This ride became an intermittent walk with two or three sharp climbs for which I elected to stroll beside Ms. Raleigh. We two enjoy a walk in the country. Little streams accompanied us much of the trip and sang to us as we walked along. I ate blackberries from the roadside brambles. (A Blackberry Digression: Ripe blackberries almost drop into your hand. If you have to tug, the blackberry will be bitter and you may get stuck by a thorn. It seems to me there’s a greater life lesson in this observation.)
The lane is lightly traveled by automobiles, having its own serenity. At the top of the first hill there is a long view down the valley to Coppinger’s Court, a fortified great house, a kind of half-castle. It reminded me of the United States government buildings of the Viet Nam era, i.e., built to be impregnable in time of civil unrest; Nixon era paranoia in every stone. Trying two roads to get as close as possible to Coppinger’s Court, I discovered that the second, a turn just past the bridge at the hamlet of Roury, brought us to within a stone’s throw of the ruin. Crows scold from its ramparts.
Built by Sir Walter Coppinger, a Viking’s descendant, in the early 17th Century, the stronghold wasn’t long occupied. Coppinger meant to establish a market town and build a canal to the sea. To his grief, the Irish did not welcome his plan or his heavy-handed rule. Coppinger’s Court proved an insufficient fortress and was ransacked in the 1641 rising. All that remains of Coppinger’s ambitions is his ruined great house, accreting legend and accepting the judgment of gravity.
At Drombeg there is a Megalithic stone circle which marks the winter solstice by alignment with the setting sun. (It aligns southwest!) What makes Drombeg unique are the accompanying settlement foundations. These are remnants of two houses which between them contain an oven, well, fireplace, and cooking sink. Hot stones were immersed in the sink to boil water and cook food, perhaps the first Irish Stew.
Looking up from Drombeg I was struck the view to the Atlantic. The old ones had aesthetic appreciation too; they enjoyed a windswept hilltop overlooking the great green sea. Granted the sparsity of the prehistoric human population, it’s likely that the residents of Drombeg are the ancient ancestors of many modern Irish, particularly those from West Cork. This thought came as I wandered among the stones – my people once lived here. Were they calling across time, “Look up, Frankie dear, don’t we have a lovely ocean view?” It would be grand to camp out at Drombeg Ring on a starry night, listening to the old ones stories.
In my rambles today I met Brian, a self-furloughed steelworker from California. Brian is humping a backpack by bus and Shank’s Mare around Ireland. He told me of his joy in the singing pubs and the fine welcome he’s received from young and old alike. I don’t doubt it; this is Ireland of the mille failte and Brian is an open, smiling young man. Brian says he’ll come back to West Cork and, God willing, he will and be glad he did. I suggested that if he missed his connection to Killarney he should stay in Clonakilty for the night. He’ll find singing and good company there. Slán leat Brian!
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Voices in the Air
Today I woke with a purpose – I wanted to cycle up to Clonakilty and find “Desert,” my grandfather’s birthplace; the home of his parents, Padraic and Julia. Although there are other routes from Rosscarbery to Clonakilty, I wanted to get the feel of the most direct one, the N-71, by bicycle. As it turns out, his ride is prosaic with automobile traffic and only a single longing view of the sea as you leave Rosscarbery. On the way up the hill I lost my topo road map, providing additional incentive to stay on the main road.
A Footnote: Jimmy Hoffa may still be cycling around West Cork, a labyrinth of country roads and cow paths, many without road sign or, too often, conflicting signs. Ireland treasures its chaotic signage; fingerposts disagreeing with one another about direction and distance. We Irish enjoy a difference of opinion. Another phenomenon, signposts without signs, suggests that road signs are harvested by tourists wishing to take a little bit of Erin back home to Ballydogshyte. May their lost souls wander the Inferno’s unmarked byways for eternity!
Rosscarbery to Clonakilty, a distance of about 20 kilometers, took me an hour to ride. Essentially one rides up one side of the peninsula and down the other, dodging cars and roadside flotsam. Cyclists know that man is the dirtiest animal. One pile I dodged contained soiled undergarments, his and hers, surrounded by empty beer containers. One does wish the inamorati would tidy up. Of course, I visualized a scene from the following gray dawn, “Oh Jesus Christ, where’d I leave me knickers!” But I digress, I’m in search of roots.
As I rode through sleepy Clonakilty, a crowd of smiling churchgoers milled outside their stone pile, spilling into the street. I thought about telling of the sinful behavior I’d detected just a couple of klicks down the N-71, but couldn’t think of an opener. Try, “Oh, hello, do you know what people were doing on the roadside last night not far from here? Drinking too!” So instead, I sang a cheery cyclists “good morning” as I dodged and weaved among the still god-struck. On I went to Desert, a place without church or pub, where people have the decency to close the door and sleep late on Sunday.
Desert is a left turn off the Ring Road which circles the north side of Clonakilty Bay. I walked up the steep narrow lane to a handful of homes, no more than a dozen, all of which were clearly of 20th Century construction. One, a bright blue stucco semi-detached bungalow of 1,000 square feet, was for sale for 295,000 Euros. ('ll put it on my Visa.) There is no village store, pub, church, or graveyard, just a sleepy hamlet overlooking Clonakilty Bay.
Rolling back down the hill, I turned in to the “Desert B&B and Campground”. The owner, a mature woman, was chatty, but said she didn’t know of any Morans in the neighborhood. “Moran is a County Galway name. I don’t think there are any Morans here.” (I’m here!) When I told her my great-grandmother’s surname was Buckley she softened,
While I was in the neighborhood I rode on out to Ring, a lovely village on the edge of Clonakilty Bay. Ring is near Virgin Mary’s Point. Donkey’s years ago some naughty sailors saw the Blessed Virgin praying on the strand and laughed at and made fun of her piety. She cursed them and, what luck, they all drowned in a storm! Like many European miracle stories, this one is pre-Christian, but Mary got stuck with it as Christian proselytizers poured old wine into their new bottle. I can’t feature gentle Mary cursing anyone, even godless sailors and old cyclists (motor- or bi-).
Ring has a lovely pub, Kitty Mack’s Beer Garden, just across the street from the ruins of an old police barracks, grassy lawn, and little estuary. In the estuary a pair of swans fed while gently brushing each other’s sides. I saw their old souls, reincarnated lovers, finally at peace; Tristan and Isolde.
As I watched Tristan nuzzle Isolde a group of touring cyclists spilled out of Kitty Mack’s startling me from my reverie. They looked like bizarre Amazonian insects in their brightly colored Spandex costumes, aerodynamic crash helmets, and impenetrable sunglasses. They greeted each other with buff bonhomie and began streaming toward Clonakilty, discreetly followed by a sag wagon hauling a big bike trailer. I heard my mother’s voice urging me to introduce myself, “Be social, Frankie, join in.” I ignored mom; ate a handful of raisins and nuts instead. Later they passed me in their sag wagon on the N-71, no doubt keeping their legs fresh for their tour around Rosscarbery and stops at Nolan’s and O’Brien’s on North Square. If I’d hitched a ride, I could have caught up on the trends in cycling fashion. Sorry mom, I’m a loner. I ride in tennis shoes and jeans cut off just below my knees. I sing old songs and talk to doggies and farm animals. I ask swans for their blessing and hear voices in the air.
It rained on the way home to Rosscarbery. It kept my motor cool. My newsboy’s cap is oiled canvas. Rain runs off.
A Footnote: Jimmy Hoffa may still be cycling around West Cork, a labyrinth of country roads and cow paths, many without road sign or, too often, conflicting signs. Ireland treasures its chaotic signage; fingerposts disagreeing with one another about direction and distance. We Irish enjoy a difference of opinion. Another phenomenon, signposts without signs, suggests that road signs are harvested by tourists wishing to take a little bit of Erin back home to Ballydogshyte. May their lost souls wander the Inferno’s unmarked byways for eternity!
Rosscarbery to Clonakilty, a distance of about 20 kilometers, took me an hour to ride. Essentially one rides up one side of the peninsula and down the other, dodging cars and roadside flotsam. Cyclists know that man is the dirtiest animal. One pile I dodged contained soiled undergarments, his and hers, surrounded by empty beer containers. One does wish the inamorati would tidy up. Of course, I visualized a scene from the following gray dawn, “Oh Jesus Christ, where’d I leave me knickers!” But I digress, I’m in search of roots.
As I rode through sleepy Clonakilty, a crowd of smiling churchgoers milled outside their stone pile, spilling into the street. I thought about telling of the sinful behavior I’d detected just a couple of klicks down the N-71, but couldn’t think of an opener. Try, “Oh, hello, do you know what people were doing on the roadside last night not far from here? Drinking too!” So instead, I sang a cheery cyclists “good morning” as I dodged and weaved among the still god-struck. On I went to Desert, a place without church or pub, where people have the decency to close the door and sleep late on Sunday.
Desert is a left turn off the Ring Road which circles the north side of Clonakilty Bay. I walked up the steep narrow lane to a handful of homes, no more than a dozen, all of which were clearly of 20th Century construction. One, a bright blue stucco semi-detached bungalow of 1,000 square feet, was for sale for 295,000 Euros. ('ll put it on my Visa.) There is no village store, pub, church, or graveyard, just a sleepy hamlet overlooking Clonakilty Bay.
Rolling back down the hill, I turned in to the “Desert B&B and Campground”. The owner, a mature woman, was chatty, but said she didn’t know of any Morans in the neighborhood. “Moran is a County Galway name. I don’t think there are any Morans here.” (I’m here!) When I told her my great-grandmother’s surname was Buckley she softened,
Well now, Buckley’s a good West Cork name. (Thank you, Grandma Julie, for redeeming me.) Maybe they were from Desert Serges, down by Ahiohill. If they were, there should be baptismal records down in Skibbereen. Protestants sent their records up to Dublin and those records were lost in the War of Independence. Catholic records stayed down here.I thought about the improvidence of the Protestants in trusting their records to the central government; trusting anything to any government. Get on your bicycles, kids, grab your birth records, and roll on out of Dub before the gunfight!
While I was in the neighborhood I rode on out to Ring, a lovely village on the edge of Clonakilty Bay. Ring is near Virgin Mary’s Point. Donkey’s years ago some naughty sailors saw the Blessed Virgin praying on the strand and laughed at and made fun of her piety. She cursed them and, what luck, they all drowned in a storm! Like many European miracle stories, this one is pre-Christian, but Mary got stuck with it as Christian proselytizers poured old wine into their new bottle. I can’t feature gentle Mary cursing anyone, even godless sailors and old cyclists (motor- or bi-).
Ring has a lovely pub, Kitty Mack’s Beer Garden, just across the street from the ruins of an old police barracks, grassy lawn, and little estuary. In the estuary a pair of swans fed while gently brushing each other’s sides. I saw their old souls, reincarnated lovers, finally at peace; Tristan and Isolde.
As I watched Tristan nuzzle Isolde a group of touring cyclists spilled out of Kitty Mack’s startling me from my reverie. They looked like bizarre Amazonian insects in their brightly colored Spandex costumes, aerodynamic crash helmets, and impenetrable sunglasses. They greeted each other with buff bonhomie and began streaming toward Clonakilty, discreetly followed by a sag wagon hauling a big bike trailer. I heard my mother’s voice urging me to introduce myself, “Be social, Frankie, join in.” I ignored mom; ate a handful of raisins and nuts instead. Later they passed me in their sag wagon on the N-71, no doubt keeping their legs fresh for their tour around Rosscarbery and stops at Nolan’s and O’Brien’s on North Square. If I’d hitched a ride, I could have caught up on the trends in cycling fashion. Sorry mom, I’m a loner. I ride in tennis shoes and jeans cut off just below my knees. I sing old songs and talk to doggies and farm animals. I ask swans for their blessing and hear voices in the air.
It rained on the way home to Rosscarbery. It kept my motor cool. My newsboy’s cap is oiled canvas. Rain runs off.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Castle Freke in the Mist
I first noticed Castle Freke from Galley Head; a crenellated ruin in the mist. The castle stands on the shoulder of a hill shielded by wetlands and a pond, overlooking the sea. Large windows tell that Castle Freke is a folly and not truly martial. It is ornamental, like modern knighthood. Can you imagine Sir Paul McCartney in armed combat with Sir Elton John?
Curiosity got to me and I cycled over to investigate. “Freke” was the surname of the Earls of Carbery, the 10th and last of whom renounced the name and title, styling himself “Mr. Carbery.” He abandoned the castle, immigrating to South Africa to fly his airplane in the Indian Summer of colonialism’s good old days. When I learned this I thought of Robert Redford’s role as Dennis Finch-Hatton in Out of Africa. Mr. Carbery was cut from the same cloth, I suspect.
The castle itself is off limits, posted because of timber harvesting in the nearby forest. The Castle Freke Forest Recreation Area is the true gem in any case. I rode along the paved byway bisecting the grounds, taking note of walking trails and spots for further exploration.
At Castle Freke Nature Area there are four forest walking paths featuring seeping wells, a high cross view to Galley Head and The Long Strand, and wonderful solitude. I listened to the stream, cows lowing, and distant dogs calling encouragement to their people. I thought I might catch glimpses of unicorns, fairies, and forest spirits. In this I wasn’t entirely disappointed.
A breeze stirred ancient oaks and
Voices murmured in the air.
In forest keep a naiad smiled as
I paused beside Her holy well.
The heart knows its home.
When you visit Castle Freke, take the High Cross trail and admire the flora. You hike through unspoiled forest of oak, ash, sycamore, and two varieties of pine. Wild flowers are joined by more exotic cousins whose ancestors were imported to amuse the Lords Carbery and their ladies. Now they all spill on the forest floor, blooming in shade and sun. The High Cross itself is a memorial left by the 9th Lady Carbery to her husband in the early 20th Century. It is said to be the highest cross in Ireland. Standing on its plinth you can see a beach panorama with Galley Head in the far distance. Pause as you walk down; listen to the breakers and dogs calling on the beach below. Children’s laughter carries up on the wind.
The Recreation Area also includes the cross-roads hamlet of Rathberry, a picture postcard community with a laughing brook running through it. You can cross the brook by a footbridge to visit The Sprigging School, built by a Lady Carbery to teach the local girls the then employable crafts of needlework. Also nearby is Lady Carbery’s Well, her gift to the community. It is still maintained and I refilled my water bottle in its spring, offering a prayer for her generous soul.
The post office and general store includes a little a little museum and, if wanted, a toilet. I stopped for lunch at the Sprigging School where I shared a sandwich with a nice Shepherd doggie. I was sitting on the ground with my back against a gate when I felt a friendly nose touch my right hand. She was black and white with a nice booty on her right hind foot. Since I had a sliced children sandwich, she happily joined me. I wish I knew her name. She was a very sweet doggie.
There’s a grassy cliff between The Long Strand and Little Island Strand where I can recline to read while listening to the surf below. It’s a wonderful spot to can catch the late afternoon sun. I thought I was alone, but after I remounted Ms. Raleigh I saw a courting couple, also on bikes, at the other end of the overlook. They greeted me warmly as the Irish do, commenting on the fine weather.
Behind the sand dune at Little Island Strand there’s a roadside acre of land for sale, presently occupied by a pair of friendly horses. A “For Sale” sign on the gate gave me a flutter. I daydreamed of having an apiary and farm stand selling honey and wildflower seeds. I’d plant some tomatoes and wildflowers. The horses have a fine view of a distant farmhouse standing in the ruins of a Norman Castle and, overlaid beyond, Castle Freke. It is too lovely a spot to clog up with human habitation. In my dream, bees and wildflowers share with the horses.
Curiosity got to me and I cycled over to investigate. “Freke” was the surname of the Earls of Carbery, the 10th and last of whom renounced the name and title, styling himself “Mr. Carbery.” He abandoned the castle, immigrating to South Africa to fly his airplane in the Indian Summer of colonialism’s good old days. When I learned this I thought of Robert Redford’s role as Dennis Finch-Hatton in Out of Africa. Mr. Carbery was cut from the same cloth, I suspect.
The castle itself is off limits, posted because of timber harvesting in the nearby forest. The Castle Freke Forest Recreation Area is the true gem in any case. I rode along the paved byway bisecting the grounds, taking note of walking trails and spots for further exploration.
At Castle Freke Nature Area there are four forest walking paths featuring seeping wells, a high cross view to Galley Head and The Long Strand, and wonderful solitude. I listened to the stream, cows lowing, and distant dogs calling encouragement to their people. I thought I might catch glimpses of unicorns, fairies, and forest spirits. In this I wasn’t entirely disappointed.
A breeze stirred ancient oaks and
Voices murmured in the air.
In forest keep a naiad smiled as
I paused beside Her holy well.
The heart knows its home.
When you visit Castle Freke, take the High Cross trail and admire the flora. You hike through unspoiled forest of oak, ash, sycamore, and two varieties of pine. Wild flowers are joined by more exotic cousins whose ancestors were imported to amuse the Lords Carbery and their ladies. Now they all spill on the forest floor, blooming in shade and sun. The High Cross itself is a memorial left by the 9th Lady Carbery to her husband in the early 20th Century. It is said to be the highest cross in Ireland. Standing on its plinth you can see a beach panorama with Galley Head in the far distance. Pause as you walk down; listen to the breakers and dogs calling on the beach below. Children’s laughter carries up on the wind.
The Recreation Area also includes the cross-roads hamlet of Rathberry, a picture postcard community with a laughing brook running through it. You can cross the brook by a footbridge to visit The Sprigging School, built by a Lady Carbery to teach the local girls the then employable crafts of needlework. Also nearby is Lady Carbery’s Well, her gift to the community. It is still maintained and I refilled my water bottle in its spring, offering a prayer for her generous soul.
The post office and general store includes a little a little museum and, if wanted, a toilet. I stopped for lunch at the Sprigging School where I shared a sandwich with a nice Shepherd doggie. I was sitting on the ground with my back against a gate when I felt a friendly nose touch my right hand. She was black and white with a nice booty on her right hind foot. Since I had a sliced children sandwich, she happily joined me. I wish I knew her name. She was a very sweet doggie.
There’s a grassy cliff between The Long Strand and Little Island Strand where I can recline to read while listening to the surf below. It’s a wonderful spot to can catch the late afternoon sun. I thought I was alone, but after I remounted Ms. Raleigh I saw a courting couple, also on bikes, at the other end of the overlook. They greeted me warmly as the Irish do, commenting on the fine weather.
Behind the sand dune at Little Island Strand there’s a roadside acre of land for sale, presently occupied by a pair of friendly horses. A “For Sale” sign on the gate gave me a flutter. I daydreamed of having an apiary and farm stand selling honey and wildflower seeds. I’d plant some tomatoes and wildflowers. The horses have a fine view of a distant farmhouse standing in the ruins of a Norman Castle and, overlaid beyond, Castle Freke. It is too lovely a spot to clog up with human habitation. In my dream, bees and wildflowers share with the horses.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Rosscarbery of the Swans
I assembled Mr. Raleigh in the parking lot at The Celtic Ross Hotel, adjusting the saddle, double checking her quick release hubs and brakes. We were itchy to roll. The Ross in Rosscarbery is a cyclist’s friend. They offer food, shelter, and free public Internet access. The staff is welcoming, even to old bicycle hobos like me. There is a pub and restaurant with table service on the patio in fine weather. The Ross is a venue for big weddings. If you enjoy seeing people puttin’ on the style, their veranda is an excellent perch; young men looking like James Bond, the young women like garden flowers in a summer breeze. You can hear me humming Chuck Berry’s tune, “C’est la vie say the old folks, it goes to show you never can tell.” The kids are grand!
Our test ride produced a flat tire and walk back from Rosscarbery Quay, but read on. Serendipity - this turned into good fortune. While in Bantry the following day I found Nigel’s Bike Shop. Nigel stocks wider tires for my good old bike’s 27” rims. With these 1.25” tires I do not need an all terrain bike, what the French call a VTT for “velo tout terrain”. Irish roads are mostly paved, not cobbled, and more bike friendly than the cobblestones of Paris. With wider tires inflated to 80 psi Ms. Raleigh takes the Irish roads very well indeed. So we rambled out for our first spin, a round trip from Rosscarbery to Galley Head Lighthouse along the coast.
Bees buzzed in the planta genesta, blackberries, and roadside wildflowers. Cows mooed sweet greetings and horses paused their meditations to look up and nicker hello. From a stone bridge I watched a Gray Heron foraging in the rushes just a couple of meters away. I stopped to pass the time of day with two or three dogs out socializing un-chaperoned. One, a portly gentleman poodle, came up while I was reading on a rock at Long Strand Beach. He leaned into me, accepting a scratch, and then walked off to elevate his leg against a pile of seaweed which was only slightly taller than long. Hey, where trees are rare and fire hydrants unknown, a fellow has to make do.
Just before Galley Head lighthouse the road winds through a farm built into the ruin of Dundready Castle, an ancient site, 10th Century I think. Dundready guards a narrow spot on the peninsula overlooking a cove. If stones could talk, this old warrior would tell bloody sagas of Viking raiders ransacking for food, women, and plunder, the “good things” in Viking life.
I headed home. The road was nearly empty, the beaches held only occasional family clutches with their heads bowed, looking for sea shells. I imagined them as 10th Century monks at prayer walking along the strand incanting “Protect us, oh Lord, from the wrath of the Northman.” No dragon ship bobbed off shore. On this bank holiday afternoon the beach is tranquil.
As I arrived at The Celtic Ross a wedding party spilled out onto the patio. I ordered fresh mussels from their starters menu which, washed down with chilled house white, was a nice light evening meal. As the sun was declining I sat on their veranda, smug in the knowledge that Rosscarbery is the next parish to paradise.
Rosscarbery of the Swans
Whiskey on the veranda and
Sun warmed swans laze on the lagoon.
Lonesome skyway calls as castellated ramparts
Gauge goose flights heading home.
If by some divine indulgence
I kenned my days and
They were few, I’d spend two
Sipping whiskey on the veranda
In Rosscarbery,
Rosscarbery of the Swans.
Our test ride produced a flat tire and walk back from Rosscarbery Quay, but read on. Serendipity - this turned into good fortune. While in Bantry the following day I found Nigel’s Bike Shop. Nigel stocks wider tires for my good old bike’s 27” rims. With these 1.25” tires I do not need an all terrain bike, what the French call a VTT for “velo tout terrain”. Irish roads are mostly paved, not cobbled, and more bike friendly than the cobblestones of Paris. With wider tires inflated to 80 psi Ms. Raleigh takes the Irish roads very well indeed. So we rambled out for our first spin, a round trip from Rosscarbery to Galley Head Lighthouse along the coast.
Bees buzzed in the planta genesta, blackberries, and roadside wildflowers. Cows mooed sweet greetings and horses paused their meditations to look up and nicker hello. From a stone bridge I watched a Gray Heron foraging in the rushes just a couple of meters away. I stopped to pass the time of day with two or three dogs out socializing un-chaperoned. One, a portly gentleman poodle, came up while I was reading on a rock at Long Strand Beach. He leaned into me, accepting a scratch, and then walked off to elevate his leg against a pile of seaweed which was only slightly taller than long. Hey, where trees are rare and fire hydrants unknown, a fellow has to make do.
Just before Galley Head lighthouse the road winds through a farm built into the ruin of Dundready Castle, an ancient site, 10th Century I think. Dundready guards a narrow spot on the peninsula overlooking a cove. If stones could talk, this old warrior would tell bloody sagas of Viking raiders ransacking for food, women, and plunder, the “good things” in Viking life.
I headed home. The road was nearly empty, the beaches held only occasional family clutches with their heads bowed, looking for sea shells. I imagined them as 10th Century monks at prayer walking along the strand incanting “Protect us, oh Lord, from the wrath of the Northman.” No dragon ship bobbed off shore. On this bank holiday afternoon the beach is tranquil.
As I arrived at The Celtic Ross a wedding party spilled out onto the patio. I ordered fresh mussels from their starters menu which, washed down with chilled house white, was a nice light evening meal. As the sun was declining I sat on their veranda, smug in the knowledge that Rosscarbery is the next parish to paradise.
Rosscarbery of the Swans
Whiskey on the veranda and
Sun warmed swans laze on the lagoon.
Lonesome skyway calls as castellated ramparts
Gauge goose flights heading home.
If by some divine indulgence
I kenned my days and
They were few, I’d spend two
Sipping whiskey on the veranda
In Rosscarbery,
Rosscarbery of the Swans.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Cork Airport
Cork Airport and alone; I’m an old lifer pardoned out the prison door without a living soul to meet him. Collecting two checked bags and Ms. Raleigh, my good old bike, in baggage claim, my known future is compassed by a reservation at Thrifty Rent-a-Car and booked accommodation at Castle Salem, a Bed & Breakfast just outside Rosscarbery, wherever that is.
As I whoosh out the airport door, a leaf of yellowed newspaper lifts and flies off on the wind. Why am I here? It could have been Brittany or Oregon or Atlantic City, but I’m in Ireland on the rugged Atlantic rim of Europe. I’m free. A Dylan lyric echoes, “Are birds free from the chains of the skyway?” Ireland is the last exit before Tir na nOg, the land of the eternally young. Ireland feels young, I’ll give it that. I’m going into the West.
I drive southwest on Route N-71 feeling anxious.
Castle Salem grew on me, but my first impression enhanced a premonition of self-made calamity. The castle is two kilometers down a lonely country lane too narrow for two way traffic. Overgrown hedges scraped the sides of my car; potholes played hell with its suspension. My hostess, Mrs. Michael Daly, met me in at the door wearing an apron and dusting her hands. Yikes! I’d fallen through a crack in time! The castle reeked Ireland of the 1950s; heavy oak furniture and framed photos of Catholic clerical celebrities. A titanic pay telephone presided in the lobby. There were handmade signs reminding guests not to smoke in the rooms nor drink tap water. Rover, The Castle Salem Official Dog, greets you on his back, requesting politely that you give his tummy a rub. I obliged, we became pals; my day improved. Dogs are magical, aren’t they?
Outside my window a lovelorn bull moaned for liberty to gambol among his heifers, his unrequited true love no doubt nearby. Still, Castle Salem was blessedly quiet, the bed comfortable, and the shower hot. Margaret Daly’s home cooked breakfast was a delight and her small conversation natural and perceptive. She is a good woman, raised six children. Michael, her husband, is now fragile and poorly. Mrs. D. tends to Michael first. Her sons work the surrounding farm. In the six days I stayed at Castle Salem I became fond of Mrs. Daly. She waved goodbye from her doorway as I drove down the lane for the last time.
Castle Salem: Sometimes known as Benduff’s Castle, it has been in the Daly family since its purchase by Michael Daly’s father in 1895. The castle consists of a Norman Keep, built by “Black Catherine” Fitzgerald, wife of Florence McCarthy Rea in c. 1470, and a conjoining “L” shaped Dutch Style house. Major Apollo Morris, a soldier in Cromwell’s army, received the castle in 1641 as plunder when Cromwell raped Ireland. William Morris, Apollo’s son, added the house in 1682 on the occasion of his marriage. He also replaced the keep’s ramparts with a slate roof and begat six children. William was a busy man.
William Morris gave up his military career and public sinecures to become a Quaker. His grandson, another William, was a correspondent with and friend of William Penn, founder of Pennsylvania. Penn visited William at Castle Salem. There is a small Quaker graveyard near Castle Salem which dates from the first William’s conversion and was used for over a century by Quakers from as far away as Cork City.
Michael and Margaret Daly have been good stewards of Castle Salem. Without government support, they restored the castle’s Slate roof and plank flooring, making structural repairs as they found need. You may have a tour for the asking and appreciate the advances which have been made in indoor plumbing. The castle’s convenience looks a little drafty and vulnerable to the slings and arrows so to speak.
I wondered why Castle Salem has not attracted more attention. Its Quaker connection and graveyard are unique; the story of the William Morris’ conversion from Cromwellian butcher to man of peace thought provoking. There’s a story here.
As I whoosh out the airport door, a leaf of yellowed newspaper lifts and flies off on the wind. Why am I here? It could have been Brittany or Oregon or Atlantic City, but I’m in Ireland on the rugged Atlantic rim of Europe. I’m free. A Dylan lyric echoes, “Are birds free from the chains of the skyway?” Ireland is the last exit before Tir na nOg, the land of the eternally young. Ireland feels young, I’ll give it that. I’m going into the West.
I drive southwest on Route N-71 feeling anxious.
Castle Salem grew on me, but my first impression enhanced a premonition of self-made calamity. The castle is two kilometers down a lonely country lane too narrow for two way traffic. Overgrown hedges scraped the sides of my car; potholes played hell with its suspension. My hostess, Mrs. Michael Daly, met me in at the door wearing an apron and dusting her hands. Yikes! I’d fallen through a crack in time! The castle reeked Ireland of the 1950s; heavy oak furniture and framed photos of Catholic clerical celebrities. A titanic pay telephone presided in the lobby. There were handmade signs reminding guests not to smoke in the rooms nor drink tap water. Rover, The Castle Salem Official Dog, greets you on his back, requesting politely that you give his tummy a rub. I obliged, we became pals; my day improved. Dogs are magical, aren’t they?
Outside my window a lovelorn bull moaned for liberty to gambol among his heifers, his unrequited true love no doubt nearby. Still, Castle Salem was blessedly quiet, the bed comfortable, and the shower hot. Margaret Daly’s home cooked breakfast was a delight and her small conversation natural and perceptive. She is a good woman, raised six children. Michael, her husband, is now fragile and poorly. Mrs. D. tends to Michael first. Her sons work the surrounding farm. In the six days I stayed at Castle Salem I became fond of Mrs. Daly. She waved goodbye from her doorway as I drove down the lane for the last time.
Castle Salem: Sometimes known as Benduff’s Castle, it has been in the Daly family since its purchase by Michael Daly’s father in 1895. The castle consists of a Norman Keep, built by “Black Catherine” Fitzgerald, wife of Florence McCarthy Rea in c. 1470, and a conjoining “L” shaped Dutch Style house. Major Apollo Morris, a soldier in Cromwell’s army, received the castle in 1641 as plunder when Cromwell raped Ireland. William Morris, Apollo’s son, added the house in 1682 on the occasion of his marriage. He also replaced the keep’s ramparts with a slate roof and begat six children. William was a busy man.
William Morris gave up his military career and public sinecures to become a Quaker. His grandson, another William, was a correspondent with and friend of William Penn, founder of Pennsylvania. Penn visited William at Castle Salem. There is a small Quaker graveyard near Castle Salem which dates from the first William’s conversion and was used for over a century by Quakers from as far away as Cork City.
Michael and Margaret Daly have been good stewards of Castle Salem. Without government support, they restored the castle’s Slate roof and plank flooring, making structural repairs as they found need. You may have a tour for the asking and appreciate the advances which have been made in indoor plumbing. The castle’s convenience looks a little drafty and vulnerable to the slings and arrows so to speak.
I wondered why Castle Salem has not attracted more attention. Its Quaker connection and graveyard are unique; the story of the William Morris’ conversion from Cromwellian butcher to man of peace thought provoking. There’s a story here.
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