By telling us your country of residence we are able to provide you with the most relevant travel insurance information.
Please note that not all content is translated or available to residents of all countries. Contact us for full details.
Shares
It was certainly my depression altogether, with the toe-freezing, wet-cold weather that made me unimpressed with Dublin and Galway. My two other friends had scheduled a trip to the cliffs of Moher for the three of us. We hopped on the bus and the day-long trip had begun. I can’t stress how underwhelming the way there was for me. The grassy fields were punctuated by stops of Irish history. Back then, it was hard for me to understand why that mattered, so it felt more like: “Look! A rock which people lived under, 10,000 years ago that nobody cares about!” “To your right, a cemetery with really old people lying in it.” A couple of hours later, we arrived at the cliffs. Upon arriving, you could only see grassy hills with abrupt ends here and there, or fences of cut stone placed for safety. We started by walking along path that lead to the fenceless area. That path lead to a memorial stone for the people who died at the cliffs and a few steps ahead, a warning that informed that crossing it meant we were at our own risk. Once there, a beautiful view played itself out of the Atlantic shared the line of the horizon cloudy sky. However, we weren’t daring to go much further as view from the touristic path appeared much more rewarding. From the view of the waves crashing into the steep cliffs was jaw-dropping. You could see the water being carried upwards several meters high until it became a salty rain that occasionally dropped over you. We proceeded walking and taking pictures and eventually we even found an elderly man playing the accordion. Taking pictures of one of my friends, I saw a storm brewing in the screen. I suggested we went closer to an observation tower for shelter, a few meters from where we were. As the storm approached, the wind got stronger. It was strong enough for us, adults, to play with by lying against it. A few meters from the observatory, some kids were doing the same. The storm came and we went into the observatory, more tourists found refuge there. Close to the door, I noticed the eight kids and two caretakers trying to move into the shelter. I looked back at the tourists and men and women taller than me just stood there, watching. I looked back at the kids and realized, unbeknownst to me that I was already taking a few steps in their direction. The wind blew me past them to the point I hold on to the fence to keep myself upright with my chest touching the stone fence. Looking down at the sea, I remembered the memorial stone. “I’m not making it back!” I remember thinking. I turned around with effort and walked against the wind in, what looked like, slow motion. I picked two kids and pushed them forward, taking the lead. Sometimes the wind wouldn’t let us move out of place. Almost arriving in the tower, some brave older women came out to help and we passed the kids hand-by-hand in a chain. Finally, everyone was safe inside of the shelter and all you could hear was the strong wind and the kids crying. A blond seven-years-old was the only one not crying, came to me and said: “Thank you, Mister!” I wish I said something meaningful and beautiful, but I just said while still catching my breath: “You are welcome, sweetie”. That moment didn’t cure my depression, but it was certainly a landmark on me turning the tables on it. It wasn’t long until the storm passed, but it was already getting dark. The tourists went to the busses and the souvenir shops. On our way back we passed by the man still playing his accordion as affected by the storm as a statue would be.