I first noticed Castle Freke from Galley Head; a crenellated ruin in the mist. The castle stands on the shoulder of a hill shielded by wetlands and a pond, overlooking the sea. Large windows tell that Castle Freke is a folly and not truly martial. It is ornamental, like modern knighthood. Can you imagine Sir Paul McCartney in armed combat with Sir Elton John?
Curiosity got to me and I cycled over to investigate. “Freke” was the surname of the Earls of Carbery, the 10th and last of whom renounced the name and title, styling himself “Mr. Carbery.” He abandoned the castle, immigrating to South Africa to fly his airplane in the Indian Summer of colonialism’s good old days. When I learned this I thought of Robert Redford’s role as Dennis Finch-Hatton in Out of Africa. Mr. Carbery was cut from the same cloth, I suspect.
The castle itself is off limits, posted because of timber harvesting in the nearby forest. The Castle Freke Forest Recreation Area is the true gem in any case. I rode along the paved byway bisecting the grounds, taking note of walking trails and spots for further exploration.
At Castle Freke Nature Area there are four forest walking paths featuring seeping wells, a high cross view to Galley Head and The Long Strand, and wonderful solitude. I listened to the stream, cows lowing, and distant dogs calling encouragement to their people. I thought I might catch glimpses of unicorns, fairies, and forest spirits. In this I wasn’t entirely disappointed.
A breeze stirred ancient oaks and
Voices murmured in the air.
In forest keep a naiad smiled as
I paused beside Her holy well.
The heart knows its home.
When you visit Castle Freke, take the High Cross trail and admire the flora. You hike through unspoiled forest of oak, ash, sycamore, and two varieties of pine. Wild flowers are joined by more exotic cousins whose ancestors were imported to amuse the Lords Carbery and their ladies. Now they all spill on the forest floor, blooming in shade and sun. The High Cross itself is a memorial left by the 9th Lady Carbery to her husband in the early 20th Century. It is said to be the highest cross in Ireland. Standing on its plinth you can see a beach panorama with Galley Head in the far distance. Pause as you walk down; listen to the breakers and dogs calling on the beach below. Children’s laughter carries up on the wind.
The Recreation Area also includes the cross-roads hamlet of Rathberry, a picture postcard community with a laughing brook running through it. You can cross the brook by a footbridge to visit The Sprigging School, built by a Lady Carbery to teach the local girls the then employable crafts of needlework. Also nearby is Lady Carbery’s Well, her gift to the community. It is still maintained and I refilled my water bottle in its spring, offering a prayer for her generous soul.
The post office and general store includes a little a little museum and, if wanted, a toilet. I stopped for lunch at the Sprigging School where I shared a sandwich with a nice Shepherd doggie. I was sitting on the ground with my back against a gate when I felt a friendly nose touch my right hand. She was black and white with a nice booty on her right hind foot. Since I had a sliced children sandwich, she happily joined me. I wish I knew her name. She was a very sweet doggie.
There’s a grassy cliff between The Long Strand and Little Island Strand where I can recline to read while listening to the surf below. It’s a wonderful spot to can catch the late afternoon sun. I thought I was alone, but after I remounted Ms. Raleigh I saw a courting couple, also on bikes, at the other end of the overlook. They greeted me warmly as the Irish do, commenting on the fine weather.
Behind the sand dune at Little Island Strand there’s a roadside acre of land for sale, presently occupied by a pair of friendly horses. A “For Sale” sign on the gate gave me a flutter. I daydreamed of having an apiary and farm stand selling honey and wildflower seeds. I’d plant some tomatoes and wildflowers. The horses have a fine view of a distant farmhouse standing in the ruins of a Norman Castle and, overlaid beyond, Castle Freke. It is too lovely a spot to clog up with human habitation. In my dream, bees and wildflowers share with the horses.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Rosscarbery of the Swans
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.
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.
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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