It was a cool and breezy day in Doolin as we parked the car and looked for the trail. After a few wrong turns and a walk through someone's pasture, we came upon a somewhat ominous sign:

That was the trail-head alright, and a reminder that Ireland's approach to safety in the outdoors is a bit different than in the U.S. Rather than a lot of guardrails and fences and signs everywhere, one big warning then a "top o' the morning" and off ye go and be lively.

We headed on our way and it wasn't a few minutes before the thoughts of danger were replaced by sights of beauty. Still a few miles from the famous cliffs themselves, and the scenery was already spectacular. Dark layers of rock reaching like fingers into the roiling surf, the sea reflecting the slate blue of the sky.

Up we climbed, passing sleepy cows in muddy fields, looking at us with eyes that seemed surprised, though I am sure they had seen thousands of others on this trail over the years. With each gain in altitude, the views changed and the cliffs began to come into view, each glimpse more spectacular than the last.

Up we went, and some parts of the trail were quite steep. My sporty little jacket has various vents, and I had pooh-poohed their existence when I bought it. But they were fully open now, and I was thankful that I had them as they were letting the ever-present Irish wind cool me down.

Along the way we met a heavy-set woman whose shoes were completely covered in mud. "There is a stretch of bad stuff just behind me" she said "but it is definitely worth ruining a pair of shoes."

As we neared the end of the trail and the main visitors' area, the sky darkened and the wind grew chilly. A storm was blowing in. Despite the threatening weather, we lingered and took pictures, none of which would ever capture the magnificence of the cliffs. Massive, lush, layered in color and eliciting feelings of just how small one person actually is, they were, indeed, worth a pair of muddy shoes.

About a third of the way down the trail back to Doolin, the rain picked up in earnest. The sporty little jacket became a layer under my Barbour coat which, eventually, got soaked through. The rain was steady and soaking, but not unpleasant. In fact, it was rather transcendental - the sounds of the surf, the feel of the rain, my growing hunger and now aching feet, all of it putting me in a somewhat blissful state. An hour and a half later we made it back to Doolin, drenched and hungry but happy. A sweets shop was open. We stepped in to be greeted by a near toothless woman who had to be near 90, standing with many others, everyone looking like they had had the sense to come out of the rain.

"Where've ye been?" the old woman asked," as I think you might be crazy to be out in this rain."

"We've just hiked up to the Cliffs of Moher and back" came my reply, in a loud, cheerfully American voice.

"Ahhh, now I know ye is crazy," she cried, finishing the exchange with a big, empty smile.

The rain was letting up as we left the shop and headed for McGann's, a pub nearby that has a good reputation for food. We ordered the hardiest dishes we could find on the menu - lamb chops, stew, potatoes, Guinness, and ate it all without a second thought. I finished with a Jameson, poured from a tap at the bar. A little reward after a long, lovely day.