Rock of Cashel

We shared the Rock of Cashel with five other tourists and hundreds of rooks. 

The Rock is an outcrop rising sharply from rolling green fields, the township of Cashel nestled at its base. It is in County Tipperary, conveniently located just off the motorway, not a long way at all.

Home to the Munster kings for 800 years, it has been castle stronghold and cathedral. The round tower goes back a thousand years or so and most of the structures date from the 12th and 13th centuries. Many battles and sackings here over the ensuing centuries, many hundreds killed. Ireland's 'most visited heritage site', the guidebook tells us. Stark, impressive, slightly spooky. 

Ennistimon

On our last afternoon in Ennistimon, Syl took the kids and a book to the indoor heated pool. I took off on a walk to the ruin of a church at the top of a hill overlooking the town. 

It was grey, cold and damp, the smell of coal burning on the air. Huge flocks of rooks were wheeling and turning in the heavy sky over the town. I walked along the river, past peat-stained falls, up through the town and into the church grounds. 

I was surprised to see that while the church was an ivy-covered ruin, the cemetery was very much in use - alive and well, even. Generations of ennistimonians were resting in peace, with graves from the 1700s intermingled with those from the 1940s and later. Many were overgrown and headstones were cracked, others recently tended, with flowers, mementos, supplementary plaques with touching, corny verse. O'Briens were there with Egans, Madigans, Murphys, Donellys, Ryans. Rest in Jesus, said many of the plaques. 

In the ruined church itself, graves were everywhere. And coming around the corner of the church, I blundered into a burial. In the green and grey stood a priest, with two women in black, watching as grave diggers worked with fresh turned soil. A large wreath lay to the side. Just out of ear-shot, I exchanged an awkward nod with the priest and turned away, fumbling with my camera.      

The Cliffs of Moher or less

The Cliffs of Moher are on Ireland’s west coast, where greener-than-green fields meet the fierce north Atlantic ocean.

Depending on whether you are consulting the local tour brochure, Lonely Planet or the helpful girl at the hotel’s heated pool, they are either  220 metres, 203 metres, or ‘feckin huge’. In close encounter, pool girl nails it.

I hate heights. Since I have had children, they panick me. My mother used to tell a story about my brother and me on a visit to the Blue Mountains as children. Emerging from the car, probably the back of Uncle Al’s volkswagen, Richard and I had cleared a low retaining wall and were inches away from the edge. Mum says she ‘nearly had kittens’. Well, I nearly have kittens around heights now too.

For that reason, pool girl’s suggestion that we view the cliffs by boat appeals greatly. About a million people visit the cliffs each year and on this improbably warm, sunny and still day, we will join them afloat.

 We are staying in Ennistimon, a picturesque town of a thousand (therefore twelve pubs), safely back from the cliffs. A wide waterfall runs through its middle. We are staying at the aptly named Falls Hotel, a large,  friendly old place, full of people on this bank holiday long weekend. It has rambling grounds and tame donkeys. It is uncomfortably reminiscent of the Blue Mountains and the Hydro Majestic.

The Falls used to be a manor house and Caitlin MacNamara, wife of Welsh poet Dylan Thomas lived there. It has a Dylan Thomas bar and photos of Dylan, pudgy, insolent, drinking, adorn the walls. I love this bar and resolve to drink Guinness there tonight. It’s closer than Laugharne.

In  Australia, towns are a day’s horse ride apart, more or less – the transport unit of the day. Dubbo, Narromine, Trangie, Nevertire, Nyngan, a gallop a gallop. Here the medieval layout is a day’s walk, or perhaps a very slow donkey cart. So the short drive to the coast takes us through  Killenora and Elsdoonvatna and on to Doolin and its tiny harbour. The roads are very narrow. We have a largish car and we and the wide-eyed oncoming tourists inhale involuntarily as we pass, millimeters to spare.

The boat is large, white and late. It is called ‘Tranquility’, an Irish joke in these wild  waters. Fortunately, it is also a forecast today. The Irish are good queuers and there is a queue on the dock, although the boat is not in sight. We join the line. Eventually the boat arrives, disgorges 124 passengers (Caity counts them) and we board.  It is a cheery crowd, apart from one woman who I suspect hates the sea and is going out to scatter her husband’s ashes. The lilt of Gaelic catches my ear after the friendly throat-clearing of Holland.

The skipper is a bored looking young man who casts off, then sits in his cabin reading the sports pages of a tabloid as the boat steams towards the cliffs.

The cliffs are grand, high beyond all but Hughie’s  'they’re not that big' expectation. We get scale only from the tinyness of the boat against them and by spotting itty-bitty people peering over the top. The fools! I fear for them, fully expect one to fall screaming into the water beside us.

The boat does gentle pirouettes, momentarily distracting the skipper from the hurling report, so all can see and photograph the cliffs. Then we steam for Doolin. All bar Hughie and the woman with the ashes seem happy with the experience.  It was feckin good, I reflected later, over a Guinness. 

At the top, O'Briens Tower. Along the edge, people

     

Not far from Limerick.............................

We were driving close to Limerick and it seemed a good idea to attempt some verse. 

I even bought a book of limericks in Killarney - the girl said they 'might be a bit rude' . When we got into the car and Syl started reading them, we found that they mostly rhymed with Jock, hunt, falls, luck and nick. So we had our own competition. Who wins?  

Dad

The O’Brien children, dining at Spillane’s,

Were driving their parents insane,

Their quest to be best,

In the family limerick test,

Was banal, or worse, inane.

Caity

There once was a girl named Cait,

Who one day met her soul-mate,

His name was Sven,

And he was tall as Big Ben,

So she asked him out for a date.

Mum

There was a cold man called Peter,

Who sat too close to a heater,

When he burnt his poor bum,

His children made fun,

Though his Syl was much sweeter.

Hugh

There was a young fellow named Hughie,

Who was known to be quite spewie,

On roads that were windy,

He would say please don’t mind me,

As he sealed his sick bag with a chewie.

Anon

A man from the wild Blasket Isles

Who suffered severely from piles

Couldn't sit down

For fear he would drown

So he had to row standing for miles.

A superb day on the Dingle peninsula

OK it rained a little. Well a lot. But in between and during we saw the most beautiful landscapes, most charming cottages and villages, harbours and boats. We learnt about the famine, about the Blasket Islanders, about the beehive stone huts, about how many pubs can fit on one street. And the kids had the world's best icecream - so they and the lovely lass at Murphy's (Murphy is big here) told us. But in the end it was about the landscape and the views - over Connor's Pass, around Sleagh Circuit, in Dingle - as the sun came and went, the rain, the hail (yes!) and the wind. Some pictures, because this was a day about looking................

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