Angels, abroad

There's nothing more settling than hearing the strands of a familiar songs in an unfamiliar setting.

So, as I stood in the middle of the huge old town square of Prague, between the Astronomical clock tower and the Tyn church, trying not to be daunted by their scale and beauty, the well-known melody of Robbie Williams' 'Angels' floated through.

"Wherever it may take me, I know that life won't break me. I'm loving angels instead," sang the tall, thin guy with the long, untidy hair, sporting a leather jacket and a guitar that looked as worn out as his jeans. Struggling musician entertaining people in the heart of the city. Suddenly, Europe made sense again.

It is a regular feature in the continent. And as much as Europeans would have me believe, not every major European city looks the same. They call come with their own unique challenges and charms. Prague is not as big and difficult to navigate as Paris, a city it is regularly compared to: one of Prague's nicknames happens to be 'Paris of the East'. Despite the presence of a very Eiffelesque Petrin Tower in the castle district, this gem of old Europe is more compact and, in my opinion, more hauntingly beautiful than Paris.

The building and bridges that attract the most tourists look their age, which give the place a sense of character. Walking over the Charles Bridge, which I traversed six times in two-and-a-half days, never gets old. Every time you pass you are likely to see new details on the statues that stand imposingly on you. Angels and saints, in their stone set ways of hope, despair or wisdom, flank the way. Everything in old Prague is built to impress.

On my first evening in the city, I stood on the foot of the Charles Bridge as gazed at the Prague Castle perched on the hill, as the sunlight slowly leaked out of the sky and the artificial lights started illuminating the buildings. A did-you-know fact I later learned was that rock star Mick Jagger had financed the castle illumination. The Rolling Stone sure knows how to Shine a Light!

Charles Bridge and Castle district

I am not sure how long I stood there in wide-eyed awe, mesmerised by the lights and sight across the river from me. In the next couple of days, I saw the sight repeatedly, in postcards, on paintings and on magnets. It is one of the most enduring mental pictures you will ever take back.

The Czech are not an unfriendly lot. But they believe in speaking when spoken to, and even then very little. Whether they are naturally shy or have become habitually averse to hordes of tourists funnelling into their city is not clear, but they do take time warming up to you. As one of the tourist guides told us, "Don't judge them, they are tired of people running them over. It was the Nazis, then the communists and now tourists!"

A friendly voice amidst all that chaos, then for a solo traveler at least, feels like hot chocolate on a cold, rainy day. Groups of people huddled up in the square for some of that comforting warmth as he belted out the popular tunes. Some bobbed their head to rhythm, other lip-synched, still other frantically took pictures or shot videos. Occasionally, someone broke the circle and walked shyly towards the guitar case and dropped in some coins. He wrapped up the afternoon's work with Coldplay's 'Paradise': an ode to the escapist. In that moment, it felt good to be one.

By the old town square

Paes plays to the beat of passion

There is no one in Indian tennis, maybe even Indian sport, that electrifies and energises the crowd quite like Leander Paes.

Even on a day when he threatened to look his age, 41, Leander didn't let go of the passion and commitment that has seen him surmount many a difficult mountain. The deeper the match went, the bigger the point, the better he played. He charged up his teammate, Rohan Bopanna, and the 7,000-strong crowd at the KSLTA stadium to pull off an unlikely 1-6, 6-7, 6-3, 6-3, 8-6 win over a formidable doubles team of Nenad Zimonjic and Ilija Bozoljac.

It once again needed a super man effort for Leander to keep India's hopes hanging by the fingers in a tie that was headed for a 3-0 demolition on Saturday. And it was the kind of dig-deep victory that might well force Somdev Devvarman and Yuki Bhambri search deeper into their reserves to pull off a miracle in the reverse singles on Sunday.

Though the Serbs are also a patch-up team, they were a formidable pair, with perhaps the best modern-day combination in doubles: a doubles specialist and a sharp singles player with a big serve. They blitzed the Indians in the first set, breaking both Bopanna and Paes, winning the opener in 18 minutes.

The Indian pair put up a more solid show in the second set, stretching it into the tie-break despite losing serve early on. But the Serbs, built like bulls and who made the court shrink, came up with the goods to clinch it at four. Bozoljac, the youngest, least experienced and by far the lowest ranked player on court (227 to Zimonjic's 4, Paes' 35 and Bopanna's 27), was taking the attack to the Indians, setting up points with solid groundstrokes. Serbians really did not have a soft spot that the Indians could attack.

But at two sets and a break (2-3) down in the third set, something snapped. Zimonjic said he heard a click in the right side of his neck, the man was in pain. He called the trainer on the court, got it quickly treated, but was never the same player again.

The 38-year-old doubles veteran said the injury restricted his movement, he couldn't really turn his neck either side or look up to serve without feeling a stab of pain.

That was just the break the Indians were looking for to arrest the slide. Not only was Zimonjic not at his 100 per cent, but the injury timeout gave the hosts some time to re-gather their thoughts.
"Anand kept telling us, guys slow the game down, its all happening too fast," said Paes.
A quick break back was just the elixir of life that Paes/Bopanna and the downcast crowd at the stadium was looking for. As the Indian players were finally warmed up to the challenge, Paes pulled off some running volleys, and a backhand smash, that got the crowd going.

India won six games in a row, going from an almost out 2-3 in the third to 2-0 in the fourth to stun the Serbs. Even the solid Bozoljac, who tried to do his best to carry the team with some stunning down-the-line returns, cracked.

"I am still trying to figure out how we lost that match; we had it in the pocket," a bemused and shocked 'Bozo' said at the media conference.
"I keep replaying the match in my mind and I still don't know how we lost. I don't know what happened there."

What happened was Leander Paes. His crowd, their hero. It was a match even more formidable rivals have found difficult to resist. Paes' ability, even when constricted with a pedestrian serve and a slowing body, to turn up for the big matches and big points is peerless. Bozoljac, who along with Zimonjic earned the biggest scalp in doubles by beating the Bryans in the Davis Cup last year, just didn't see it coming.

He also had with him a partner who was ready to ride the wave. As Leander's presence grew in the arena, so did Bopanna's confidence. He stopped fluffing the easy volleys and started sending down serves that have earned the nickname 'Bofors Bopanna'.

The Serbians did put up a more solid performance in the fifth set, but something had already snapped and the momentum had swung so much in India's favour that there was going to be just one result. A happy finish for India.

How India lost out on the home advantage

Players love to remind the media that hindsight is a good thing.

But even before Yuki Bhambri and Somdev Devvarman put up an uninspiring (baffling in Bhambri's case) show on the first day of the Davis Cup World Group tie against Serbia, there was unease at the conditions we were making them play in.

With the younger generation of tennis players not comfortable with putting on their grass shoes, the one big ace up India's sleeve to seize that home advantage is the weather. And the tennis federation didn't really make the best use of it by having the tie in Bangalore, which at this time of the year is much cooler and less humid than other major cities with tennis courts (namely Chennai). To top it, the Indian agreed for at afternoon start which means the Serbians would not really be pushed out of their comfort zone weather-wise, especially in the second match of the day that started in the evening and was played out under lights.

Also India deluding themselves that the altitude would have worked in their favour was brutally exposed. The Indian players, especially the singles lot, is not any more used to playing at an altitude than the Serbians. The only Davis Cup tie they have played in Bangalore before was the one against Indonesia, and that is hardly a yardstick.

Bhambri especially looked unable to read or control the flying ball: the result of which was 59 unforced errors, a majority of them on his dominant forehand side. The 22-year-old didn't just have a bad day, he had a day that raise major doubts about his tactical flexibility and mental staying power.
"When we made the decision to have the tie in Bangalore we did not know that Novak Djokovic would not come, or (Janko) Tipsarevic would not come," replied Somdev Devvarman in defence. "We made a decision that looked the best under those circumstances."

In fairness, Somdev has performed well in tournaments that are played in these conditions, especially the one in Johannesburg. But Serbia adapted admirably to the challenge and turned in two nerveless performances. They chose their spots and hit them with clinical precision. No frills. Though they were amply helped by Somdev and Yuki's inability to stay hit deep or come up with any sort of alternative game plan, the young Serbs' superiority was kind of overwhelming.

Mathematically, at least, the tie is not over yet and the doubles rubber today between Leander Paes/Rohan Bopanna and Nenad Zimonjic/Ilija Bozoljac promises to be a more even contest.
Somdev also believes that the reverse singles with be much better match-ups for him as well as Yuki. But the assurance with which Serbia's No 4 and 5 played against India's best talent makes the hope for a miracle a hollow occupation.

He ate a sandwich while McEnroe ranted on

Bangalore: Even as Novak Djokovic gave Bangalore a miss, Slobodan Zivojinovic lent 'star power' to the Serbian team as he trudged onto the court on Wednesday.

Courtesy: Srdjan Stevanovic

The 51-year-old 'Bobo', though a far cry from his old fit self, still displayed the touch that had the Serbian team in practice burst into cheers.

A big-server in his heydays in the 1980s and 90s, Zivojinovic is one of the irresistible characters that gives tennis its credence to individuality. One of his best moments came when he beat John McEnroe in the 1985 Australian Open quarterfinal. And it wasn't without drama.

"John McEnroe likes a bit of controversy," Zivojinovic recalls on the side lines of the Davis Cup World Group playoff tie between Serbia and India, which begins in Bangalore on Friday. "He was having an argument with the umpire, ranting on. I just put my feet up and had a sandwich in the middle of the court. I just joined some spectators and had a sandwich with them. I let him finish his performance. Of course, that pissed him off even more. It was nice that I beat him 6-0 in the fifth set."

Zivojinovic (career-best ranking of 19), is that breed of players from a united Yugoslavia, who began his tennis life constantly being mistaken for playing 'table tennis'--since the lawn tennis version hadn't really caught on. He survived the separation of states into smaller republics and losing his teammates to it, and is finally seeing Serbia rise strong as a tennis nation.

"In 1991 we were supposed to play the Davis Cup semifinal and it was a big achievement for us. But the war broke out in the summer," Zivojinovic says about the dark times. 

"My two teammates, (Goran) Ivanisevic and (Goran) Prpic, were Croats so they played for Croatia after that because that’s when our tennis separated. We had put such a lot of effort to build that team. I was sad to lose out on my friends; this was not our war."

Contarary to the demonstrations of a bitter rivalry between Croatia and Serbia now, Zivojinovic says he is proud that such small countries with such meagre population and resources have taken the tennis world by storm.

"Only 13 countries who have won the Davis Cup till now (in its 114-year history), one of them is Serbia and one of them is Croatia," he says. "That's a big achievement. More than the facilities it is because of the traditions. People of Yugoslavia always respected sport and were not afraid to give their kids to it."

And from Zivojinovic to the recently-crowned US Open champion Main Cilic of Croatia, the kids are doing alright.

Ireland's wild, wild West

While most of Ireland gives an impression of tamed wilderness, things get little rough on the west coast as the little island battles the strong Atlantic winds. It is Europe’s last frontier; the blue ocean expands out thousands of miles before it touches the US coast.

And you can see the forces of nature at play, as you traverse the coastal strip, speckled with craggy cliffs, old forgotten stone houses and sweeping shores. The wind howls. The tough weather conditions mean that the population is even thinner on this side of Ireland. One of the villages we stayed in-- Malinbeg in County Donegal -- had a man count of only 75.

Aran Islands
The Aran Islands, which are a ferry ride away from Galway, embody the wilderness better than any other place. Spread over three islands –Inishmore, Inishmaan and Inisheer— they are one of the biggest tourist attractions in Ireland but still home to only 1200. The biggest island, Inishmore, has a population of 845.

Once you leave the Galway behind, the Aran Islands rise on the horizon. The harbour is mostly abuzz with activity during the day as ferries pour day tourists into the islands, but once the tour mini-buses or horse drawn carriages have left, walking along the narrow, empty gravel streets, dotted with quaint houses on one side and spectacular views of the sea on the other greet you. It can be a lonely road as you walk deeper into the island, with only the occasional tractor or moos of the cows to distract from the bliss.

The streets are usually lined with flat grey stones, stacked neatly on each other without any traces of cement, that serve as a compound for houses or boundaries for farms. White, pink, yellow little flowers grow out of the ground, most of which are weed, to add a splash of colour.

Cliffs of Moher or Cliffs of Donegal?
To the south of Galway, lie the Cliffs of Moher and to the north lie the cliffs of Donegal, called Slieve League. Apart from easier access through day trips, there’s a reason why the Cliffs of Moher are more popular. Their vertical plunge is sheer, and the many faces lining behind each other give it a more dramatic appearance.

Cliffs of Moher

Cliffs of Donegal: Slieve league

Though if you don’t like to share your picture perfect moment with a hundred cackling tourists, the Slieve League is the place to be. A walk through one of the hills from the car park takes you to the site. Though it is a tarmac road private vehicles are not allowed on it. However, the smoother road definitely makes the uphill climb a whole lot easier.

You are only likely to bump into a hiker or grazing sheep along this road, that have water pooled into small ponds on the side. The top of Slieve League itself, as we went on a gray day in March, was shrouded in clouds. They don’t fall as sharply or steeply into the water as those in Moher, but slope into them. The view it still good enough to take your breath away.

Yeats Country, not Westlife’s
Much before Westlife, the best-selling boyband, came William Butler Yeats. Though born in Dublin, the acclaimed Irish writer spent most of his childhood in Sligo and considered it his ‘spiritual home’. This is where he rests in peace, with the words ‘Cast a cold eye on Life, on Death, Horseman pass by’ inscribed on the headstone.

The town of Sligo, itself, looks grimmer than most Irish cities. It’s like someone has turned the lights down. The streets are grey and littered.

Lying in a forgotten corner of Ireland, Sligo had come into prominence since the 1990s because of the massive success of Westlife (so named because they came from the West of Ireland! Get it?)

The quartet, which started as a quintet, were the first pop stars from the region. Old, peeling posters of the Westlife smile out from walls in the market-street, reminding one of those days when sugar-coated covers were the staples.

A few miles away from the town lies Yeats’ country. If you like secluded churches laden with history and personality and quiet country drives, you will love Sligo. It’s the kind of place that inspires poetry. WB Yeats would know!

He spent a lot of time on the banks of Lough Gill, the glassy lake that reflects every colour and mood of the day. It lies still and smooth like a picture; only disturbed along the banks by the imperious swans. “Where dips the rocky highland, Of Sleuth Wood in the lake, There lies a leafy island, Where flapping herons wake,” wrote Yeats in the poem ‘The Stolen child’.

Close to the church where Yeats is buried, is the ‘Holywell’ in Tobernault. An ancient site of pilgrimage, it looks essentially like an open-air church. The altar is decorated by strings of cloths, rosary beads or wristbands, a token of faith people who visited here have left behind. It also depicts Jesus Christ’s journey from crucifiction to resurrection.

In more ways than one, Sligo is more a burgeoning poet’s dream than the glitzy domain of pop stars.

Ireland: Of all things weird

Ok, let’s change that to unique, in case weird has any negative connotations.Some of my exceptional experiences in Ireland:

No such thing as a free meal?

After spending the evening traipsing around Dublin on a live music pub crawl we were cold and hungry. So my American friend and I, who had naturally bonded being the only ‘solo’ travellers on the pub tour, went on a hunt for some hot food, which is not an easy thing to find in Ireland past 7 pm. But at one of the paths just off O’Connell street we found a Thai takeaway place that also had a few tables. As soon as we entered, I was confronted with my first Irish drunk. The middle-aged man, dressed smartly, was clearly off his face. He told the guy at the till, presumably the owner who was doubling up for the night shift, to serve him fish and chips. This is how the conversation went:

“We don’t have fish and chips,” says the owner.

“What do you mean you don’t have fish and chips?”

“It’s a Thai food place.”

“I don’t care if it is. If a customer asks you for fish and chips you serve him fish and chips!”

“If you want fish and chips go across the road. You might find something there.”

“I am not going anywhere else. I want fish and chips.”

“You won’t get them here.”

“How can you not have fish and chips!”

After another round of back and forth, the customer removed a few bank notes from his pocket.

“Take this. I will give you money even if you refuse to give me fish and chips. It is 20 euros, keep 10 and the pay the girls’ tab from the rest,” he slurred. “That all right girls?” he asked us, before wandering out.

We exchanged astonished smiles with the owner, who was decent enough to take up on the angry customers’ word and deduct our tab from his money. And yeah, the food was delicious too.

The sheep show

They say, in Wales and New Zealand, there are more sheep than people. I haven’t really checked up on the stats and don’t quite know whether it applies to Ireland. But there are a fair bit of those furry animals in the country and cattle breeding is an important industry. But I am still lost for reason why they would think that telling us about ‘varieties of sheep’ could be a tourist attraction. It is! On the Ring of Kerry tour, where, with the deep blue of the ocean forming a stunning background, you are literally transported from one postcard perfect sight to another, they have special stop for a sheep show. And it comes at a price: 5 euros! We were herded out of the bus and onto a sheep farm , where we had to stand by a picket fence while the owner paraded his beautiful animals! ‘Baa Baa black sheep’, played incessantly in my mind as the performance stretched on unbearably. They even demonstrated the different kind of whistles they use for different situations: for example, to round them up after a day of grazing. I don’t usually like the use of slang, but the only word I could come up with for this was, Meh!

Singles of the world unite
Being single is not just your marital status, but a whole cult, worthy of festival. The small picturesque town of Lisdoonvarna in County Clare plays host to the matchmaking festival, from end of August to beginning of October, every year. The story is that once the town had its very own railway station in 1887, tourists flocked the mineral spring ‘spas’ they offered. ‘The huge amount of people going there that led to the Lisdoonvarna “matchmaking tradition”. September became the peak month of the holiday season and with the harvest safely in, bachelor farmers flocked to Lisdoonvarna in search of a wife,’ the brochure says. Though I missed the festival by a few months, the banners around the place happily invited all the single people for it. They do promise song, dance and good craic. And a happily ever after, if you are that lucky.

Games Irish people play

Sure they have their football and rugby. But the sports most indigenous to Ireland are hurling and Gaelic football. Though I only watched a few kids in the park play hurling, which at first sight looks like a hybrid version of hockey, I was able to catch an almost entire game of Gaelic football on television. And I still don’t know how long it’s supposed to last, or how, despite being called football, players were allowed to touch the ball with their hands. It looked like a cross between volleyball and rugby and football. A bunch of us watched it on television in the hostel common room, in Galway, utterly fascinated by what was happening in front of us but none the wiser. It was a bit like that thing we do when in a foreign country; watch their movies without the subtitles.

Ruckus at Ross Castle

There is always a lull that follows a tourist storm.

My Irish friends and I were savouring it, sitting by the edge of the lake and looking out onto the Ross castle, which stands within the grounds of Killarney National Park. The sun had just set and the last rays of light tried to reach out through the purple clouds. The magical setting was perfect to learn about the legend of the castle: The man of the house had leaped out of the window at the top of the castle and disappeared in the lakes nearby. Every year, at a specific date, which none of them were sure of, he, or presumably the ghost, comes back riding his white horse to keep an eye on the house. This might be the right time to tell you that I am extremely squeamish when it comes to ghost stories. Just as my friends were finishing the tale were heard noises from the Ross Castle. Which would not have been unusual if the notice board did not announce that the entrance to the castle shuts at 6 pm. It was well past that.

We nervously looked at each other as another round of human revelry emanated from behind the stone façade. The noise kept growing louder as it reached towards us. Then from the staircase that led to the front door, we saw a figure in white descend. The wedding party followed the bride just in time before I passed out.

Date crasher

Ok, we were not proud of it but we did it anyway.

It was the Champions League final between Barcelona and Manchester United in May, 2011. And my friend from the hostel, which was right next door, and I walked into the pub a tad too late to find ourselves a place in the pub.

Since all the tables, including those at the bar, were occupied so we just hung around one from where we could watch the TV. It happened to be next to a couple, who were possibly on a date but they hardly spoke and the guy seemed more absorbed in the football anyway (and men tend to do). After a few minutes of awkwardness they invited us to join them at the table. Much thanks, say my legs.

The guy, like us, happened to be a Barcelona fan. And as soon as Pedro scored the first goal for the Catalans, the date and our unintended encroachment was forgotten in a fit of cheers and high-fiving.

In Dublin's fair city

As much as I would love to say that it was James Joyce’s ‘Dubliners’ or ‘Ulysses’, or even someone cooler like U2 that brought me to Dublin, it just isn’t true.

There was only one reason really: Boyzone, Stephen Gately in particular. My first, and probably only, pop star crush. Those were the days when there was only one MTV playing English music, you were either a Boyzone or Backstreet Boys girl and all the ‘foreigners’ were thought to be Americans. Ireland was a tiny dot on the world map I possibly couldn’t even place.

No matter what, I wanted to go there. In all their interviews, the boys talked fondly of their home country and their humble roots that ran deep in the north side of Dublin.

Now north side of Dublin is the area that lies north of the river Liffey. How a waterbody as narrow as Liffey, at least as it runs through the city center, can lead to such hardened social identities is still a mystery. But historically, the northside is seen as more working class than its ‘posh’ neighbours south of the river. While for the locals this means higher house rates to pay in the south, for those traveling it hardly matters. The Dublin city center is globalised enough to iron out any strong local overtones.

Dublin docks

O'Connell street gets ready for St Paddy's day

The heart of the city is overrun by tourists and businesses catering to them. Hostels and pubs chief among them. Dublin seems sort of a drinking capital for the youth of the world; most of whom I met spent about three days in the city, hitting all the bars listed in yellow pages before taking their hungover heads back to their home countries.

There is a general sense of revelry about the city. Though the country is deep rooted in Catholicism, and community churches are amply found in Dublin, it usually brims irreverence. While the world is usually turning consumerist and vain, Irish seem  never happier than in their tracksuits.

The wide bustling O’Connell street, with a spine of decorative lampposts running through it, is the tourist hub of Dublin. And given its status, the government, or whoever the power that may be, came up with the idea of 'improving the streetscape' and sprinkling a little bit of history, culture and art along the way. They erected the ‘Spire’ in the middle of it, which was supposed to be their ode to the turn of the millennium. Just a little hiccup there, since it was ready only by 2003 and now sticks out like a sore pointy thumb. The Dubliners now fondly call it the ‘Stiffy by the Liffey’ or ‘Stiletto in the ghetto’.

They have come up with equally delightful nicknames for the many statues built around the city center:

James Joyce is called ‘The Prick with the stick’

Oscar Wilde: Queer with the leer

Molly Malone: The Dolley with the trolley

The famous Dublin doors also have an undercurrent of rebellion. The Georgian architecture of the day laid out strict construction rules they had to adhere to, the result of which was that all the blocks of buildings looked exactly the same. So the people painted them in bright colours and put shiny decorative knockers on them as a statement of individuality.

Once viewed as drab, these residential blocks now give Dublin much of its character and colour.

It is not really a city with ornate architecture, but the Custom House stands out on the north bank of the river. A stark contrast to the modern buildings, which gleam with its steel and glass assurity the 18th Century neo-classical structure is a reminder of the times gone by. Walking along the river and glimpsing past its many bridges, you can see the history unfold. One the one side is the quaint Ha'Penny bridge, built in the early 19th century, and on the other is the Samuel Beckett bridge, shaped like a harp (some sort of an Irish national symbol) and completed in 2009.

A shrine to myths and memories

Every so often, Ireland is referred to as the ‘auld’ country.

For a lot of people, especially those residing in America or Australia, it is the land of their ancestors who emigrated during the Great famine.

The Irish potato famine, at its severest from 1845 to 1851, killed one million people and led to the emigration of a million others, and almost every town remembers its lost souls. There are statues in Dublin commemorating them while on the Ring of Kerry there’s the Bog Village that has recreated the difficult life of people during the famine. Almost 1/4th of its population was swept away during those times; the damage to the population has still not been repaired.

The melancholy seeps in their music too. Sure, they have the foot-tapping ‘diddley’ tunes and Galway girl plays from every pub with live music in Galway at least five times a night, but their melodies can be poignant too. While on a musical tour in Dublin, we were told that the single most popular subject in Irish music is emigration. The wave of people leaving in the country in search of greener pastures started by the famine is yet to recede.

It remains the biggest single tragedy in the history of the island, but this old, old country, once ruled by the Celts, has had a few many.

Tucked on the east coast is the town of Cobh, which was the last port of call for the ill-fated Titanic. A memorial stands for the passengers at the heart of the town. One of the most haunting sights on the island, is the woman ‘Waiting on the Shore’ at Rosses Point near Sligo. With her arms outstretched, the flowing dress and sad eyes carved into stone, it speaks of longing of the families destroyed when their men were lost at sea.

Then there are horrors of the war and Ireland’s quest for independence from the British. The city of Derry is alive with wounds of the struggle in Northern Ireland, a Catholic Ireland trying to wrest control over it against the Protestant forces of England. The strains of Bloody Sunday still find a resonance in this walled city.

In the countryside, big Celtic crosses rise from the mounds and ancient churches lie in ruin. The old houses and castles that dot the landscape in Ireland, lack the opulence of some of the European counterparts, but make up with a weight of history. Made out of grey stone they talk of difficult times, lovers torn apart, treachery or human courage. These are places where myth and mystery, and if some are to be believed, ghosts, dwell.

The wet weather in Ireland means there’s almost always a cloud hanging over you, and a mist perpetually hangs in the air. When seen against hills and rivers, it brings to life a mystical, almost eerie feeling. It’s a perfect environment for legends to grow. And for cunning leprechauns to take cover!

Take a hike: Best day walks in Ireland

Ireland is a walker’s paradise. There are so many empty roads and so many stunning views that it is difficult to make a choice, but here are some easily accessible to most tourists (ie those without cars):

Howth head: Easy day trip from Dublin. Just hop onto the DART (Dublin’s railway) and head north towards Howth. The walk begins just outside the Howth train station and takes you past the modest town centre, past the harbour and an uphill climb onto Howth head. The best part about the walk is that, though only a few kilometres away from the Dublin City Centre, it is blissfully empty of tourists. Most people you’d bump on the way are locals walking their dogs. The coastal views enroute the Howth head are stunning, and the shore front road that leads to it lined only by small cottages or holiday homes on the one side and soft, green grass, ridden over by petite white or yellow flowers, most of which grows as weed, on the other. As a side trip, consider going to Malahide and its castle.

Wicklow mountains: A lot of tour companies offer day walks in the Wicklow mountains, combined with a trip to Glendalough, a glacial valley which has ruins of early medieval monastic settlements. Be prepared to see a lot of Celtic crosses here.

Our Wicklow walk began with our guide picking us up from the Dublin tourist office on a crisp morning. We left the city behind and got to the picturesque County Wicklow, the first stop was Enniskerry. Till now we were enjoying the landscape, the leaving warmth of the morning coffee cup still in our hands, from the insulated mini-van. But as soon as we got down for the ‘photo stop’ a blast of wind howled at us, knocking most of us back with its sheer force. The obligatory pictures taken we rushed back into the van, only to be told by our guide as an afterthought, “Oh! This was the place where Gerard Butler meets Hillary Swank for the first time in PS I Love you.’ Most of the walkers on the trip were women and we immediately whined about not letting us dwell on the spot a little longer. Gerard Butler has possibly contributed to tourism Ireland more than Guinness has!

We refreshed ourselves at the ‘base camp’ and were asked to carry rainproof clothing, provided by the tour company, just in case. Incidentally none of us were too keen on carrying the extra baggage, the day was fine if not bright and we just hoped that the rain gods would spare us this once.

The walk began through the leafy road past the lake but got increasingly rocky and difficult and steep. Since it was only May, the loosestrife, those wild purple flowers that perk up most Irish postcards, hadn’t sprung to life yet -- they usually do from June to September-- making the first part of our walk uphill from the valley rather barren. On the other face of the mountain, which was distinctly steep, the daredevils were working their way up on ropes while we huffed and puffed for about an hour to get to the top of the hill.

Following a quick lunch break, we started the descent, which ran through a thicket of trees, was distinctly much more comfortable especially since it was made up of wooden planks. A hum of a waterfall at some distance, which we eventually got to, made for a soothing backdrop.

Killarney national park & around: You can literally take any street from Killarney and end up in an unbelievably scenic place. Couty Kerry is a heady mix of stunning and quaint. Some of the most popular walking routes in Ireland – Dingle Peninsula and the Kerry way—can be taken from here but there are also some superb day walks.

To begin with, the Killarney National park lies in the heart of town. But there’s nothing wild about it. The only untamed animals you find here is deer.

The trails are mostly made of tarmac and clearly marked, most of them leading to the Ross Castle, that rises like a fortress amidst the genteel surroundings. A canal runs through one of the leading trails and trees arch on either side, engulfing you in the beauty of nature. My friend, and guide, whom I walked the National Park with almost every evening I spent in Killarney, told me about an English guy who regularly visits the Park at night, drunk, and wants to set up residence here. Sober or not, I think, not many people would mind that!

Deeper into the park, the path breaks into prickly bushes and pebbly path. It’s a site where three of lakes meet. You can sit on the banks endlessly and drown into the tranquillity if offers. Killarney is one of those places where you can spend days on end without really going anywhere.

Just a few minutes out of town is the Muckross house, which again has some fantastic walking trails around and the Torc waterfall. Though the waterfall itself is not too high, the walk continues uphill and you can hit the plateau that blooms with wild flowers.

Gap of Dunloe: A popular day trip from Killarney. A whiff of the fresh air and fresh green hills and you’ll understand why. The Gap of Dunloe is a seven-mile mountain pass between the Macgillycuddy’s reek and the Purple mountain. Most part of the walk can only be accessed on foot, or the horse-drawn carriage.

The tour operators usually drop you at the mouth of the valley, at Kate Kearney’s Cottage. It is a self-guided walk from there on. Little pools of water on one side, craggy rocks, small stone bridges and gently sloping mountains, every detail that makes the Emerald Isle is what this walk is about. The Gap of Dunloe follows the Kerry way for a while, make sure you follow the direction boards for Lord Brandon’s Cottage, to avoid losing your way. The only problem of going with day tours is that you have to time yourself so that you get to Lord Brandon’s cottage on time for a quick lunch and catch the boat back to Killarney.

Connemara: The bogs of give this landscape a distinctive colour and texture. The rolling green hills give way to taller peaks covered with ochre dried grass.

After enjoying dry weather for most part of my Ireland trip, and possibly boasting too much about it, I had to hit a wet spell. Unfortunately, it came on the day when I undertook the Connemara walking tour, which comprised of three walks in the area.

It was on the first trail of the day that the rain really came down. Ill equipped for the situation, I was soaked to the bone in about 15 minutes after commencing. It was a steep walk up the Mamaen pass in the Maam Turk mountains. The rain jacket provided little protection against the showers or the howling winds and the chill it brought with it. I made my way up while trying to step over the little streams that had formed due to the rain water and trickling down the slope. As uncomfortable as it was, the views the walk threw were completely worth it.

We followed the ancient pilgrimage route, and there at the highest point of our walk in this wild land stood a statue of St Patrick and an ancient church and altar. St Patrick, the patron saint of Ireland, spent time in Connemara in the fifth century as he brought Catholicism to Ireland. Whether you believe in religion or God or not, there is a meditative calm, possibly enhanced by the exercise and the intense grey skies, about the place that’s impossible to shake off.

Connemara, combined with the Kylemore Abbey, is one of the most popular outing for the day trippers from Galway, but try to see the place on foot as much as you can.

The walls of Derry

As we made our way to Derry, or Londonderry as the British like to call the second biggest city in Northern Ireland, a voice on the radio informed us that a recent poll had put the residents of Derry as the happiest in Great Britain.

The sun rarely broke out through the dark clouds for the two days that we were there. The time was hardly enough to discover the happiness quotient of the people but the gloomy skies, like they usually do, seemed to kill any illusions of bubbling merriment we were expecting from the place. If anything, they rendered the old town even more intense that it would like to seem.

Once a site of fierce battles between the Irish Republican Army and the British, it is difficult to know whether Derry has fully reconciled with its bloody past. Constant reminders of it are littered along its streets, be it the memorials, museums or boards describing some of the landmark moments. The elaborate, colourful graffiti on its buildings, depicting key figures—from Jesus Christ to Che Guevara-- give an impression that the city lives in rebellion.

The most fascinating aspect of Derry, are the walls that bound the inner city. Stretching over 1.5 kilometres, a walk on the walls leads you to a fascinating journey through time and offers a spectacular view of the city.

Built in the 17th century, between 1614 and 1619, the walls retain most of their original structure. Given their width—from 12 to 35 feet— and adorned with churches and entrance to cafes, after a while it feels like you are walking down the narrow streets of a European city rather than a wall. Possibly, this sturdiness was the reason that despite lying in siege several times, Derry’s walls were never breached.

Twenty-four canons, which the city claims are the largest collection of canons whose origins are precisely known, and watch towers stand guard even today, looking out at strategic locations from the walls.

With day-long access at absolutely no cost, Derry’s walls are the city’s biggest tourist attraction, but befitting a town of its size it’s also a regular haunt for the locals. Your are likely to catch them having a cup of coffee or bump into giggling girls in uniforms spending their evening together after school.

As I mentioned before, two days is not enough time to gauge the personality of the city. But rather than fun and frolic Derry radiates an understated, quiet vibe of contentment. And resoluteness, much like its walls.

An Irish blessing

How far Ireland is from the consciousness of a travelling Indian was evident from the fact that I couldn’t quite tempt any of my friends on this trip.

‘Why do you want to go to Ireland? All you’ll find there is portly old drunk men,’ was one reasoning. ‘Why would you want to go to a city (Dublin) where the best tourist attraction is a beer factory (Guinness),’ was another. Then came the Irish version of it. ‘Why do you want to come to Ireland? It’s always wet and cold!’

But I was too far gone down that green road to turn back.

The tourism industry its best to sell the caricaturised version: a land of ‘good craic’ and lucky shamrocks where you might chance upon a leprechaun, most possibly drunk, and its pot of gold. Where sheep bring traffic to a stand still and Guinness and whiskey flows more generously than water. Here, people have pale faces and red hair, speak with a friendly yet funny accent and bum around in pubs drinking beer and swaying to Riverdance tunes.

On many of the souvenirs, you will find this boldly inscribed: If you are lucky enough to be Irish, you are lucky enough. Here’s another: God invented whiskey so the Irish wouldn’t rule the world (written over a carved and painted figure of a dazed leprechaun with a giant bottle of whiskey slammed over it).

The prints on T-shirts inform you about the seasons of Ireland: summer, autumn, winter and spring, all represented by a sheep with an umbrella. They are happy to indulge you in the joke.

Some of that may be true, and thankfully so, but Ireland is much more that England’s poor country cousin.

The Ireland I remember is painted from the palette of green and grey. The farmlands, grazing cattle and glassy lonely lakes nestled in a quiet misty valley calm the soul. Its beauty is not overwhelming. But like the rolling hills on the horizon, it is always there, silently waiting in the background. Gentle and soothing. Its simplicity is seductive.

It’s also a country with fabled history and blessed with some of the best storytellers. Oscar Wilde, James Joyce, Samuel Beckett and William Yeats to name a few.

It was Yeats who said, “There are no strangers here, only friends that we have not yet met.”

During my visit, I met a Polish man, who was then working in Dublin. Ireland has a huge population of East Europeans, and I asked him why he much preferred living here. “People in Poland, always like this,” he replied, drawing his face to a sad smiley. “Here, people always smiling. They also have tough lives, but when you cross them on the street they always say hello.”

And you will usually be greeted with, ‘Top of the morning to ya! What’s the craic?’ The Irish truly believe why use one word when you can do with four. For people who do not possess their gift of the gab (me) and traveling alone, this is a blessing. An Irish blessing.