up to their shoulders and superfit riders with decades of horsemanship. Perfect.
Travel guide: County Donegal
Donegal at a canter
'Where's the sun?' Shaun asked, not looking up from the map. He had barely looked up from it since we set off the day before.
Shame really, considering the Celtic landscapes drifting past at the pace of an Irish hunter.
I had appointed him Map Monitor, married as I am to a human compass who can be turned around in the dark in a blindfold and still point north.
So it was disconcerting to be asked for the sun.
'To our left?' I suggested wildly. 'Behind us,' said Serena, our eldest. 'In the sky,' Ben thought.
'The sun isn't ever behind us,' Alexander pointed out, rather in the way that he explains why the plughole drains anti-clockwise in the northern hemisphere.
Sadly, further explanations were absorbed by the wind-tossed sighs of the forest.
Riding is a great midwife to conversation when there are two of you but five horses walk just far enough apart, and make just enough noise, to render verbal communication infuriating.
'What did you say?' we had spent much of the holiday saying, at an uncomfortable sort of trot, trying to catch up with the snatches of conversation of the two in front.
The Donegal Trail is the brainchild of Colette and Tilman Anhold. You get a horse and a map and are left in the middle of nowhere (Ireland still has middles of nowhere) to be picked up in 10 days.
The couple who told us about it recounted terrifying tales of horses in bog up to their shoulders and superfit riders with decades of horsemanship. Perfect.
Travel guide: County Donegal
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| | | | Roving in the Republic
As memories of the Troubles fade, Londonderry's unique location is coming into its own. Only a few miles away is the border with the Republic of Ireland, once a time-consuming affair marked by checkpoints. Now there is no visible border at all, and only the Gaelic road signs (and cheap petrol) proclaim you've crossed into the Republic - but by then you're too engrossed by the scenery to care.
Here, County Donegal is a panoramic vista of silver lakes, green fields and rugged mountains. I headed off the main road to the Grianan of Aileach, a magnificent stone fort built circa 1700 BC. The perfectly preserved circular structure stood atop a hill like an apparition from the past. And there were no other visitors that morning.
Further west, the spectacular Atlantic Drive runs down to the ocean, dipping in and out of tiny bays and windswept coves.
But to see the best of this country you have to leave your car and walk. At Malin Head, the northernmost point in Ireland (though still in the Republic), the sun was going down in a smudge of pinks and yellows. The wind whipped in off the Atlantic, and the waves blew up rough and choppy. Two fishing boats bobbed back to the harbour, beating against the wind, and, as the last light faded over the dark cliffs, so the moon rose up above the ocean. A magnificent view.
Not much could follow that really. At McGrory's Guesthouse in nearby Culdaff, the rooms were warm and spacious; there was fresh seafood on the restaurant menu, and a coal fire glowing in the bar. Opened in 1924, the place is now run by Anne McGrory and her brothers, Neil and John.
Each Sunday, a music session starts, with John on guitar; Anne on vocals and Neil's wife Roisin on fiddle. Jigs, reels and Irish folk songs tumble forth, and the level of expertise would put many professionals to shame.
At closing time, Neil arrives with a special cocktail of Baileys and brandy, which, he claims, carries a 'knockout punch'. I speak from experience: there's no word of a lie in that, either.
Roving in the Republic
As memories of the Troubles fade, Londonderry's unique location is coming into its own. Only a few miles away is the border with the Republic of Ireland, once a time-consuming affair marked by checkpoints. Now there is no visible border at all, and only the Gaelic road signs (and cheap petrol) proclaim you've crossed into the Republic - but by then you're too engrossed by the scenery to care.
Here, County Donegal is a panoramic vista of silver lakes, green fields and rugged mountains. I headed off the main road to the Grianan of Aileach, a magnificent stone fort built circa 1700 BC. The perfectly preserved circular structure stood atop a hill like an apparition from the past. And there were no other visitors that morning.
Further west, the spectacular Atlantic Drive runs down to the ocean, dipping in and out of tiny bays and windswept coves.
But to see the best of this country you have to leave your car and walk. At Malin Head, the northernmost point in Ireland (though still in the Republic), the sun was going down in a smudge of pinks and yellows. The wind whipped in off the Atlantic, and the waves blew up rough and choppy. Two fishing boats bobbed back to the harbour, beating against the wind, and, as the last light faded over the dark cliffs, so the moon rose up above the ocean. A magnificent view.
Not much could follow that really. At McGrory's Guesthouse in nearby Culdaff, the rooms were warm and spacious; there was fresh seafood on the restaurant menu, and a coal fire glowing in the bar. Opened in 1924, the place is now run by Anne McGrory and her brothers, Neil and John.
Each Sunday, a music session starts, with John on guitar; Anne on vocals and Neil's wife Roisin on fiddle. Jigs, reels and Irish folk songs tumble forth, and the level of expertise would put many professionals to shame.
At closing time, Neil arrives with a special cocktail of Baileys and brandy, which, he claims, carries a 'knockout punch'. I speak from experience: there's no word of a lie in that, either.
Ride along the beach
So, one Wednesday in early July, Tilman drove us to an appropriately remote spot with numerous careful instructions, the first being to ride along the beach and the second to find the path through the forest before teatime because of the tide.
And before the horsebox was over the horizon, we were into our first quarrel.
Now, Atkinses can argue about anything, from black holes to whether you can use a preposition to end a sentence with.
But after a remarkably brief discussion about the merits of this little path behind the sand dune, a road 200 yards further down and the ink blot on the map, all the humans were in agreement. We were wrong.
Every one of the horses said so.
Not wanting to start the holiday with the wrong people in charge, we insisted: 'join the beach here'. So did they: 'no we don't'.
Serena and I, more experienced riders, persuaded ours grudgingly onward. The male contingent danced about on the spot for some time. We became hours late for our rendezvous with the forest but what did we care?
An empty road, July sunshine and nothing but the clop of horses to disturb the birdsong. It was time, I decided, for tea.
What should we pass but a hotel's placard. Ben and I cantered down the drive to enquire about a cuppa.
What is it about Ireland? This place was in the middle of nowhere - a Georgian pile costing a king's ransom to run.
Ride along the beach
So, one Wednesday in early July, Tilman drove us to an appropriately remote spot with numerous careful instructions, the first being to ride along the beach and the second to find the path through the forest before teatime because of the tide.
And before the horsebox was over the horizon, we were into our first quarrel.
Now, Atkinses can argue about anything, from black holes to whether you can use a preposition to end a sentence with.
But after a remarkably brief discussion about the merits of this little path behind the sand dune, a road 200 yards further down and the ink blot on the map, all the humans were in agreement. We were wrong.
Every one of the horses said so.
Not wanting to start the holiday with the wrong people in charge, we insisted: 'join the beach here'. So did they: 'no we don't'.
Serena and I, more experienced riders, persuaded ours grudgingly onward. The male contingent danced about on the spot for some time. We became hours late for our rendezvous with the forest but what did we care?
An empty road, July sunshine and nothing but the clop of horses to disturb the birdsong. It was time, I decided, for tea.
What should we pass but a hotel's placard. Ben and I cantered down the drive to enquire about a cuppa.
What is it about Ireland? This place was in the middle of nowhere - a Georgian pile costing a king's ransom to run.
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| | | | Character-building trip
We rang a bell that echoed for minutes. Eventually, a French maid came scuttling and agreed to a pot of tea.
She disappeared, so we rang bells until the chef arrived, whom we asked about tethering the horses.
'Orrses!' he exclaimed, waving his arms in alarm and requesting that they didn't get in the way of all the cars coming thundering down the drive.
We had a delightful tea in a sunny conservatory before retreading a drive that wasn't simply overgrown down the middle but all over. Cars indeed.
It was a character-building trip. Packing, for instance. Four saddle bags each (two small and two very small) isn't a problem if you're Ben and never change your clothes or wash or read a book, but don't expect a 19-year-old blonde to carry the first aid kit or horse brushes.
Madam's hairdryer took up a larger bag. Mind you, none of us carried the horse brushes - we forgot them. First we improvised, then I gave in - being the only person to have packed my own hairbrush.
Ireland and horses is a humorous enough combination, even before the navigation of unmarked bridleways and moveable gates.
Tilman has enhanced Donegal with yellow arrows painted on rocks and roads to help his riders. These enliven but considerably delay progress as one debates an arrow indicating back down the road, or pointing up a tree.
Ireland has not been enhanced by the euro. Everything has doubled in price. The trail is paid for up-front but dinner is not. After three expensive evenings I said we would economise.
The others protested but I pointed to the map. 'There's a pub within walking distance,' I said. 'We'll unsaddle, bath and go out for a sandwich' ('bath' being a loose term. Tourism Ireland insists B&Bs have ensuite showers, which is about as much use after a day on a horse as a slap in the face with a wet saddle cloth).
Character-building trip
We rang a bell that echoed for minutes. Eventually, a French maid came scuttling and agreed to a pot of tea.
She disappeared, so we rang bells until the chef arrived, whom we asked about tethering the horses.
'Orrses!' he exclaimed, waving his arms in alarm and requesting that they didn't get in the way of all the cars coming thundering down the drive.
We had a delightful tea in a sunny conservatory before retreading a drive that wasn't simply overgrown down the middle but all over. Cars indeed.
It was a character-building trip. Packing, for instance. Four saddle bags each (two small and two very small) isn't a problem if you're Ben and never change your clothes or wash or read a book, but don't expect a 19-year-old blonde to carry the first aid kit or horse brushes.
Madam's hairdryer took up a larger bag. Mind you, none of us carried the horse brushes - we forgot them. First we improvised, then I gave in - being the only person to have packed my own hairbrush.
Ireland and horses is a humorous enough combination, even before the navigation of unmarked bridleways and moveable gates.
Tilman has enhanced Donegal with yellow arrows painted on rocks and roads to help his riders. These enliven but considerably delay progress as one debates an arrow indicating back down the road, or pointing up a tree.
Ireland has not been enhanced by the euro. Everything has doubled in price. The trail is paid for up-front but dinner is not. After three expensive evenings I said we would economise.
The others protested but I pointed to the map. 'There's a pub within walking distance,' I said. 'We'll unsaddle, bath and go out for a sandwich' ('bath' being a loose term. Tourism Ireland insists B&Bs have ensuite showers, which is about as much use after a day on a horse as a slap in the face with a wet saddle cloth).
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| | | | Clip-clopping over the bridge
Oh for a bath, shared between the five of us. And we were in luck: our next farmhouse had one.
It was with breathless anticipation that I turned the taps and watched a couple of inches of lukewarm peaty water dribble into the tub. So we set off in the late afternoon for the pub. On the map it was a couple of miles.
At least it was downhill. Well into the evening, we reached the village: one of those long, spread-out villages with the pub the other end which we hailed like famine victims. Collapsing, we asked for the menu. 'We don't do food,' the landlord said.
The next day we descended a wide valley and basked by the river, asking a passing native whether the shop and pub, round the corner by map, would be open today.
Of course it would. We climbed the other side and saw, miles below, the twinkling habitation that held refreshment.
I went ahead to place orders for my now ravenous family, asking the way of a friendly lady collecting eggs from her hen house.
Round a bend over a bridge was the prettiest pub run by a family that was uncompromisingly, unapologetically, out.
My family, grinning deliriously at the thought of tea, were clip-clopping over the bridge. 'Wait,' I said frantically, thinking of the friendly lady with the eggs, and I cantered back up the road.
'Just a cup of tea,' I begged (forgetting to add 'in the hand', Irish for tea without food).
The welcome was spectacular: table spread wide, toast and cheese, cake, biscuits and fruit, use of the bathroom, pot after pot of tea, 'of course you can't give us anything, be seein' ya'.
Our 10 days in Donegal were perhaps the funniest and most eventful of our lives. Probably also the most memorable. Certainly the most painful after 10 days in the saddle. And would I recommend Tilman's Donegal Trail?
Yes and yes again. Though my family might recommend an intensive course of fitness and horsemanship first.
TRAVEL DETAILS:
Horse Holiday Farm features the Donegal Trail http://www.horseriding-holidays.com/sligo-donegal/index.htm, tel: 00353 71 66152.
Stena Line Ferries offers return fares from Stranraer to Belfast. http://www.stenaline.com tel: 08705 707070.
Clip-clopping over the bridge
Oh for a bath, shared between the five of us. And we were in luck: our next farmhouse had one.
It was with breathless anticipation that I turned the taps and watched a couple of inches of lukewarm peaty water dribble into the tub. So we set off in the late afternoon for the pub. On the map it was a couple of miles.
At least it was downhill. Well into the evening, we reached the village: one of those long, spread-out villages with the pub the other end which we hailed like famine victims. Collapsing, we asked for the menu. 'We don't do food,' the landlord said.
The next day we descended a wide valley and basked by the river, asking a passing native whether the shop and pub, round the corner by map, would be open today.
Of course it would. We climbed the other side and saw, miles below, the twinkling habitation that held refreshment.
I went ahead to place orders for my now ravenous family, asking the way of a friendly lady collecting eggs from her hen house.
Round a bend over a bridge was the prettiest pub run by a family that was uncompromisingly, unapologetically, out.
My family, grinning deliriously at the thought of tea, were clip-clopping over the bridge. 'Wait,' I said frantically, thinking of the friendly lady with the eggs, and I cantered back up the road.
'Just a cup of tea,' I begged (forgetting to add 'in the hand', Irish for tea without food).
The welcome was spectacular: table spread wide, toast and cheese, cake, biscuits and fruit, use of the bathroom, pot after pot of tea, 'of course you can't give us anything, be seein' ya'.
Our 10 days in Donegal were perhaps the funniest and most eventful of our lives. Probably also the most memorable. Certainly the most painful after 10 days in the saddle. And would I recommend Tilman's Donegal Trail?
Yes and yes again. Though my family might recommend an intensive course of fitness and horsemanship first.
TRAVEL DETAILS:
Horse Holiday Farm features the Donegal Trail www.horseriding-holidays.com/sligo-donegal/index.htm, tel: 00353 71 66152.
Stena Line Ferries offers return fares from Stranraer to Belfast. www.stenaline.com tel: 08705 707070.
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| | Available rental properties in County Donegal |
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| |  | | Luxurious New Donegal shore house.
Inver Port, a brand new luxurious seafront townhouse, with fantastic sea views, own boat parking and slipway. Sleeps 6 from £595 per week.
|  | | Meenan's Thatched Cottage
Situated in the shadow of Slieve League, this quaint Thatched Cottage offers a peaceful, comfortable holiday experience with a difference.
|  | | Holiday Cottage Sleeps 8
Luxurious New 3 Bedroom/3Bath Detached Dormer Holiday Cottage Sleeps 9 on Atlantic Drive Downings close to Beach,Water Sports,Golf,Restaurants,Pubs,Horse Riding.
|  | | Teach Ruari Holiday Cottage
A newly built bungalow situated on 1.5 acres enjoying spectacular sea views of Mulroy and Sheephaven Bays. The bungalow is very comfortably furnished
|  | | BRAND NEW COTTAGE IN DONEGAL
Our brand new cottage was completed Easter 2004, Experience what Ireland is realy about.
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Holiday Rentals in County Donegal |
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