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,

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.