The expectation and reality of visiting this famous Irish megalith

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This summer I was transfixed by a little show called Outlander. I’m sure you’ve heard of it. If you haven’t, drop everything you’re doing and call into work because it’s the modern version of those dogeared paperbacks our moms used to hide under the bed. You know the ones: the cover a picture of some exotic guy, muscular, tan, hair waving wildly in the wind, and a doe eyed damsel with half ripped bodice falling from her shoulders, begging to be deflowered. In a time long before PornHub, these books were the romance novels that transfixed housewives everywhere and took them to a land of fantasy, intrigue, and forbidden desire.

So here I am, enthralled by this show about a woman who is visits an ancient megalith site, something akin to Stonehenge, and through some unknown magic she is transported through time to Scotland circa 1750. Here’s this damsel in distress, surrounded by savages, her virtue in ever mounting danger. It’s the ultimate choke me but not too hard fantasy. In between episodes, I was researching my upcoming trip to Ireland, fleshing out points of interest when I stumbled onto something. About a half hour away from the famous Cliffs of Moher stands an almost 6,000 years old megalith called Poulnabrone dolmen. Situated on the highest point of a desolate plain, the Poulnabrone is described as an unusually large example of a Neolithic burial portal. It’s essentially several large limestone slabs in the shape of a doorway under which are buried the bones of a people lost to us thousands of years ago. It is thought that this megalith would’ve been covered by earth and topped with a cairn, symbolizing a gateway or portal. While modern scientists don’t know if it was used for ceremonies or rituals, the lack of information makes it all the more mysterious and intriguing. Fresh on my Outlander high, obviously I added this to the list.

A few months later I arrive in Shannon on a very delayed flight, grab my rental, and hit the road. My first stop: the Cliffs by way of Poulnabrone. My exhilaration quickly turned to agitation on the hour long drive. Caught behind other out-of-town motorists, the one way road became a long stretch of misery. Inching along, the weather becoming increasingly worse, I’m convinced that no windshield wiper in the history of wipers was ever tested out against Irish rain. I eventually arrive at the site to find a makeshift gravel parking lot. There is only one other car and had it not been for the signage, I would’ve thought I was in the wrong place. I walked through the mud a few hundred yards, the rain still coming down incessantly. As I move toward the site, the gravel turned to large rotund blocks of limestone with deep fissures throughout. At the top stood the dolmen in the middle of the clearing, a 50 foot perimeter around blocked off by rope. Just three slabs of limestone stacked against each other, sitting in a dreary field all alone. I don’t know what I expected but it wasn’t that.

Maybe the problem is that we know so little about the structure and its function. Maybe the problem is our lack of information about the people who built it and the lives they led. Maybe having to view it at a distance from behind a fence kind of took the magic out of it. I obviously did not expect to saunter up to the stone and be magically transported to another time, but it would have been nice. What I did expect was the place to have a mystical feel about it. I expected to be overcome. I expected to feel awe. Having visited places of significant importance and great historical value in the past, oftentimes there’s a lingering, a heaviness that hangs in the air that can be felt but not explained. Instead I felt nothing but cold and wet. I was just a chick standing in the rain in the middle of a field with some stones.

I hung around about half an hour, walking the site, circling the monument, seeing what very, very little there was to see. The only thing that struck me as interesting was the limestone boulders and the immense cracks that make up the surrounding fields. All in all, I could’ve skipped it. The mystery is intriguing. It’s existence is baffling. But it didn’t turn out to be one of those things that you just have to see. Instead it proved to be an unnecessary stop, stealing valuable time away from other experiences. By the time I reached the Cliffs of Moher, it had been hours since I’d eaten. My clothes were soaked, and I immediately realized the necessity of gloves there, even in the summer months. Instead of spending the rest of the day taking in the Cliffs, I succumbed to my temperament and sought shelter, convinced that a hot shower and warm bed were more important than an hour exploring the cliffside. If I could do it over, I would’ve skipped the Poulnabrone completely and focused all my efforts on my trip out to the Cliffs, which are absolutely spectacular and really do require 100% of your time and energy. If you’re looking for romance and intrigue, the best you’ll get out of western Ireland are some sheep and an amazing view.