Ireland has been on the radar of the world’s best heavy water specialists for decades. The likes of Mullaghmore, Rileys and Aileens are amongst the upper echelon of big wave slabs. If you aren’t tuned into that side of the surfing world, you might be oblivious as to why Australians, Hawaiians and other surfers from tropical climates would swap boardies and sunshine for a 5mm wettie and a British Winter.
ABC News’ Foreign Correspondent Sean Murphy visited the Celtic Coast while filming for a documentary which gives an insight into why hundreds of surfers descend on the sleepy seaside town of Mullaghmore each winter.
Tracks Editor Luke Kennedy recently spent time in Bundoran during his first stint in Ireland and found a number of more user friendly tubes, a tight-knit surfing community and plenty of Guinness along the way.
You can read more about his adventure in ‘Green Miles’ which featured in Issue 604 of our mag, but is now available to check out below.
Between the Dartry and the Deep Blue Sea
Nothing quite prepares you for the drive into Bundoran. It’s one of those head-plastered-against-the-window moments one never forgets. As you pass Sligo, the road bends along the coast, taking you directly via Ben Bulben mountain (Binn Ghulbain). With its soaring slopes, brilliant shade of green and curiously flattened-peak, Ben Bulben commands your attention like some kind of giant, ancient sentinel marking your arrival in the territory. The spectacular Dartry Mountains, to which Ben Bulben belongs, preside over the coast between Sligo and Bundoran. It’s easy to imagine yourself roaming amongst the limestone peaks and finding a blissful sense of freedom. The Dartry provided a more practical purpose in the 1920s when they served as a hideout for 34 members of the IRA. Fleeing the British National Army, the men lived in a cave for six weeks and were never discovered. These days the Dartry are popular with hikers and sightseers seeking enchantment rather than refuge.
Arriving in Bundoran we are greeted by Francis McGloin, a plucky well-muscled figure who is one of the originals from the Bundoran surf scene. Francis’ late brother, Brendan, created the town’s distinctive, seaside arch-shaped sculpture, (Carraige na Nean (Rock of the birds) which also features a finger of hollowed sandstone that perfectly frames the setting sun over the Atlantic.
A civil engineer by trade, Francis has built a separate guesthouse from his main home, which is a few minutes outside of town. Climbing the stairs to our lofted apartment I’m pleased to discover that the front door opens directly onto a spectacular view of the Dartry. “Ah my people have been hiding out in these mountains for hundreds of years,” offers Francis with an apparent air of mystique in his tone. Like many Irishmen he always seems on the cusp of launching into a great tale.
It’s late in the day and after the long drive I am impatient to get in the water. I’m travelling with my partner, 79-year-old mother-in-law and two-year-old son; you wouldn’t call it a core surf crew, but I’ve lugged two boards from Australia and I’m determined to taste the Atlantic brine on my tongue before sunset. Francis insists the resident swell magnet, Tullan Strand will have a wave. “Turn left at the KFC,” he explains as I make a dash to beat the sinking sun.
Five minutes later, I’m hastily pulling on a fresh, 5/4, hooded O’Neill steamer and wrestling the split-toed booties over my resistant, duck feet. It’s Spring in Ireland and the water temp’ is somewhere between 10 and 12 degrees but on behalf of my balls I’ve decided it’s best not to know exactly. Instead, I focus on the three-foot, offshore wedges refracting off a long, finger of rock that stretches into the Atlantic and hoovers the available swell. Ridiculously underdressed afternoon joggers aim for the headland’s end as I ready to jump in below. In the dwindling light, half a dozen surfers are chasing jacking teepees and punchy, right corners. Staring north, scattered wind-combed peaks roll into an empty beach that stretches towards the Erne River and one of Ireland’s largest estuaries, where fat seatrout happily swim, but thankfully no sharks.
Just as my eagerness seems fit to overcome the cold-water shock, it dawns on me that in my haste I’ve left my fins and legrope back at the house. Fortunately, Dave, an affable Cornishman travelling in a campervan with his Czech girlfriend is kind enough to loan me his new set of rudders and a leggie. “Just don’t run off with them okay,” he says earnestly. The welcome act of generosity immediately suggests I’ve joined an Atlantic surf tribe who readily show goodwill to their fellow surfers. In many other parts of the world, I’d be turning for home, waveless and weeping at my forgetfulness.
Treading carefully across the dark-hued rocks, I’m grateful to have five inches of rubber between me and the sharp-edges. The headland is honeycombed with caves and stone arches, which have charmed names like the Fairy-Bridge and the Wishing Chair. You don’t want to fall into one of the hollows, but the distinct geography lends welcome novelty to the surfing experience. Sometimes it’s the gettin’ in and gettin’ out that makes a wave interesting. Eventually I spot a local wandering up a goat track and figure he has just come from the jump-off spot. Moments later I’m leaping into the soup, feeling the rude smack of frigid water and paddling hard and duck-diving to make sure the swell’s heave doesn’t flush me back the way I came.
Once in the lineup, a couple of surfers nod through their beaked, rubber hoods, blow steamy breaths and then return to their stoic dance with the sea. There is camaraderie in the cold. A bodyboarder happily fills me in on the optimal conditions for the break – it’s almost doing it apparently. He doesn’t mind too much when I tail him around the lineup, piggy-backing his local knowledge. After a day in the car, the side-winding wedges are glorious fun. Writhing pockets that jack powerfully and sling-shot you down the line at drag-race speed after a late-entry take-off.
Dave, the Cornishman paddles out and eventually it’s just the two of us ravenously chasing down the shifty nuggets in the shadowy, half-light. Not a thought spared for sharks here. Eventually we stumble in, scramble up the rocks and reflect out loud on our best and worst moments the way surfers tend to do. Two strangers, sharing an ephemeral kinship in a part of the world neither is particularly familiar with. Handing back the fins and the leggie, I thank him profusely and promise to drop off a Tracks beanie the next morning if he is still around.
By the time the heavy rubber is peeled off, it’s close to 9 pm and I’m relieved to discover that Bundoran boasts two Chinese takeaways, which take orders until 11. Cheap but reasonable red wine is readily sourced from the local convenience store and soon I’m thawing hands on a warm, takeaway container, regaling wife and mother-in-law with a tale of my dusk-light surfing adventure and the near calamity of forgotten equipment. The days ahead seem full of promise and a roast duck curry never tasted so good.
The Winding Road to the Deep North
It’s dawn on Anzac Day and expat, Wayne Murphy, has arrived from Cork with a head full of Irish language and his heart set on showing me some of the more obscure breaks in northern Donegal. Back in Perth, Wayne’s 95-year-old dad, who fought in the Korean War, is delivering an Anzac Day address in Perth.
Wayne and Francis are old friends, and as we discuss military rituals on the other side of the world, we scoff toast and eggs, and slurp steaming coffee. We’ve waves to chase and a long drive ahead.
After growing up on Rottenest Island in Western Australia with his Irish parents, Wayne became a prominent surf industry figure, working variously as a judge, event organiser and writer. Early in the 2000s he visited Ireland to reconnect with his Celtic roots and never went back to Australia.
All three of us pile into the front seat of Wayne’s van, aiming for the furthest reaches of County Donegal on Ireland’s north-west coast – the curious thing about Donegal is that despite being the northern-most county of Ireland it’s still part the Republic of Ireland (often known as Southern Ireland) because the border with Northern Ireland is inland, well to the east.
As we snake our way through small towns, Wayne’s fertile mind gives a sense of splendour and occasion to the country drive. The landscape comes to life as he offers a translation and anecdote for every signpost and geographic feature, tossing in snippets of Irish history to complete his act as unofficial tour guide.
As we drive, Wayne explains that his interest in the Irish language emerged when he arrived 25 years ago and began roaming the country in search of waves and adventure. Regularly faced with towns and place names, which were all in Irish, he became intrigued by their meaning. Curiosity led him to a degree in Irish Heritage Studies at the Galway Mayo Institute of Technology, where he graduated with a first-class honours degree.
“The course included the Irish language, along with history, mythology, folklore, ecology and archaeology,” explains Wayne. “Best thing I ever did.”
Amongst other pursuits, Wayne briefly published an Irish surf mag, ‘Tonta’, helping Ireland’s rapidly evolving surf scene to develop a sense of collective identity.
The road takes us near Rathmullan. Wayne explains it was the last place the Irish chiefs took refuge before they fled from the Protestant armies in the early 1600s. Known as the ‘Flight of The Earls’, it is seen as a major turning point for Ireland, marking the end of the Gaelic era of Irish history. Ours is a flight of a different kind; an escape from work and family and responsibility, if only for a day so that we might return better equipped to handle forementioned three.
If Wayne is the scholar, then Francis is the quintessential Irish storyteller, lacing his tales with dry wit and humour. The banter flows thick and fast and neither the drizzling rain nor the squashed seating arrangements can dampen the mood. Although I’m the stranger in a strange land, flanked by these two I soon begin to feel right at home. It’s a universal truth that all road trips are mostly about talking; having a story to trade is as important as bringing the right board for the day.
The first spot we check is a long left that breaks on the fringes of a 200-acre Franciscan Friary. Wandering through a magical forest setting, I’m full of anticipation, but unfortunately when we spy the break it’s clear the swell is kinked in the wrong direction and not quite getting in. Although it’s a friary, we don’t sight any pious, robe-clad monks, but we do come across a sign that issues a stern warning about the ferocious wild-life in these parts. ‘Dangerous Ticks in Grass’ it screams. Before falling victim to the skin-burrowing terrors we are back on the road searching for waves.
The bitumen winds through acres of fields given their margins and order by hand-built stone fences. The rough, worn edges on the meticulously stacked stones (granite, slate and limestone) create a natural grip between the individual pieces. The stone walls echo with a sense of ancient permanence you just don’t get from a barbed wire fence back home. It’s hard not to marvel at the stoicism involved in their construction. Long hours with nought but wind, rain and cold stone for company. This is also peat or ‘bog’ country, where the slow-burning turf is dug up from the paddocks and used to deliver warmth and comfort to the remote cottages. We pass a shack where the chimney puffs with the burning peat, sending a rich, smoky waft our way. It’s said to be the kind of scent that locals pine for when they move to distant shores.
A keen observer of quirky Irish pursuits, Francis gestures to the bogs and explains that Ireland is home to a passionate community of bog snorkellers. Apparently, this involves donning a wetsuit, flippers and goggles and flapping through a freezing, water-filled trench that has been cut from a muddy bog. And perhaps you thought Irish surfers were keen.
Eventually, we come to the crest of a hill, which overlooks a series of kelpy coves and rock-lined bays. In view there are several, gurgling slabs one could imagine Mason Ho fizzing over. Meanwhile, the steel-cut lines of swell find a more classical appeal as they bend around a right point with two well-defined sections. The Point’s ominous-sounding name acknowledges the myth of an ancient massacre. Wayne says there are rich stories passed down of legendary figures doing battle here. He explains it’s also likely the location takes its moniker from the brilliant red lustre assumed by the rocky slope at Sunset. “Irish place names are a good example of how the Gaelic language is mixed with poetic leanings and observable facts,” he insists.
We wind our way down the boggy slopes on a makeshift road, flanked by sheep, stone walls and a quaint, thatch-rooved shack, where we stop for a photo, doing our best to look like characters from an ancient world.
Here we have arrived at a lonely place of stark beauty somewhere near the fringes of nowhere. As we pull up to survey the break from sea level, a rapturous line of waves creases the Atlantic, marching in purposefully; the stiff off/sideshore cutting into their faces as they reel towards their kelpy grave. A wide field of tightly clustered stones separates us from the water, a foreboding ankle-snapping barrier to entry; like some evil giant wanted to protect the wave for himself and has flung giant obstacles into the shoreline.
A lone surfer has it all to himself but is doing nothing much to convince us the wild, wind-ripped rollers can be tamed. He’s always too deep, too wide or too far inside. Francis looks at the stone-riddled shoreline and sees a minefield of undesirable possibilities. His leg was maimed in a football accident, and he doesn’t want to risk re-injuring it. Wayne is coming back from a shoulder injury and isn’t convinced he’s ready to duck-dive the shallow, detonating end-section. As for me, I’ve dragged two boards across the world and driven half-way around Ireland. To the first-timer the gloomy setting still has major, novel appeal. There’s no way I’m not going out. “Maybe I’ll just get three or four,” I suggest hopefully. Wayne and Francis encourage me to try my luck, insisting their duty is to give me the chance to enjoy the delights of their homeland.
Moments later I’m charging towards the rocks like an Anzac going over the trenches; a little eager in my advance. The passage is as diabolical as it looks, a horror show of slippery impediments where every crevice carries the promise of a busted shin or a broken fin. After one hasty misstep, I go down like a wounded soldier and land sideways between a brace of boulders, holding my board aloft to protect it, putting foam and fibreglass before my own rubber-clad flesh. Somehow, I get back to my feet without damage to either and tell myself to slow down. After wading through the shallows with fins-up, it finally seems there’s water enough to right the board and chance a few strokes. In the first few duck-dives there is a fear of spearing into solid stone, but eventually I’m paddling unobstructed across flat, grey water, staring at the grinding waves further up the point, conspiring a way to catch them.
Reaching the lineup, the sole other surfer and I exchange a collaborative nod, but the take-off zone is shifty and between the hunt for a wave and the avoidance of others on the head, it’s never quite settled enough to allow for words to be exchanged. We fight our own battles on the same stretch of sea. My first effort falls well-short of expectations, and I’m forced to kick through the back as the wave shuts down. ‘Maybe it’s less makeable than it looks’. I feel the pressure to perform in front of Wayne and Francis, the two-man gallery huddled in the front seat of the van. They genuinely want me to get a good one but failing that are probably just as happy to see the Aussie blow-in have a shocker so they have a story for the pub later.
Larger waves stack on an outer shelf; sheer, grey steamers announcing themselves somewhere near the horizon; as if keen to intimidate with their puffed chests and feathering peaks. It’s not ‘BIG’ but it’s big enough and I’ve never been here before and there are bugger all people around. Despite the apparent power and added girth, the sets also have a more defined corner, so I tentatively stroke further out. The absence of people allows me the benefit of choice and after letting a few waves pass, I swing on a jacking coil that presents as makeable. Surfing decisions are typically based on a reference to past experiences and pattern identification – ‘as in this wave I’m looking at resembles something I rode somewhere else’ – but each break has its nuances, and you never really know till you go over the ledge.
The take-off is a little wobbly as my rubber-clad feet struggle to find purchase, but eventually the rail bites and the wave sends me roaring down the line with enough power to overcome the roaring wind that threatens to stifle acceleration. Soon enough the wave’s linear course becomes self-evident – a drawn-out bottom turn, an arcing high-line, a full carve back to the pocket, a final sprint down the line to race the closeout section before a gust-powered kickout sends me spinning beyond the lip like a twirling wind chime. I land in flat water with a well-satisfied slap.
Paddling back out I’m buzzing with the distinct flood of adrenaline that comes from riding a new wave, in a remote setting. Regular comforts have been shrugged aside; obstacles overcome, and fears mastered to enjoy a single wave.
After a few zippering rides, I feel the Anzac Day battle has been won and make my way in across the rock-strewn shoreline. Between careful steps I glance up and savour the melancholy beauty of the landscape, conscious I may never return.
On the return journey, we stop at an idyllic strip of coast that bares resemblance to Raglan in New Zealand with its sequence of left points. From an elevated perch we watch two-three-foot lines crinkle and stretch with infinite promise until they hit the deeper water of a wide-open bay. If translated the area is known as ‘the place of the spring tide’. Dilapidated fishing boats line the shore while a slick, modern café and surf school hint at changing times.
An outside section trips over a pinnacle of rock before wrapping into an evenly paced left. It’s here that Wayne and I initially post up, sharing four-turn runners that coil across gin-clear water, licked clean by a light offshore. We have it to ourselves, hooting each other into take-offs and discussing tactics for navigating the inside rock that tries to buck you off as the wave draws shallow. Ireland has its heaving slabs and its colossal peaks, but much of the time it’s like this – mellow, clean and fun, perhaps best suited to a mid-length or a fish and an inclination for chatting between waves.
Most people in the water are up for a yarn and down at the main left I lend the ear of a local who tells me he works at the surf school. I shudder at the thought of long hours spent waist deep in a sodden wetsuit, pushing kids into gentle rollers. However, he seems chirpy and upbeat, enjoying a surf after a morning of lessons. He assures me that the wave we are riding at two-feet can hold up to 20 and runs for as far as you can see into the wide expanse of the bay. “I’ve an 8’6” for out here,” he assures me.
Heading home, we take the Wild Atlantic Way, the west coast road which has drawn so many visitors to Ireland in recent years. By the time we near Bundoran I’m on the nod; two, cold-water surfs, the pound of heavy water, and a long drive have taken their toll, but we’ve one last stand to make. We’ve promised an appearance at Bundoran’s fabled Railway Inn to honour the Anzacs. To a small gathering of respectful locals and one surfed-out Australian, Wayne reads us the stirring speech his 95-year-old father had made for the Anzac, Dawn Service back in Perth. In a cosy bar in the north-west of Ireland we raise our glasses in honour. What did they fight for? Perhaps the freedom to enjoy days like the one we’ve just had.
Perspectives on The Peak
Saturday morning in Bundoran reveals itself in shades of sharp blue sky and brilliant sunshine. Good weather always warrants a mention in Ireland. The shimmering appeal of the Atlantic is completed by a lingering four-foot swell that arrives in well-defined, stretched lines. Rolling over ‘The Peak’ the coils are neatly split into reeling lefts and shorter, horseshoe rights with hollow promise.
‘The Peak’ might just be one of the best ‘town waves’ in the world. Right up there with Ala Moana bowl in Honolulu and Ocean Beach in San Francisco. It is simply right there, out front, visible from the main road in the very heart of Bundoran, between the amusement park and the brilliantly coloured cottages which fringe the shoreline; separated from shore by a long, kelpy walk across a wide finger of reef.
While the view is spectacular, the memorial park to the south where I check the surf from has a more sombre symbolism. An eye-catching Celtic cross is flanked by plaques which feature tributes to 10 Republican activists, including the fabled Bobby Sands, who starved themselves to death in prison in 1981. The painfully slow, but dramatic action was a protest against their classification as terrorists and not political prisoners. Think about it, there’s quite a bit of determination involved there; not eating till you die.
While Ireland strives to move beyond its divisive past, old tensions still simmer beneath the surface and ‘the troubles’ as they are often referred to are still very much a part of the consciousness for those who lived through them in the 80s and 90s. It was a period when British intelligence agents were known to go undercover in Irish communities to source intel’ on IRA activities. In Bundoran they still talk of suspected British spies masquerading as surfers to procure information. High risk, heavy consequences espionage in its day, but 30 years on it sounds like the perfect plot for a good surf-themed thriller, or perhaps a black comedy.
Out at ‘The Peak’, no one is flourishing a Union Jack spray job on their boards or wearing a bright orange wetsuit, but when I arrive in the lineup everyone seems to get on well enough. A melting pot of short-term travellers, resident nomads and established locals jostle for the high-quality offerings. Although a tight-knit crew of Irish were part of Bundoran’s nascent surf scene in the 80s, back then intrepid figures from Australia, New Zealand, the USA, England and Northern Ireland frequently out-numbered the home-grown riders. However, that ratio has certainly shifted in favour of the locals. I share the lineup with a crew of fizzing Bundoran grommets who slash and gouge at any available section, desperate to out-do each other like any young posse. Their talent would stack up against most teenage, surf packs around the world and their learning curve has certainly been accelerated by the quality of the waves in their backyard. While spirited and determined, there is still a playfulness and innocence to their attitude. Unlike many of the groms in more established surf towns around the globe, they are yet to develop a smug, shifty-eyed sense of entitlement; that snaking disdain often reserved for unknown surfers. Perhaps it’s because travellers have always been part of the picture in Bundoran.
“It’s not often this uncrowded,” chirps a plucky grommet to me, before swinging excitedly on a slinking, green wall. It seems I’ve lucked into a window between shifts for the regulars and I do my best to rack up a wave quota. One of the best amongst them is a young, flame-haired girl whose rhythmical top-to-bottom approach ensures nothing ever looks forced or hurried.
A burly, red-bearded natural-footer named Jim hurls himself into a couple of sets after waiting patiently. We get chatting and it turns out he used to live with Wayne Murphy and work at the same surf school. “I’ve just taken on a real job, to get a mortgage,” laments big Jim. “I fecken hate it and haven’t been surfing in months… I’ll be gettin’ out of it as soon as I can.” I take it as a sign of an evolved surfing culture and an abundance of good waves when people want to ditch their nine-to-five gigs to evolve their lives around being in the water.
Eventually a more established crew starts bossing the lineup; I hear Australian, South African and Irish accents among them. Not aggressive, but all capable surfers who know how to claim their waves in a competitive lineup. One Australian, who is obviously based here, talks to an Irish friend about the Portuguese surfer the local sent in the other day. The mood in the water is buoyant but the lineup anecdote is a reminder that it’s still not the sort of place where you want to step out of line. After several, throttling lefts and a stint hunting head-dips on the shorter rights, I figure I’ve had my fill and head in feeling content.
With the appetite of a hungry surfer I head to ‘Foam’ café, just two minutes down the road on Bundoran’s main strip. The café was started by Australian expat, Noah Lane, and a couple of friends. Noah moved here, over a decade ago after meeting an Irish girl and simultaneously falling in love with Ireland.
With its locally sourced menu, sleek, minimalist design and focus on good coffee, ‘Foam’ feels like a Celtic take on the classic Aussie café. The various bric-a-brac, art work and apparel for sale reminds you that it’s a surfer’s café without venturing into kitsch territory. By lunchtime on a Saturday, it’s hard to get a seat at Foam, which has obviously become not only a hub for surfers but a kind of culinary destination for locals and travellers. I’m ordering takeaway before hitting the road, but Noah is on hand to say hi. He’s still walking a little gingerly after a horror wipeout at nearby Mullaghmore, where he split his head open and was heavily concussed, and later found he’d fractured his pelvis and sacrum. Despite the slow recovery, he looks fit and happy; quietly suggesting he’s looking forward to getting back in the water while happily playing the role of Australian surfing ambassador to Bundoran. He chats briefly about the various waves in the area, offers insights into a few of the local characters and still manages to dash into the kitchen to make me up a couple of delicious burritos. Noah has obviously carved out an interesting way of life in a place he might never have imagined himself living.
Sipping the tasty coffee, I drive away with the glorious Dartry mountains, which welcomed me, now whispering their ancient goodbye. I’m sad to be leaving Bundoran; there are at least half a dozen more, nearby waves I’m yet to sample, meanwhile the surf community’s warmth, and unjaded optimism has made dealing with the cold more tolerable than expected. Don’t carry on like a ‘fecken eejit’ and you’ll get along just fine here. I’ve also acquired a taste for a thick, frothing Guiness or two after a good day of waves – the black stuff really does taste better in Ireland. I set a course for Galway and the promise of crowded bars full of characters, cobblestone streets and Irish music; the cliffs of Moher beckoning just beyond. There’s always another city or town to look forward to in Ireland, but as the mountains slip away in the rear-vision mirror, I quietly promise myself I’ll be back in Bundoran one day.
