Donegal, Ireland: 'Up here, it's different'

DONEGAL TOWN, Ireland -- We'd crossed the Atlantic Ocean to attend a friend's wedding, and here we were in the midst of County Donegal. But it just didn't fit what I pictured Ireland to be.

The expanses of lush, green fields were nowhere to be seen; instead, tall, imposing ridges rose alongside the narrow roads we traveled, giving the countryside a brooding feel. People here revel in their separateness. After all, the county's motto is "Up here, it's different."

There's a reason why: Geographically, Donegal is almost completely cut off from the rest of the republic, a three-hour drive from the closest airport, Shannon, to the south. But it's that rugged, unspoiled landscape and the laid-back, welcoming attitude of the people that makes this part of Ireland so charming, and an inviting destination for the adventurous tourist. Most don't know that Donegal has more coastline than any other Irish county, and usually there's no one there but you.

It also boasts Slieve League, the highest sea cliffs in Europe at nearly 2,000 feet above the ocean. Being a sucker for grand vistas, I had decided months before that Michelle and I would make it to this spot (it means Gray Mountain) in southwest Donegal. With our friend's wedding in mind, I had an extra incentive: I planned to propose to her there.

That is, if I could only find the place, I muttered to myself as I nervously negotiated the tight turns in our rental car, trying to make sense of the signs, some of which were only in Gaelic. A clerk at the federal court in Rhode Island, of Irish extraction and a regular visitor, had told me they'd be hard to find.

"Follow the road, and you'll come to a sheep gate. Open it, and drive on through," he said.

"A sheep gate?" I asked. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah, it seems strange," replied the clerk, Francis McCabe. "But it'll be worth it."

Boy, was he right. We found the sheep gate, parked the car in a dirt lot just beyond it and carefully closed it behind us. I knew this was the right place soon after we began walking. Clods of pale green peat stuck to our shoes. The gray, rocky bluffs rolled before us and dropped off into nothingness. The North Atlantic lay beyond. A fishing trawler passed near the shore. In the mist, it seemed like a ghost ship. I felt as if in a dream, and I dropped to my knee and proposed.

Yes, the Cliffs of Moher -- a famous stretch of coastline in Ireland's southwest County Clare -- are spectacular. But they beckon for solitude, to enjoy alone. I found it hard to soak in the scenery with hordes of tourists barking in my ear. We had no such problem at Slieve League. It was just us and the sheep. We walked anywhere we wanted. There were no signs, no cliffside fences, and nobody around.

At the top, we ventured to the bluff's edge and peered down. The wind slapped at our faces as we watched the deep-blue water pound the cliff's side, churning the basin into a white froth. Sea gulls swooped in circles below us, buffeted by the winds. We listened to the echoing roar of the water, and the gulls' call. It was peaceful, and liberating.

We spent the night at the Woodhill House, a 17th-century country home in the hills above the town of Ardara. We feasted on duck, steak and red wine, and retired to the parlor to sit by the fire. The inn's owners, John and Nancy Yates, joined us for more wine, and we entered into a friendly, freewheeling discussion about America's foreign policy and Ireland's ban on smoking in indoor workplaces.

Nancy Yates, who also owns Nancy's Bar in town, couldn't contain her venom for the anti-smoking law. "I have older men who have been coming into my pub for years to have a pint and a smoke," she said. "And, now they can't. Tell me that makes sense."

The next day we drove across the border to Northern Ireland. Before, the crossing would have required a screening by British soldiers, but nowadays it's hassle-free, thanks to the largely successful peace process of the past decade. We soon arrived at Giant's Causeway, a bizarre geological creation and a United Nations World Heritage site along the coast. From the bluffs above, the dark rocks jut into the ocean, as if a giant had clubbed the cliff and the fragments had rolled into piles in the water.

Up close, the formation is a tightly packed cluster of columns in perfect hexagonal shapes, as if chiseled by some mythological artisan. In fact, it consists of 40,000 black basalt columns formed when molten lava washed over the land some 60 million years ago, and hardened.

We watched as children hopped from one column to the other, as if they were playing on a real-life Lego set. The waves crashed around them, and they shouted with glee as the spray swept over them. Beware, though: the rocks can be slippery and are downright treacherous where they meet with the incoming tide.

Nearby is the Carrick-a-Rede rope bridge for those who aren't bashful about heights. The 3-foot-wide wooden plank is suspended about 80 feet above a cove. The rope bridge leads to a small island.

From Giant's Causeway, we followed the road eastward as it hugged the coastline. On this day, the ocean looked like a blue dress, the whitecaps like sparkling sequins.

We inched down one side road as it descended precariously to the water's edge. Gnarly trees clung to the side of the road, their leafless branches bent sideways by the unrelenting wind. Typically, the road led to a sheep gate, and ended at a farmhouse. No one was home, and fearing we were trespassing, we left.

We turned inland and made our way to Belfast. The hustle and bustle of urbanity was awaiting, and a pint of Guinness or two. We were leaving the remoteness behind.

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