The Burren (sounds like "burn"). Those Irish with their cray-cray pronunciations.
Or as I like to call it, "the land of rocks and moonscapes".
Barren and wild looking. Harsh and hard. The people who settled here must have been the same, I think.
We couldn't get enough of it. We were out exploring it every chance we got and would have gone back for more if we had the time. The Man actually got me to rock climb parts of it.
Rock climb, as in leave horizontal terra firma and launch myself vertically onto hard, sharp rocks that seriously tested my balance and gracefulness. I was terrified. The Man helped me when I was convinced I could go no further. The path led us to a slight chasm that was just wide enough that I had to jump to get to the next segment. The Man's hand was right there, gripping mine and hanging on. I almost quit several times but the Man was right there, encouraging me to push on. We finally made it to the top. I had a hard time enjoying it. I was distressed at the thought of having to go back down the rock. I did not think my efforts were worth my distress.
Ah, but the views.
Of which I have none to show you. My camera stayed safely behind while I was risking life and limb.
I thought that was brilliant and promptly laid down and did the same thing.
I found myself wondering how sailors made it to shore with all this rough stuff around.
Stopped at a cemetery we found along our way to Newtown Castle.
Spied some ruins of a chapel in the back. The Man walked down to take a look around. He came back and I asked, "Anything down there?"
"More rocks," he said, with a rueful grin. We had seen lots of rocks by now.
All of about twelve houses and one general shop/post office/bait shack/lunch counter.