I think about Ireland a lot. On the northern shore of the island's portion that chose to join the United Kingdom, about four hours’ drive from Dublin, is a beach town named Portrush. We arrived in late summer, excited to visit the Giant’s Causeway where armies of fractured hexagonal volcanic stone thrust up from the ocean to cliffs we did not expect. The world there is windswept and green. Cliffs is the best word because there is no slope. Farms dot the world above. Then that world drops several hundred feet to the beach below. The world ends.
We rode bicycles through the clear early morning air to Dun Ducathair. Our innkeeper warned us that the day trippers would rush to the more famous Dun Aonghasa as they hurried to visit “the most magnificent barbaric monument in Europe” before the ferry departed for Doolin or Galway Bay. Having visited both Duns in the space of a day, I submit that if faced with a choice, you should abandon your ferry, your friends, and your guidebook and walk the many miles over rough karst boundary markers to Dun Ducathair, the Black Fort.