I assembled Mr. Raleigh in the parking lot at The Celtic Ross Hotel, adjusting the saddle, double checking her quick release hubs and brakes. We were itchy to roll. The Ross in Rosscarbery is a cyclist’s friend. They offer food, shelter, and free public Internet access. The staff is welcoming, even to old bicycle hobos like me. There is a pub and restaurant with table service on the patio in fine weather. The Ross is a venue for big weddings. If you enjoy seeing people puttin’ on the style, their veranda is an excellent perch; young men looking like James Bond, the young women like garden flowers in a summer breeze. You can hear me humming Chuck Berry’s tune, “C’est la vie say the old folks, it goes to show you never can tell.” The kids are grand!
Our test ride produced a flat tire and walk back from Rosscarbery Quay, but read on. Serendipity - this turned into good fortune. While in Bantry the following day I found Nigel’s Bike Shop. Nigel stocks wider tires for my good old bike’s 27” rims. With these 1.25” tires I do not need an all terrain bike, what the French call a VTT for “velo tout terrain”. Irish roads are mostly paved, not cobbled, and more bike friendly than the cobblestones of Paris. With wider tires inflated to 80 psi Ms. Raleigh takes the Irish roads very well indeed. So we rambled out for our first spin, a round trip from Rosscarbery to Galley Head Lighthouse along the coast.
Bees buzzed in the planta genesta, blackberries, and roadside wildflowers. Cows mooed sweet greetings and horses paused their meditations to look up and nicker hello. From a stone bridge I watched a Gray Heron foraging in the rushes just a couple of meters away. I stopped to pass the time of day with two or three dogs out socializing un-chaperoned. One, a portly gentleman poodle, came up while I was reading on a rock at Long Strand Beach. He leaned into me, accepting a scratch, and then walked off to elevate his leg against a pile of seaweed which was only slightly taller than long. Hey, where trees are rare and fire hydrants unknown, a fellow has to make do.
Just before Galley Head lighthouse the road winds through a farm built into the ruin of Dundready Castle, an ancient site, 10th Century I think. Dundready guards a narrow spot on the peninsula overlooking a cove. If stones could talk, this old warrior would tell bloody sagas of Viking raiders ransacking for food, women, and plunder, the “good things” in Viking life.
I headed home. The road was nearly empty, the beaches held only occasional family clutches with their heads bowed, looking for sea shells. I imagined them as 10th Century monks at prayer walking along the strand incanting “Protect us, oh Lord, from the wrath of the Northman.” No dragon ship bobbed off shore. On this bank holiday afternoon the beach is tranquil.
As I arrived at The Celtic Ross a wedding party spilled out onto the patio. I ordered fresh mussels from their starters menu which, washed down with chilled house white, was a nice light evening meal. As the sun was declining I sat on their veranda, smug in the knowledge that Rosscarbery is the next parish to paradise.
Rosscarbery of the Swans
Whiskey on the veranda and
Sun warmed swans laze on the lagoon.
Lonesome skyway calls as castellated ramparts
Gauge goose flights heading home.
If by some divine indulgence
I kenned my days and
They were few, I’d spend two
Sipping whiskey on the veranda
In Rosscarbery,
Rosscarbery of the Swans.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
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.
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.
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