IT WAS the only time hitching in the rain felt right, enjoyable even. We had a two week break to visit Ireland with the usual anorexic wallet and a romantic notion of wandering through the Emerald Isles. Not a car had passed us in the last two hours, but somehow partially remembered Pogue’s songs and newly learnt lyrics of The Irish Rover, courtesy of the on-board entertainment from the ferry crossing, kept warm the parts of our bodies the rain couldn’t reach.

Celtic myth defines the characteristics of the main provinces of Ireland. War was in the north, wealth in the east, music or art in the south, teaming in the west and in the centre, kingship.

We were heading west, where the Gaelic traditions of music and language, windswept mountains and a rugged coastline harbour the essence of romantic Ireland, The Cliffs of Moher, in County Clare, stand 600 feet above the crashing waves of the Atlantic Ocean. Extending for five miles along the coast, these sheer walls of sand and shale are home to thousands of seabirds, perched precariously on tiny eroded shelves.

Even covered in mist, the cliffs are majestic but if seen under the colour of a sunset, they would be magical.
Crawling cautiously to the edge to lie flat with our heads hanging over the verge, we joined in the nervous laughter that escaped from other cliff hangers.
Further up the coast is the village of Doolin, considered the Mecca of traditional music.

Little stone cottages and narrow lanes crouch against the coastline, where donkeys hang their heads over low cobbled walls.
We arrived amidst one of the many music festivals held during the summer.

In every tiny pub, seated around the fire, groups of musicians and singers interchanged throughout the seisuns.
An eerie silence fell over the crowd as a young girl stood up and sang the most plaintive, beautiful song in Gaelic, leaving even the hardest person swallowing a lump in their throat.

Locals and visitors shared seats and songs, forcing us to cast back for an impromptu rendition of a song from the homeland. Panic. Our national anthem, with praises to the Empire felt politically out of place, Fred Dagg looking for his gumboots — too ridiculous and the opening line of Po Kari kariana rhyming with squashed banana insulting. In a land so deeply rooted in their past, we felt strangely adrift of our own cultural heritage. The band struck up an Irish jig and we happily became honorary kinfolk.

For a true taste of the Gaelic ways the Aran Islands beckoned from across the sea. Catching a ferry from Doolin, we headed to Inishmore, the largest of the three islands.
Standing on the bleak windswept limestone plateau, you easily fall under the spell of an ancient life force.
Dun Aengus, a massive semicircular ring fort of three concentric enclosures lodged on the edge of cliffs that plunge 300ft into the Atlantic, dates from the Bronze Age.

Myths and superstitions abound from these rocky outposts of civilisation, accentuated by the physical isolation.
Gaelic is still the first language spoken and it is not uncommon to see the older generation of islanders wearing traditional costume busy in the fishing and farming industries of the island.

Back on the mainland we headed north into County Galway, into the land of the Connemarra.
The stunning scenery of the national park, punctuated by the Twelve Bens and Maam Turks led us further into a world of wild beauty. As hard as the landmarks are above the earth, under foot large expanses of peat bog made walking off the trails a watery task. Luckily the wild wet weather of this most western region of the country keep many tourists away so finding a lonely spot to enjoy the dramatic setting is not difficult and if the sun had shone, we were off to lay on the deserted sandy beaches beyond Clifden.

It was time to hit the city and re-instate ourselves in the modem world. Galway city was alive and kicking with some of the best city pubs we had come across. It doesn’t take long as you sip on a Guinness to absorb the infamous craic — the lively conversation that’s impossible to keep up with.

The town was warming up for the Galway Arts Festival held in the last two weeks of July, and already the buzz was making it a hard decision to leave but exit we had to.
Among other titles held by Ireland, the Land of a Hundred Thousand Welcomes still doesn’t do justice to all that she offers wanderers of a kindred spirit.

FACT FILE:

Transport: Hitching — It goes without saying that there is always an element of risk moving this way, however it is almost a national form of transport in Ireland, so you won’t look out of place.

All the large car hire companies are represented but it is not a cheap option. Check out deals available with air/ferry crossings. Most companies require a license holder of minimum age of 23 years. The biggest headache of driving in Ireland is the navigation. Irish road signs are inherently misleading, with destinations vanishing after only one posting, confusion between English and Irish and distances changing between kilometres and miles. It’s all good fun if you’ve got a map.

Trains and buses cover most of the country but are not as widespread and frequent as we’re used to in Britain. Eurail passes are valid in the Republic.