A CURTAIN of rain swept across and a silvery mist like light itself hung over the swathe of beach. Within the Strandhill Maritime Centre, in Sligo, Ireland, where we were to have a seaweed bath, there was a delicious sense of warmth and seclusion.

We headed for the cubicles wreathed in steam in which the cast iron Victorian baths were filled with warm water and seaweed. Ugh! Would there be a foul odour, we wondered. Not at all, our noses assured us, as we traipsed in and settled down in the bathtub. Neil Walton, the bronzed owner who exuded robust health, had assured us that the seaweed was fresh, had been washed and that it had unmatched therapeutic qualities. Not only does seaweed contain vital minerals and vitamins, it is a potent deep cleanser with healing powers. As we lolled in the warm bath, a deep lassitude overcame us. Time lost all meaning and we felt detoxed and energised at the same time. For about 30 minutes, we luxuriated in the bath, sipping water from the mineral water bottle that was given to us. Reluctantly we left the tub to shower and emerged from our cubicles rubbing our seal-smooth skins in wonderment. The bath was followed by an aromatherapy massage which left us feeling virtually limbless.

Arresting beauty

Refreshed and rejuvenated we set out again on our Irish odyssey, ready to embrace the varied experiences that the journey would throw up. Ultimately, Ireland is rich in things that make life worth living — landscapes of arresting and compelling beauty which would inspire an ordinary man or woman to become a poet, musician or painter; its pubs crackle with warmth and conviviality and its full-bodied, stout and heady whiskey bring the national wit bubbling to the surface. And Irish eyes are always smiling — a trifle sardonically at times — and compel one to smile back!

We left the baths and the luscious setting of sea and mountains, drove past sun-dappled meadows speckled with well-fed cattle that grazed as though in a post-seaweed-bath-trance. Whitewashed homes with perky chimneys and blossoming cherry blossom trees swept past. Ireland has an unvarnished beauty like a fresh-faced dairymaid rather than the polished gloss of a Hollywood starlet.

Our Irish odyssey had started in Dublin, capital of the Republic of Ireland. (There are of course two Irelands — the 26 counties of the Republic of Ireland or Eire and the six counties of the British-governed Northern Ireland which till recently were involved in violent hostilities.) We had zipped across the heart of the country, past gorse-strung hills and lush green meadows stopping at Kilbeggan, one of the oldest distilleries in the country, toured historic Birr Castle and Gardens, where weeping willows bent to listen to the secrets of a chortling stream and later lunched at a homey pub. Here, delectable Irish stew washed down with a pint of stout and the pleasing hum of friendly conversation made us feel like we had touched the pulse of the country, revelling in a new-found sense of peace and harmony. We spent the night at the lake-fronted Wineport Lodge whose Michelin starred restaurant draws people from as far away as Belfast and Dublin.

Tragic history

The next day, we swung by Strokestown Park House and Garden Museum in Roscommon. At the Famine Museum at Strokestown Park House, we were told about the tragic Great Irish Famine when farmers starved and thousands migrated to the New World to escape deprivation and hunger. In the now-restored house, studded with period furniture, stag and bison heads, we learnt about the life of the gentry and nobility; about how girls of 10 would be laced up to acquire 16-inch wasp-like waists, and children were brought up by nannies and rarely met their parents for more than 10 minutes a day. We saw lavishly appointed ballrooms, drawing rooms and bedrooms. In the latter, we were struck by the size of the beds — they seemed too small to accommodate adults. There was a reason — in the old days, feasting would commence around 5 p.m. and continue till 11 p.m. and food would be hearty and meaty. This led to widespread indigestion and so most people slept sitting up!

Ghost stories

In some of the rooms, our footsteps echoed eerily as the guide related how most castles and stately homes in Ireland have their very own ghost stories. Strokestown does too — of the headless horseman who rides restlessly in the woods at night; and about the pretty wraith-like girl with auburn hair who sits on the window sill of one of the rooms and brushes her hair endlessly — waiting for someone, perhaps a lover — to come. In the vast kitchen, we were shown empty jars that once held leeches to treat high blood pressure and to treat sores that did not heal!

Our heads were full of the past that suddenly seemed more palpable than the present and the feeling continued when we checked into Coopershill House, a gracious country house hotel, located at Riverstown, 20 minutes from Sligo. Large and beautifully furnished, studded with gilded portraits and objets d'art, Coopershill had both heart and soul. It had the feel of a very hospitable private home especially since the handsome owner Simon O' Hara welcomed us into the baronial splendour of his home. Come evening and he served us wine from his extensive cellar and later, we dined in the chandeliered dining room where carved sideboards groaned with the family silver and crystal. Modern Irish cuisine with a European accent followed and that night we slept on canopied beds where the moonlight slanted in and created mysterious shadows in the woods outside. The next morning we awoke to the song of birds and after a hearty breakfast, the lord of the manor escorted us around his 500-acre property while his three dogs — Gus, Samson and Delilah — followed us around, yapping at our heels.

As we drove away, the countryside seemed wrapped in a sense of ineffable peace. Kodak moments exploded with bludgeoning frequency — low hills that serrated the horizon; green pastures where shaggy sheep grazed; lonely hilltop castles that resembled a forgotten Camelot; lusty no-frills pubs and bars that resonated with Irish cheer and jolly sing-alongs. In Northern Ireland, we enjoyed a romantic cruise on Lough Erne at Enniskillen and were assailed by visions of pastoral beauty. We swept past photogenic towns like Derry and Belfast and stayed at gracious country house hotels like Beech Hill Country House Hotel brimming with beauty and warmth and devoid of false pretences and attitude.

Quirky tales

In our ambles around the country, we got a glimpse of country life where gossip is the salt and pepper that flavours long winter days. Villagers thrive on the tales they tell each other and daily life is grist for the rumour mill. Like one young man, who seemed happy with his work and his simple cottage, decided one day to build himself a tombstone inscribed with: In Loving Memory. His rationale? "It's comforting to know my tombstone is there and ready!' One Englishman who married his Irish colleague and moved subsequently to Ireland from London told us how he was warned by the villagers not to invite one of his neighbours for tea. For she would look upon the invitation as a licence to park her cows in the green expanse behind his cottage!

Ireland — wild and whacky, ephemeral yet firmly rooted in its past... it's a canvas etched with soft hills and green meadows and blue skies traced with marshmallow clouds. At such times one feels that God walks with one in Ireland.

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