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.