Wе said goodbye to the red hills of Connemara and ventured to the barren cliffs of the wild Atlantic way. Castles and abbey ruins peeked behind farm houses nested in arid lake beds. Roads barely wide enough for a car and a tractor driving past each other glistened blindingly wet from the morning mist. White, brown, and black sheep and cows just a stone throw away grazed sleepily bathing in the sun. The Atlantic emerged slowly from the pale skies claiming dominance over the horizon. We spent the afternoon at the Cliffs of Moher eating vanilla ice cream, soaking the afternoon sun, contemplating the idle ocean.