My wife and I were touring by car through the remote

desolation of County Clare in Western Ireland.

That morning we explored on foot the extraordinary

karst landscape of the Burren, vast slabs of whitish limestone

pavement furrowed by deep, narrow crevices called grikes,

within which flourished a profusion of multihued plant life,

including rare orchids.

Now we were heading north and west, towards the purple

mountains.

This was truly empty country. The occasional plume of

peat smoke rose from isolated cottages scattered across

the harsh terrain. Otherwise, little sign of life.

Then something caught my eye. A glint, a flash, off to

the side of the road. A reflecting surface transiently

capturing a shaft of sunlight. Curious, I pulled off the asphalt

and left the car.

I was drawn towards an obelisk, towering feet above my

head. Beautiful pyramidal stone, badly weathered in places,

with scattered clumps of moss partly concealing prime

Connemara marble.

I spotted a gold-coloured plaque at the top, the

source of the flash which had attracted my attention.

Intrigued, I battled my way up a hillock, through

nettles, briar and tearing thorns. When I was close enough to

read the inscription I paused. The words I screwed up my

eyes to distinguish created the emotional response which

has kept the memory alive. Disbelief, frustration, but, most of

all, laughter. I doubled over and roared. This is what I read:

      “On this very spot, on the ninth of March, 1876,

absolutely nothing happened.”

Only in Ireland!