The Rock

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…of Cashel. A legend. A fortress. A cathedral. A national heritage.

Legend has it that the rock foundation was created when St. Patrick confronted the devil in a cave in the Slieve Bloom Mountains about 20 miles from Cashel. The devil bit off a piece of a mountain leaving a gap in the range—appropriately named the Devil’s Bit—and breaking his teeth in the process. He was so angry, he spit out the rock. It landed near Cashel. [Who makes this stuff up?]

baptism of Aengus by St. Patrick

The Kings of Munster (the southernmost of the four ancient kingdoms of Ireland) built a fortress on the Rock in the early Middle Ages.

St. Patrick baptized the first Christian Munster King, Aengus, here in the 4th century, a major turning point in his mission to convert the entire island. Once the king was baptized, his loyal clansmen would follow suit. And then perhaps the other kings….

During the ceremony, St. Patrick is said to have accidentally stabbed Aengus in the foot with his staff. Blood flowed and tears rolled down his cheeks, but Aengus never cried out. He thought it was part of the ritual!

In 1101, Munster king Murtagh O’Brien gave the Rock to the church in a strategic move to keep it out of the hands of a rival clan. The only building that remains from the Munster dynasty is an amazing 90-foot-tall round tower built around 1100. It’s thought to be a storage tower used to hide valuables when under attack. The entry is 12 feet off the ground and would have been accessed by a rope ladder which was pulled in—and the doorway sealed—to thwart the enemy. 

The Church built a small chapel on the Rock in the 12th century, and wedged an impressive cathedral in between the round tower and the chapel in the 13th century. By the 18th century, the cathedral was in such a sad state of repair that the church gave it up, moving to a newer cathedral in the town of Cashel. The ruins sat abandoned on top of the Rock until 1975 when restoration of the site began to make it available to visitors. We’re so glad they did. This is one of our favorite stops on the trip so far.

  • the Romanesque chapel
  • the rafters of the Choral
  • Hore Abbey

Sun!

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In the car, on our drive into County Tipperary, we were debating which we should visit first: the Rock of Cashel or the Glen of Aherlow. We may not be able to fit both into our day, so which was the higher priority? As we approached Cashel, we decided we would let location be our guide. Rock of Cashel it was!

We rounded a curve in the road. The Rock (stay tuned for a future broadcast) loomed high on the horizon and the clouds pulled back to reveal the sun after two of the longest, wettest, windiest, chilliest, dreariest days I have experienced since, hmm, Oregon in December. 

🎶 Ahhh-AHHH! 🎶 Were those angels singing? Obviously, we had made the right decision.

We came across this sculpture at the Rock’s visitor center. I know just how they feel!

Backtracking in the Wicklow Mountains

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Glendalough

Our path from Dublin to Kilkenny, our next home-from-home, crossed the Wicklow Mountains. I was hoping we’d have enough time to stop at Glendalough (the glen between two lakes) for a hike. It’s considered by many to be the most beautiful stretch of the 81-mile Wicklow Way walking path. But we spent more time on Bray Head than I’d expected and had a delicious, relaxing lunch in Enniskerry. Time had gotten away from us.

And something we learned at lunch threw a monkey wrench into what was left of our afternoon: We discovered in Enniskerry that our new favorite brewery, Wicklow Wolf Brewing, is located in Bray where we had just hiked the Head. Marcus and I looked at each other. “I guess we’ll have to go back,” he said. So after lunch, we retraced our steps to Bray to visit the brewery. We had a nice chat with one of the guys who works there, bought a T-shirt, then retraced our steps to Enniskerry and on to Glendalough.

We entered the valley from the south. The lush green foothills, with their peaceful pastures of cattle and sheep sloping upward to the mountains, reminded me of the picture-perfect valleys of Switzerland. As we headed deeper into the valley, the landscape became rockier and the vegetation sparse; it called to mind the high desert south of Reno, Nevada. And then we encountered the River Glencalo rushing over boulders past the ruins of a lead mine, and I thought of the Colorado Rockies.

The changing landscape of Glendalough is worth a trip in itself, but there are also ruins to explore. St. Kevin’s 6th-century monastic settlement and all the churches and related structures built in the ensuing centuries. I needed more time.

So we went back a few days later—a day trip from Kilkenny. We packed a lunch and climbed into the hills. It was a cold and blustery day down on the valley floor, but the sun shone and the two-and-a-half hour hike was warming. The trail took us 600 feet up a mountainside for excellent views of the valley below. Wonderful hike, amazing day!

Something we’ve learned from previous extended travel: There’s never enough time to do all the things on the itinerary. Choose the thing you’d most like to do at the moment, and enjoy it fully. And if there’s something you didn’t get to that you know you’ll regret missing, don’t hesitate to backtrack if you can. We may never pass this way again.

Till the cows come home

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On our drive from Bray, on the coast, inland to Kilkenny we crossed sparsely populated farm country. On one backroad, traffic, such as it was, came to a standstill. We craned our necks to see what was going on that would create a traffic jam in rural County Wicklow. Cows. It was 4:30 in the afternoon, and the cows were coming home.

I remember encountering cows around this time of day on our journey through Yorkshire in England several years ago. The sun was creeping toward the horizon and the cows were getting antsy. They stood at the gate by the side of the road, calling to the farmer who appeared to be late fetching them. They didn’t need the farmer to tell them it was time to go home; they could feel it. Their bawling started off in a deep baritone, but rose to a soprano urgency. They hadn’t been milked since morning, and they wanted to get back to the barn for some relief. Now!

Some of these Wicklow ladies were so laden they could barely walk. A few stopped along the path, their udders swaying so heavily they were thrown off balance. I couldn’t watch. I felt their pain.

Eventually the herd made it across the road and traffic resumed. I couldn’t see the barn from the road, but I hoped, for their sakes, it was just around the corner.

Beyond the Pale*

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*the English Pale: that part of Ireland over which England exercised jurisdiction before the whole country was conquered. Centered in Dublin, it varied in extent at different times from the reign of Henry II until the full conquest under Elizabeth I. (macOS Dictionary)

Bray Head: our destination is the teeny-tiny cross on the peak

We have left the city and have begun our clockwise, eleven-week route around the island! First stop: Bray. Okay, we only made it thirteen miles south of Dublin, but we had to get used to the driving—Marcus to turning right into the left lane and merging left into roundabouts, and Cindy to stop shouting “Watch out!” every time Marcus passed anything. American drivers talk about the difficulty of driving on the left side of the road, but consider for a moment how difficult it is to be a passenger on the left side of the car. I feel like I am riding astride the white line on the edge of a road with no shoulder. Every tree limb, every bus pulling out from the curb, every sideview mirror on a parked car is doomed. I envision large gashes where paint has been removed from some unsuspecting Dubliner’s car. I think of the 5000 euro authorization on our credit card to cover any damage to the rental car that we dismissed as something that would never become an actual charge, and I think about all the much more entertaining ways I could spend that kind of money. [Note: I finally promised to quit shouting out if Marcus accepted full responsibility in the event that we actually hit something. I now just close my eyes and wait for the impact.] But I digress….

view of the Irish Sea, with Dublin just north of the peninsula at the far end

Bray. There’s an outstanding walk up Bray Head with stunning views of the Irish Sea. You can even see the Howth Peninsula on the north side of Dublin Bay in the distance. The skies had finally cleared, and we had a gloriously sunny day. 

gorse is in bloom

There’s a 640-foot elevation gain from the beach up to the cross at the top of the Head. I hadn’t done so much as a calf stretch since leaving home. Was I up for this? We sought out local knowledge—a guy emptying the trash bin at the car park.

“No worries!” he said. “The whole path is paved. It will take you 15 minutes. Sometimes I do it during my lunch hour. I run most of it, and walk some.”

I looked up at the cross doubtfully, but who was I to question a local? So we began. After ten minutes the paved path became a muddy track. Fifteen minutes in, we were picking our way up tree-root steps, then scrambling up rocky cascades. 

the teeny-tiny cross

You know, we’re still growing accustomed to the Irish sense of humor, so I’m wondering (as we scrambled): Is anyone who asks advice from an Irish person presenting themselves as the butt of a joke? I had to laugh. Perhaps we had asked for it. But one thing he said was absolutely true: the views from the peak were spectacular.

Newgrange

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Newgrange on the horizon on our approach

England has its Stonehenge. Ireland has Newgrange. Built 1000 years or so before Stonehenge (based on carbon dating), or around 3200 BCE, Newgrange is completely different in design. It is a passage tomb, with underground burial chambers and a central stone passageway. The remains of five bodies were found inside, but there is no way to know who these people were. The tribe that built Newgrange had no written language or other means to record their thoughts or ideas. One thing is for certain, however: around 9:00 in the morning on and around the winter solstice, the sun’s rays come streaming through the window box over the entrance to Newgrange and fill a carved stone receptacle at the far end of the central passageway, today as it has for millennia. So perhaps this tomb was used for rituals, as well as burials.

Newgrange was discovered in the 1690s by His Majesty’s (King William of Orange) troops who were digging into the plush green earth along the River Boyne looking for stone to quarry. They found stone, alright, but unusual patterns of black and white stones that caused the men to alert their commanding officer. He halted the digging until they had a chance to excavate more carefully. Over the centuries, Newgrange has been excavated and reconstructed to archeologists’ best guesses at what the original design would have looked like. Can you imagine their delight when they discovered the winter sun shining through the window box?

window box over the entrance

There are other passage tombs throughout Ireland that have been discovered by farmers tilling soil or digging peat in bogland. At one time these structures were above ground, like Newgrange is today, but over time they have gradually been buried by accumulating detritus. The Irish government to date has not set a priority (i.e. funding) for excavating more than a few. Newgrange is their pride and joy, and it draws thousands of tourists every year. 

the top of another subterranean structure across the road

In a way, I like the mystery of not knowing what may be lurking beneath the turf of these subterranean discoveries. Like in the undisturbed fairy rings (ringforts) in Ireland, there could be entire communities of little people living under there—a veritable hornet’s nest of mischief—whom it’s probably best not to disturb. 🧚‍♀️

What a craic!

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Garda dog

I blame myself. I neglected to tell Marcus about the most important, and likely the most frequently used, word in the Irish language. Craic.

So we were walking in downtown Dublin, and Marcus stopped to talk to a man walking a dog wearing a Garda (police) canine vest. As most Irish are wont to do, he asked how long we were in Ireland. 

“Tree months, is it? Now, why would you be staying here for tree months den?”

“For the weather,” Marcus replied, to which he received a hearty laugh.

“No, it can’t be for the weather,” the man chuckled, looking up at the rain-saturated clouds. “I’m sure you’re here for the craic.” [pronounced crack].

Marcus looked taken aback. “Oh, no, I’m not into that!” he declared.

The man looked at him oddly and said, “Well, good day to you den,” and walked off with his dog.

I couldn’t hold it in any longer. As soon as the man left, I burst out laughing. “Do you know what craic means?” I asked.

“Are we talking about drugs?” he asked.

“No. C-r-a-i-c, pronounced crack, is Irish for ‘fun.’”

I don’t think I’ve ever seen Marcus speechless before.

Rebellion

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Dublin’s General Post Office

The Irish War of Independence came to life for me when watching the mini-series, Rebellion, released on Netflix in 2016. Told from the perspective of three Dublin families, it highlights the impact of the revolution on three economic levels, from the affluent to the tenement. Brilliantly told, it details the six days of the 1916 Irish rising against the British government who had ruled Ireland, often tyrannically, for 800 years.

On Easter Monday, April 24, 1916, Irish rebels occupied the General Post Office in downtown Dublin, proclaiming Ireland’s independence from Great Britain and forcing Dubliners who generally were not in favor of independence—and certainly not open rebellion—to sit up and take notice. Heavily outmanned and outgunned, the rebels knew they could not win this battle and were booed by their countrymen as they were carted off to prison upon surrender. But public sentiment changed when seven of the rebel leaders were executed by the British in retaliation. James Connolly, dying of wounds received in the skirmish, couldn’t even sit up to face the firing squad. He was tied to a chair to be executed. They became martyrs in the six-year war that ensued.

The sequel mini-series, Resistance, was just released on Netflix this year, and is even better than the first one. It advances the story to 1920. We’re hoping they continue the saga. There’s a lot of fascinating history yet to tell. If you’ve got Netflix, it’s worth having a look to better understand the birth of this young republic, barely 100 years old.

We visited the General Post Office’s Witness History Museum. The exhibits, as well as the 15-minute film dramatizing the action all over the city as rebels squared off against the British Army on the day of the rising, were very well done. The Irish are extremely proud of their history, as well they should be. It takes a lot of courage to stand up to 800 years of suppression.

Cúchulainn

Displayed in the front window of the General Post Office is this sculpture created by Oliver Sheppard of the mythical Irish warrior Cúchulainn (as best as I can tell, pronounced Koo-HOO-lin). In one of the best loved Irish legends, Cúchulainn defended the Kingdom of Ulster (northern Ireland) against the armies of Queen Maeve of the Kingdom of Connacht (western Ireland) in the famous cattle raid of Cooley. (Keep in mind, in those days cattle were money and entire kingdoms went to war over a single bull.) Cúchulainn died in battle, but he stood up against the enemy to the very end by tying himself to a pillar as he died to intimidate the enemy. It wasn’t until they saw a raven land on his shoulder that they realized he was dead. This is the sort of valor the Irish cherish. It’s what defines them as a people, and how they came to see the rebels who sacrificed their lives to end the oppression the Irish had endured for centuries.

Anna’s voyage

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the Jeanie Johnston

The barque, Jeanie Johnston, sitting at dock on Dublin’s River Liffey, is a replica of a ship built in Canada in 1847 and later sold to Irish merchant John Donovan of County Kerry. Donovan’s original intent was not to haul human cargo, but rather than sail empty on its voyages to North America to purchase timber, he chose to assist the hundreds of thousands of starving Irish waiting to flee their homeland during the worst potato famine Ireland has ever known.

Unlike many who transported victims of the famine to North and South America and Australia, Captain James Attridge did not operate a “coffin ship.” He never carried more than 254 passengers—the maximum number steerage could comfortably handle with five people sharing a six-foot by six-foot bunk—and had a qualified doctor on board who knew how to prevent typhoid and cholera and insisted on regular hygiene. While Donovan owned the Jeanie Johnston, between 1848 and 1855, the ship did not lose a single passenger on its sixteen voyages to Quebec, New York, and Baltimore.

My great-grandmother, Anna Fife (likely age ten at the time), her sister Isabelle (age 20?) and brother Edward (age 7?) were fortunate to be aboard a ship, the Lady Franklin, with such a captain who insisted on the well being of his passengers. The Lady Franklin was a larger ship than the Jeanie Johnston. Launched in 1851, the same year Anna and her siblings sailed, it could comfortably carry 400 to 500 passengers. And it was a steamer, which gave it the advantage of speed. The shorter the voyage, the less time exposed to disease. Regardless, thirteen people died on Anna’s voyage.

Sometimes I take for granted that I am on this planet, especially when I consider how healthy my parents were and the overall quality of healthcare in the 20th century. But when I think back three generations—to a woman who was just a name I found inscribed inside the front cover of the family Bible twenty years ago, but who is also the mother of my more tangible grandmother and the grandmother of my very tangible father—I have to marvel at the tenuousness of life and consider how fortunate I am to be here at all. I think about how brave our Anna was to step foot on a ship that was to take her away from all she knew, in a day when people did not leave home. She had no way of knowing that fifteen years later in New York, she would meet and marry an Irishman from her home county of Londonderry and they would have ten children together. She risked so much in search of a better life, and, as a result, laid the path for mine. For that, I am grateful.