Imagining Ireland

Enniscorthy is the Ireland of my imagination. We retraced our route slightly on Tuesday morning when we left Duncannon, back through County Wexford to the wide cobblestone alleyway of the River Slaney. Back in 1798, one of Ireland's bloodies battles happened on Vinegar Hill overlooking the valley, when Irish rebels determined to sever ties with England clashed head on with British forces—today, other than an interpretation centre, the pleasant valley has superficially appeared to have moved on from that skirmish.

The Ireland of imagination. I took a stroll along by the river, passing wide arches of the stone bridges, a castle, and no less than two cathedrals, all with the pulse of ancient Europe. After a sandwich and tea, it was back into the car, and back on to the path we were tracing westward.

Waterford is Ireland's oldest settlement, stretching right back to the Vikings in 914. Our route took us close to the ancient seaport, driving over a dizzying bridge across the River Suir which washes the lower banks of the city.

The day ahead of us was sunny and clear, and the N25 motorway which links Waterford and Cork is considerably wider than the narrow routes we'd traversed getting down through the Wicklow Mountains. We decided to branch off the highway when we could start to smell the sea breeze off Cork Harbour, one of the world's largest natural harbours, and take a wooded road that ran across a causeway to Great Island, sitting firmly in the harbour.

It's here that the community of Cobh (pronounced “Cove”) is built into the hillside. Cobh gets less mention in tourist brochures than it deserves, especially considering that some big things happened here. Queen Victoria visited in 1849, and in respect of that the town went and changed its name to Queenstown for close to one hundred years. It was Queenstown, therefore, that the Titanic paid a visit on its way to New York—in fact, this harbour was the last stop of the doomed ocean liner, picking up 123 passengers of whom only 44 survived. Then, three years later, in 1915, the Lusitania was torpedoed in nearby waters, and it was in Cobh that the recovery operation was centred.

If all that isn't impressive enough, check out St. Colman's Cathedral, keeping a watchful eye on the bustling harbourfront (and it was bustling, even this late in the day this late in the summer—people in Ireland seem to like doing stuff, and it doesn't matter what that stuff is. We haven't been anywhere yet that hasn't been packed, and that's the truth) 

For a small town, Cobh has one exquisite piece of architecture, the Gothic grandeur evident from the pillared facade right to the carved Stations of the Cross in the nave and the checkered marble flooring leading the path to the altar and shaped into Celtic imagery.

Say what you will about religion and the Christian church, and feel free to be as cynical as you want, but even in the most bitterest of tirades it's impossible to look at something this enormous and deny that reverence in something spiritual and grander than ourselves has been responsible for untapping some serious creative and mathematical potential in humans. St. Colman's took some 50 years to complete, and the sheer weight of the effort is staggering.

It was getting on evening by the time we left what ended up being a lucky diversion and returned to the Irish mainland, accidentally taking the wrong turn through an underwater tunnel into Cork. Knockawn Wood B&B is across the River Lee, in what can safely be called the literal middle of nowhere, up a steep driveway off a sideroad in Inniscarra. The secluded guesthouse commands a view of the forested glen covering the countryside, and tea and scones shortly followed our arrival.

I don't know if we needed the greasy chicken and chips takeaway from down the street, wrapped up in white paper with stains along the edges, but it tasted pretty good at the time with a glass of lukewarm cider.

Alright, take out a blank piece of paper and write five things that symbolize Ireland.

Done?

Your list is probably: Guinness, Leprechauns, Irish traditional music, shamrocks, and the Blarney Stone. If that isn't your list, you obviously did it wrong. Anyway, you don't get this close to Blarney on a circuit tour of Ireland without going to the remains of the castle, right in the middle of the quaint riverside village, and ascending the narrow spiral staircase to kiss that friggin' rock.

The origins of the Blarney Stone vary, depending on whose account you believe. Suffice it to say that the rock, placed into the battlements of the top of the tower at Blarney Castle has earned a solid reputation in Irish folklore. The ritual goes that if you kiss the Blarney Stone, you are imbued with a newfound sense of eloquence, or blarney.

How is blarney different from baloney or bullshit? Think of it like this: if you ask a 50 year old woman if she's 18, that my friend is some baloney, piled on so thick it's a bit offputting. But if you ask her what age she is because you're curious at what age women get so beautiful, then my friend, you are one smooth-talking rock-kissing fellow, the way I see it.

Along the way up the castle, the openness of the main hall significantly narrows in the staircase, curved around a central column so tightly that a single misstep could throw you right back down the way you came in one terrible, claustrophobic game of dominoes. 

The dude behind us had a Molson Canadian t-shirt on, and since we were in the lineup in this tight space for the better part of an hour, Dad figured it was best to make small talk.

“Wish we could slip out of here for a cold Canadian,” he said at one landing that opened up to a spacious bedroom.

“I'd rather a cold India,” our friend puffed. Seriously, did all of Newfoundland come to Ireland this summer?

Up more than 100 steps, to the top of the castle and into a gale of wind, looking out over the manicured grounds and wrapping around the parapet, to where iron bars prevent you from falling through a narrow gap at the edge housing the stone that captivated a nation. You lie on your back, grab hold of a railing behind your head, and are guided down to where the stone is, which I'll admit wasn't super obvious until you were upside down and facing it, since it's literally there in the rock wall. And just like that, you're done.

“So you're telling me we just spent an hour of our lives . . .”

Maybe the gift of eloquence takes a while to set in. But at least we did it—and to be fair, hundreds of thousands of people have been doing this for over 200 years (they clean the stone each day, don't be too grossed out), so it's hard to say when something stops being a tourist trap and becomes genuinely traditional.

Making our way back to the manicured lawns of the grounds, we went through caves scraped into the impenetrable rock wall at the foundations of the castle, and along the Poisonous Garden, a collection of poisonous plants that includes the super fatal wolfsbane, poison ivy, and the world's most historical grow-op at the very foot of Blarney Castle.

On the other edge of the grounds is the Rock Close, a landscaped conglomerate of rocks with descriptions like the Wishing Steps (walk down them with your eyes shut, thinking only of your wish, and it will come true within a year), Witch's Kitchen, Druid's Circle, and Fairy Glen, meant to elicit a connection with the ancient past and the folklore associated with pre-Christian legends. There might not actually be a witch trapped in the rock (she escapes at midnight, but fortunately the grounds close at dusk), but it doesn't cost anything to suspend your disbelief and let yourself have a bit of fun, to enjoy what is a pretty relaxing stroll through the woods path.

Kiss the rock and get a picture doing it, but make sure your day at Blarney Castle is sunny, because there are plenty of things to do to spend a really great morning on the grounds.

We picked up the bags we left at Knockawn Wood and drove alongside the River Lee as far as Killarne, where we picked up some bread, cheese, and a rotisserie chicken, and brought it for a makeshift picnic along the edge of Lough Leane, one of several lakes at the start of the wild countryside that is the Ring of Kerry, a scenic peninsula drive on the western edge of the country.

Our drive to Cahersiveen was via the clockwise route, steadily climbing along winding roads with expansive views of green countryside until we turned at Moll's Gap and had the Atlantic Ocean along our side.

This is Ireland, untamed. The Ireland of imagination, something of a reality. You wouldn't want to pass a tour bus on these roads (signs clearly warn you “Oncoming traffic may be in middle of road,” so that's comforting), but when the way is clear and the sky overhead bigger than you thought possible, then the whole place looks just the way you imagined it.

There might be some blarney in there somewhere, but it sounds half decent, doesn't it?

Cheers,

rb