Back in summer 1975, I flew over the northern part of the Burren in an Air Corps Alouette 3 helicopter. I was routing to the Aran Islands to collect a patient on Inis Mór for transfer to hospital in Galway. Previously, I had frequently driven through the Burren, like so many tourists, but the aerial perspective of its landscape that day was to remain with me for the rest of my life. A rain shower had fallen before we overflew the Burren, and the combination of the sun shining on the wet limestone rock gave it a silvery white glow that closely resembled a covering of snow. Of course, there wasn’t any snow that day but the image was to remain with me long after that particular ambulance mission. The reality of the ever-changing Burren landscape became firmly rooted in my mind.
Forty years later, on retirement, I took up residence in the Burren at the foot of Cappanawalla mountain, near Ballyvaughan. The area is part of the fertile valley of Ballyvaughan, with its exit to the south via the famous Corkscrew Hill and onwards to the Cliffs of Moher. It was quite a step for a Dubliner to up stakes and opt for a quieter rural existence, as I thought it would be. The place is a hive of activity, but not always of the human variety, as I soon discovered. I had a lot to learn and, as luck would have it, I quickly made friends with local farmer Patsy (known here as Patsy Cap, after the mountain), whose farm straddles part of the Cappanawalla mountain and who is an expert on Burren conservation farming. Long before my arrival, Patsy painstakingly dug out a zig-zag path to the top of the mountain, to facilitate a safe route for his cattle as they spent the winter there, or Winterage, as it’s called here. Patsy has the patience of Job; all my questions were answered with replies that went way beyond my original question, and, in that way, my Burren education started.
As a former pilot I was intrigued by how the little birds flew straight at the mailbox opening and didn’t appear to slow down whatsoever
Frank, another neighbour, keeps beehives nearby in a field that is accessible through a small grove of hazelwood. I never knew that the honeybee’s produce depended on the source of the nectar and pollen they gather. Hence the multitude of honey available worldwide, all produced from local flowers and shrubs, with honey from the manuka plant probably being the most famous. My first lesson in this regard concerned the unloved dandelion, no less. In my urban days, it was a nuisance that required regular lawn cutting. I was to learn in the Burren, however, that this early blooming flower is one of the first that bees visit to begin their post-hibernation gathering. With that explanation from Frank, I immediately called a halt to my dandelion cutting to help the bees get on with their unique work.
My education of the Burren continued this year with a new unexpected neighbour taking up residence in April. In my outdoor letterbox, no less. This was the tiny goldcrest that, for the third year in a row, built its nest of moss and fluffy feathers there. Previous attempts had not lead to any chickens hatching. So, as soon as I saw the nest building activity I contacted Mikey the postman and made alternate arrangements for my mail delivery. Naturally, he was equally intrigued with developments in my letterbox. I left its door untouched for weeks so as not to disturb the parents and the eggs. Finally, three chicks hatched, survived and quit the nest after fledgling. It’s not so much that the chicks survived in what must have been sauna-like conditions in the hot weather that amazed me, but I had a little technical interest also. I used to watch the feeding parents fly in and out of the box from the sanctuary of my parked car. As a former pilot I was intrigued by how the little birds flew straight at the mailbox opening and didn’t appear to slow down whatsoever. This contradicts everything I have learned about landing as a pilot: that all approaches require a gradual reduction in airspeed and then, with a gentle bump, you’re on the ground. Not so the goldcrest; they seem to defy the rules of flight and somehow squeeze through the narrow opening at speed, instantly stopping once inside and settling on the nest. I am amazed at this daily demonstration of advanced flight techniques and all, apparently, without ruffling a feather. We’ve so much to learn from nature.
The Burren is famous for its flora, fauna and ruined monasteries such as Corcomroe Abbey. It is perhaps best known for the unique orchids that flourish in its mountains and hillsides in May and June. I read about them from many sources but who better to ask than my neighbour, Patsy? While he cannot provide me with the Latin names of the various species growing in his backyard, so to speak, he points me in the right direction to find them. This is exciting, especially when I come across the elusive bee orchid and photograph it. It isn’t long before this and other photos bring smiles to relatives and friends far beyond the Burren.
The area is less known for its wild animals but for local farmers their presence is a given. The most secretive and fierce of the Burren animals is the rare pine marten. It hunts mainly at night and is a scourge to farmers who keep hens, as they are almost impossible to protect against. On the other hand, they keep vermin at bay, I’m told, and so they have their place in the natural order of things.
Patsy is one of the many Burren farmers who welcome eco friendly travellers to his land and access to his mountaintop. From the summit there are breathtaking views of Galway Bay where passing clouds alter the colour of the landscape on an ever-changing basis. While not a painter myself, I can gaze out my window at different times and see a new picture emerging, depending on how the clouds and rain interreact. Alternately, I can walk to the top of Patsy’s mountain on a good day and imagine myself back in my Alouette 3 helicopter enjoying the wonderful views from just below the fleeting clouds.
The sky’s the limit to one’s imagination in the Burren.
