Cork City, like Amsterdam, was built up from marshy coastal lowland. The modern city retains that history in its many bridges and streets which wander, still following their ancient water channels. Notably, St. Patrick’s Street, a major shopping artery, is a former canal which winds its way across the old city. Unlike Amsterdam, Cork has not yet adopted the bicycle as its primary means of transportation. There is a network of city busses and, of course, taxis and other automobile traffic. The Irish government encourages cycling by offering tax free purchase of bicycles coupled with interest free loans. If they built a network of bike paths in Cork, I think the initiative would take wing. Cork is a compact city and flat in and around the civic center. Right now, touring the city by kick scooter would be very viable. I wished I’d brought my trusty Xootr, King of the Sidewalk.
Cork is also a beautiful city with an attractive mix of colorful traditional store fronts and modern shopping malls. The public buildings are well maintained and inviting. You feel a sense of civic pride in Cork. It is a shoppers’ city with upmarket department stores and specialty shops. Cork has a French Quarter featuring restaurants and shops which reflect Ireland’s traditional links with Catholic France. Cork is blessed with sunshine much of the year and this makes outdoor dining and socializing inviting, as in Paris.
There is, of course, a tourist trail including St. Finbarr’s Cathedral, Shandon Tower, The Butter Exchange, University College, and Cork City Gaol. The jail has in its day welcomed some famous patriots, among them my personal favorite Countess Constance Markiewicz, the fire-eating freedom fighter who led the brigade at Steven’s Green in the Easter Monday Rising. Sentenced to death, she was reprieved because of her gender and social class. The English lived to regret this decision. There is a wonderful studio portrait of this great lady dressed in the full length skirts and hat of the early 20th Century, but accessorized by a Broom Handle “Bolo” Mauser in her lap. I wish I’d purchased that photo when I first saw it. Like the photo of Michael Collins with his bicycle, this of Countess Markiewicz is iconic.
I went to Cork with a mission. Although I’d visited previously, I had never before gone on campus at University College Cork. Like most city universities, UCC has leached into its surrounding neighborhoods with offices and some classrooms in its periphery. The central campus, however, is surrounded by the River Lee and is a quiet island of learning and beauty. It is lovely and the kind of place in which everyone should find intellectual refuge at some point in their lifetime. They have a vigorous adult education program and I registered for an evening course in Humanitarian Studies.
There was an adult learning fair in progress at Cork City Hall and there I learned of the variety and depth of intellectual activity year-round in Cork. I also took a brochure for Cork’s Culture Night in which 62 different cultural venues open their doors without charge to the public. This is Cork’s equivalent of Paris’ Nuit Blanche. I plan to take in some rare screenings of Irish Language Film with English sub-titles, visit the Synagogue, and The English Market, maybe more!
When I finished my Cork City walk, I tumbled back on the bus for Rosscarbery, Rosscarbery of the Swans. It felt good to be heading home.
I divorced California in 2003:
Bros Befo’ Hos
Disneypark and surly crowd
Surly-er choo-choo crowd herders
Gentelleros hoscos
Backfarting Lexus jalopy
Old Vera Street
Are you still Mexicano? No?
Latino? No! Hispanic! No!
Hey, ol’ vato! Viva Atzlan?
No se.
Californicated.
Again
No space birthplace
Bros befo’ hos
Adios Lost Angels
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Monday, September 6, 2010
Street Begging for Amnesty International
The other day I spent the morning in front of O’Donovan’s Hotel in Clonakilty begging change to support Amnesty International. I was surprised by the randomness of generosity. A young woman who looked in need herself gave 5 Euros, a seedy looking old man stopped and rummaged in his wallet to make a contribution. Smiling, he shuffled off into the Pearce Street crowd. People were sweet, stopping and talking about human rights, world hunger, and prisoners of conscience. They were more sad than indignant or judgmental. I felt spiritually nourished; some of their goodness infused me.
One of the volunteers, Beth, is an American teaching in Prague, Czechoslovakia. She was on vacation with two friends. That night I met the same three friends on the village square where I was listening to an Irish band perform Irish and American folk music; Janis Joplin finding her way into the Traditional Irish lexicon. They invited me to join them in O’Brien’s for a jar. Rather than decline with a speech about Buddhist abstinence, I went along. The pub scene was humorous because there was a crowd and live band in there too. At least three of us have hearing problems, so we shouted and laughed about the perils of what is euphemistically called “maturity.” I had a very good time, enjoyed my pint, but woke the next day feeling vaguely diminished. Even in good company intoxicants aren’t worth the bother.
Beth’s professional website, www.beth-lazroe, hits a harmonic chord with me. She presents a photo study and accompanying essay about hyper-sexualized street advertizing in Prague. Her complaint was mine in Paris. Innocent pedestrians are indiscriminately assaulted daily; constantly presented with glossy, overblown imagery of essentially nude models accessorized to suggest bondage or other degradation. We’re sleaze attacked whenever we venture outside our doors. Commercial “speech” is a race into the abyss and Beth’s website takes serious issue with this. So do I. The Irish don’t take free speech that far and I’m glad.
In Clonakilty I stopped at The Children’s Project, a thrift store, to shop for a book. When I came out, two men were admiring Ms. Raleigh. They asked knowledgeable questions and complimented her beauty and spare functionality. That made Ms. Raleigh’s day. She rolled home very full or herself and frisky. Sometimes I think Shinto has a point; there is sprit within all things.
On the way home I noticed an alcoholic sitting on a forlorn bench at a viewpoint on Clonakilty Bay. He drinks in solitude, a lonely drunk surrounded by every earthly beauty. I wondered if there is a way to reach out to him. I thought of two old friends’ drunken deaths. West Cork feels like paradise to me, yet for him it’s hell.
If tears could build a stairway
And memories make a lane,
I’d walk right down to Hades
And bring you back again.
It’s doggerel, I know, but the verse comes to me when I think of friends' lives lost to substance abuse.
The Rosscarbery Festival’s adult feature that night was a walking tour of the village. We visited the Anglican Cathedral, the Catholic Church, both “Saint Fachtna’s”, the ruin of the ancient abbey, and the tombs of Irish patriots O’Donovan Rossa and Michael Collins. Rossa’s is overgrown and hidden beneath ivy and bracken. Also on the tour were Rossa’s birthplace, a house where Tom Barry once lived, and the R.I.C. Barracks, site of a famous IRA assault in the War of Independence. Rosscarbery is rich in revolutionary history; the stories still fresh enough that our guide, an older man, embellished them with local recollections and genealogy. His references to the R.I.C. were without rancor, but the atrocities of the Black & Tans still roused anger. He knew the names and families of the victims of the Black & Tan reprisal for the barracks attack - a Black & Tan tossed a bomb into the Festival Day crowd, indiscriminately killing and maiming civilian non-combatants. Our tour ended with an IRA daring escape story which had taken place in the alley just behind the village square.
On the square a live band was playing kids’ music to an enthusiastic crowd of dancers and wannadancers. The young people looked fresh and more wholesome than they’d probably like to know. I watched for awhile, and then went home to sleep. Obla di, obla dah.
One of the volunteers, Beth, is an American teaching in Prague, Czechoslovakia. She was on vacation with two friends. That night I met the same three friends on the village square where I was listening to an Irish band perform Irish and American folk music; Janis Joplin finding her way into the Traditional Irish lexicon. They invited me to join them in O’Brien’s for a jar. Rather than decline with a speech about Buddhist abstinence, I went along. The pub scene was humorous because there was a crowd and live band in there too. At least three of us have hearing problems, so we shouted and laughed about the perils of what is euphemistically called “maturity.” I had a very good time, enjoyed my pint, but woke the next day feeling vaguely diminished. Even in good company intoxicants aren’t worth the bother.
Beth’s professional website, www.beth-lazroe, hits a harmonic chord with me. She presents a photo study and accompanying essay about hyper-sexualized street advertizing in Prague. Her complaint was mine in Paris. Innocent pedestrians are indiscriminately assaulted daily; constantly presented with glossy, overblown imagery of essentially nude models accessorized to suggest bondage or other degradation. We’re sleaze attacked whenever we venture outside our doors. Commercial “speech” is a race into the abyss and Beth’s website takes serious issue with this. So do I. The Irish don’t take free speech that far and I’m glad.
In Clonakilty I stopped at The Children’s Project, a thrift store, to shop for a book. When I came out, two men were admiring Ms. Raleigh. They asked knowledgeable questions and complimented her beauty and spare functionality. That made Ms. Raleigh’s day. She rolled home very full or herself and frisky. Sometimes I think Shinto has a point; there is sprit within all things.
On the way home I noticed an alcoholic sitting on a forlorn bench at a viewpoint on Clonakilty Bay. He drinks in solitude, a lonely drunk surrounded by every earthly beauty. I wondered if there is a way to reach out to him. I thought of two old friends’ drunken deaths. West Cork feels like paradise to me, yet for him it’s hell.
If tears could build a stairway
And memories make a lane,
I’d walk right down to Hades
And bring you back again.
It’s doggerel, I know, but the verse comes to me when I think of friends' lives lost to substance abuse.
The Rosscarbery Festival’s adult feature that night was a walking tour of the village. We visited the Anglican Cathedral, the Catholic Church, both “Saint Fachtna’s”, the ruin of the ancient abbey, and the tombs of Irish patriots O’Donovan Rossa and Michael Collins. Rossa’s is overgrown and hidden beneath ivy and bracken. Also on the tour were Rossa’s birthplace, a house where Tom Barry once lived, and the R.I.C. Barracks, site of a famous IRA assault in the War of Independence. Rosscarbery is rich in revolutionary history; the stories still fresh enough that our guide, an older man, embellished them with local recollections and genealogy. His references to the R.I.C. were without rancor, but the atrocities of the Black & Tans still roused anger. He knew the names and families of the victims of the Black & Tan reprisal for the barracks attack - a Black & Tan tossed a bomb into the Festival Day crowd, indiscriminately killing and maiming civilian non-combatants. Our tour ended with an IRA daring escape story which had taken place in the alley just behind the village square.
On the square a live band was playing kids’ music to an enthusiastic crowd of dancers and wannadancers. The young people looked fresh and more wholesome than they’d probably like to know. I watched for awhile, and then went home to sleep. Obla di, obla dah.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Glandore, Union Hall & Drombeg Ring
I asked a fella directions and he said, “Ah, Glandore!” with a soft smile. “Now, Glandore is special, like that place in the Gene Kelly movie, 'Brigadoon,' just a page or two behind today.” Busy care-filled today. And indeed, Glandore is lovely. Set on the side of a hill overlooking a small boat Harbor, you can hear young sailors calling and laughing on the water below. There are picnic tables in a grassy sloped park, clean restrooms, several tempting pubs, sailboat rental, and an up-market hotel. And, to pass the time when the rain slides through, I found art galleries and antiques stores, each selling Irish nautical collectables and little bits of old Erin. I love the sepia postcards and photos. Someone once called old photos “Instant Ancestors.” They well might be, you never know. One merchant had a street sale in front of his store. I paid a little too much for a copy of Tristan Jones’ Adrift to add to my growing stack of readings. Tris’ yarns a great yarn, not strictly true, mind you, but worth the candle. You feel like you’re swapping stories with an old friend over a jar.
Union Hall is a working fishing village across the bay from Glandore. To get there we cycled over two bridges, one of them a narrow span with a passing bulge in the middle, like gopher snake after a pleasant repast. A playful wind puffed to blow us into the harbor, but wasn’t serious about it, just funning. Ms. Raleigh and I rolled along to the quay at Union Hall. There I watched families launch kayaks and ate my bag lunch. The mid-day sun was warm and a nap would have done nicely, but Ms. Raleigh was tugging me to roll on.
Going home, it rained lightly when we paused at Drombeg Stone Circle, but visitors didn’t seem to notice. They walk reverently and take photos of each other standing outside, almost never inside, the ring. The site is an instinctive holy place. People leave wildflowers and coins on the low center stone. It’s a portal to the old wans. The only traffic we met was two girls on bikes who flew past us on the long downhill run into Roury. They called a greeting and I prayed that they didn’t hit pot holes or loose gravel. Ms. Raleigh and I worked our way down the hill, still listening as the brook sang us home. She never hurries downhill.
After supper there was a dog show at the Rosscarbery Festival. I saw my new friends Star, a Boxer, and Reese, a Standard Poodle. Children milled about with puppies and dogs. Reese is friendly, but not fawning. My Shepherd pal Toby wasn’t in attendance. I’ll speak with him about it the next time we see each other. I am acquainted with more dogs than humans.
A Meditation:
Mother May I
Greet all creation with loving-kindness,
Share their joy and sorrow,
Find serenity, and
Practice peace.
~ ~ ~
Love everything
Crave nothing
Find peace, and
Cease
Union Hall is a working fishing village across the bay from Glandore. To get there we cycled over two bridges, one of them a narrow span with a passing bulge in the middle, like gopher snake after a pleasant repast. A playful wind puffed to blow us into the harbor, but wasn’t serious about it, just funning. Ms. Raleigh and I rolled along to the quay at Union Hall. There I watched families launch kayaks and ate my bag lunch. The mid-day sun was warm and a nap would have done nicely, but Ms. Raleigh was tugging me to roll on.
Going home, it rained lightly when we paused at Drombeg Stone Circle, but visitors didn’t seem to notice. They walk reverently and take photos of each other standing outside, almost never inside, the ring. The site is an instinctive holy place. People leave wildflowers and coins on the low center stone. It’s a portal to the old wans. The only traffic we met was two girls on bikes who flew past us on the long downhill run into Roury. They called a greeting and I prayed that they didn’t hit pot holes or loose gravel. Ms. Raleigh and I worked our way down the hill, still listening as the brook sang us home. She never hurries downhill.
After supper there was a dog show at the Rosscarbery Festival. I saw my new friends Star, a Boxer, and Reese, a Standard Poodle. Children milled about with puppies and dogs. Reese is friendly, but not fawning. My Shepherd pal Toby wasn’t in attendance. I’ll speak with him about it the next time we see each other. I am acquainted with more dogs than humans.
A Meditation:
Mother May I
Greet all creation with loving-kindness,
Share their joy and sorrow,
Find serenity, and
Practice peace.
~ ~ ~
Love everything
Crave nothing
Find peace, and
Cease
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Coppinger’s Court, Drombeg Stone Circle
This ride became an intermittent walk with two or three sharp climbs for which I elected to stroll beside Ms. Raleigh. We two enjoy a walk in the country. Little streams accompanied us much of the trip and sang to us as we walked along. I ate blackberries from the roadside brambles. (A Blackberry Digression: Ripe blackberries almost drop into your hand. If you have to tug, the blackberry will be bitter and you may get stuck by a thorn. It seems to me there’s a greater life lesson in this observation.)
The lane is lightly traveled by automobiles, having its own serenity. At the top of the first hill there is a long view down the valley to Coppinger’s Court, a fortified great house, a kind of half-castle. It reminded me of the United States government buildings of the Viet Nam era, i.e., built to be impregnable in time of civil unrest; Nixon era paranoia in every stone. Trying two roads to get as close as possible to Coppinger’s Court, I discovered that the second, a turn just past the bridge at the hamlet of Roury, brought us to within a stone’s throw of the ruin. Crows scold from its ramparts.
Built by Sir Walter Coppinger, a Viking’s descendant, in the early 17th Century, the stronghold wasn’t long occupied. Coppinger meant to establish a market town and build a canal to the sea. To his grief, the Irish did not welcome his plan or his heavy-handed rule. Coppinger’s Court proved an insufficient fortress and was ransacked in the 1641 rising. All that remains of Coppinger’s ambitions is his ruined great house, accreting legend and accepting the judgment of gravity.
At Drombeg there is a Megalithic stone circle which marks the winter solstice by alignment with the setting sun. (It aligns southwest!) What makes Drombeg unique are the accompanying settlement foundations. These are remnants of two houses which between them contain an oven, well, fireplace, and cooking sink. Hot stones were immersed in the sink to boil water and cook food, perhaps the first Irish Stew.
Looking up from Drombeg I was struck the view to the Atlantic. The old ones had aesthetic appreciation too; they enjoyed a windswept hilltop overlooking the great green sea. Granted the sparsity of the prehistoric human population, it’s likely that the residents of Drombeg are the ancient ancestors of many modern Irish, particularly those from West Cork. This thought came as I wandered among the stones – my people once lived here. Were they calling across time, “Look up, Frankie dear, don’t we have a lovely ocean view?” It would be grand to camp out at Drombeg Ring on a starry night, listening to the old ones stories.
In my rambles today I met Brian, a self-furloughed steelworker from California. Brian is humping a backpack by bus and Shank’s Mare around Ireland. He told me of his joy in the singing pubs and the fine welcome he’s received from young and old alike. I don’t doubt it; this is Ireland of the mille failte and Brian is an open, smiling young man. Brian says he’ll come back to West Cork and, God willing, he will and be glad he did. I suggested that if he missed his connection to Killarney he should stay in Clonakilty for the night. He’ll find singing and good company there. Slán leat Brian!
The lane is lightly traveled by automobiles, having its own serenity. At the top of the first hill there is a long view down the valley to Coppinger’s Court, a fortified great house, a kind of half-castle. It reminded me of the United States government buildings of the Viet Nam era, i.e., built to be impregnable in time of civil unrest; Nixon era paranoia in every stone. Trying two roads to get as close as possible to Coppinger’s Court, I discovered that the second, a turn just past the bridge at the hamlet of Roury, brought us to within a stone’s throw of the ruin. Crows scold from its ramparts.
Built by Sir Walter Coppinger, a Viking’s descendant, in the early 17th Century, the stronghold wasn’t long occupied. Coppinger meant to establish a market town and build a canal to the sea. To his grief, the Irish did not welcome his plan or his heavy-handed rule. Coppinger’s Court proved an insufficient fortress and was ransacked in the 1641 rising. All that remains of Coppinger’s ambitions is his ruined great house, accreting legend and accepting the judgment of gravity.
At Drombeg there is a Megalithic stone circle which marks the winter solstice by alignment with the setting sun. (It aligns southwest!) What makes Drombeg unique are the accompanying settlement foundations. These are remnants of two houses which between them contain an oven, well, fireplace, and cooking sink. Hot stones were immersed in the sink to boil water and cook food, perhaps the first Irish Stew.
Looking up from Drombeg I was struck the view to the Atlantic. The old ones had aesthetic appreciation too; they enjoyed a windswept hilltop overlooking the great green sea. Granted the sparsity of the prehistoric human population, it’s likely that the residents of Drombeg are the ancient ancestors of many modern Irish, particularly those from West Cork. This thought came as I wandered among the stones – my people once lived here. Were they calling across time, “Look up, Frankie dear, don’t we have a lovely ocean view?” It would be grand to camp out at Drombeg Ring on a starry night, listening to the old ones stories.
In my rambles today I met Brian, a self-furloughed steelworker from California. Brian is humping a backpack by bus and Shank’s Mare around Ireland. He told me of his joy in the singing pubs and the fine welcome he’s received from young and old alike. I don’t doubt it; this is Ireland of the mille failte and Brian is an open, smiling young man. Brian says he’ll come back to West Cork and, God willing, he will and be glad he did. I suggested that if he missed his connection to Killarney he should stay in Clonakilty for the night. He’ll find singing and good company there. Slán leat Brian!
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Voices in the Air
Today I woke with a purpose – I wanted to cycle up to Clonakilty and find “Desert,” my grandfather’s birthplace; the home of his parents, Padraic and Julia. Although there are other routes from Rosscarbery to Clonakilty, I wanted to get the feel of the most direct one, the N-71, by bicycle. As it turns out, his ride is prosaic with automobile traffic and only a single longing view of the sea as you leave Rosscarbery. On the way up the hill I lost my topo road map, providing additional incentive to stay on the main road.
A Footnote: Jimmy Hoffa may still be cycling around West Cork, a labyrinth of country roads and cow paths, many without road sign or, too often, conflicting signs. Ireland treasures its chaotic signage; fingerposts disagreeing with one another about direction and distance. We Irish enjoy a difference of opinion. Another phenomenon, signposts without signs, suggests that road signs are harvested by tourists wishing to take a little bit of Erin back home to Ballydogshyte. May their lost souls wander the Inferno’s unmarked byways for eternity!
Rosscarbery to Clonakilty, a distance of about 20 kilometers, took me an hour to ride. Essentially one rides up one side of the peninsula and down the other, dodging cars and roadside flotsam. Cyclists know that man is the dirtiest animal. One pile I dodged contained soiled undergarments, his and hers, surrounded by empty beer containers. One does wish the inamorati would tidy up. Of course, I visualized a scene from the following gray dawn, “Oh Jesus Christ, where’d I leave me knickers!” But I digress, I’m in search of roots.
As I rode through sleepy Clonakilty, a crowd of smiling churchgoers milled outside their stone pile, spilling into the street. I thought about telling of the sinful behavior I’d detected just a couple of klicks down the N-71, but couldn’t think of an opener. Try, “Oh, hello, do you know what people were doing on the roadside last night not far from here? Drinking too!” So instead, I sang a cheery cyclists “good morning” as I dodged and weaved among the still god-struck. On I went to Desert, a place without church or pub, where people have the decency to close the door and sleep late on Sunday.
Desert is a left turn off the Ring Road which circles the north side of Clonakilty Bay. I walked up the steep narrow lane to a handful of homes, no more than a dozen, all of which were clearly of 20th Century construction. One, a bright blue stucco semi-detached bungalow of 1,000 square feet, was for sale for 295,000 Euros. ('ll put it on my Visa.) There is no village store, pub, church, or graveyard, just a sleepy hamlet overlooking Clonakilty Bay.
Rolling back down the hill, I turned in to the “Desert B&B and Campground”. The owner, a mature woman, was chatty, but said she didn’t know of any Morans in the neighborhood. “Moran is a County Galway name. I don’t think there are any Morans here.” (I’m here!) When I told her my great-grandmother’s surname was Buckley she softened,
While I was in the neighborhood I rode on out to Ring, a lovely village on the edge of Clonakilty Bay. Ring is near Virgin Mary’s Point. Donkey’s years ago some naughty sailors saw the Blessed Virgin praying on the strand and laughed at and made fun of her piety. She cursed them and, what luck, they all drowned in a storm! Like many European miracle stories, this one is pre-Christian, but Mary got stuck with it as Christian proselytizers poured old wine into their new bottle. I can’t feature gentle Mary cursing anyone, even godless sailors and old cyclists (motor- or bi-).
Ring has a lovely pub, Kitty Mack’s Beer Garden, just across the street from the ruins of an old police barracks, grassy lawn, and little estuary. In the estuary a pair of swans fed while gently brushing each other’s sides. I saw their old souls, reincarnated lovers, finally at peace; Tristan and Isolde.
As I watched Tristan nuzzle Isolde a group of touring cyclists spilled out of Kitty Mack’s startling me from my reverie. They looked like bizarre Amazonian insects in their brightly colored Spandex costumes, aerodynamic crash helmets, and impenetrable sunglasses. They greeted each other with buff bonhomie and began streaming toward Clonakilty, discreetly followed by a sag wagon hauling a big bike trailer. I heard my mother’s voice urging me to introduce myself, “Be social, Frankie, join in.” I ignored mom; ate a handful of raisins and nuts instead. Later they passed me in their sag wagon on the N-71, no doubt keeping their legs fresh for their tour around Rosscarbery and stops at Nolan’s and O’Brien’s on North Square. If I’d hitched a ride, I could have caught up on the trends in cycling fashion. Sorry mom, I’m a loner. I ride in tennis shoes and jeans cut off just below my knees. I sing old songs and talk to doggies and farm animals. I ask swans for their blessing and hear voices in the air.
It rained on the way home to Rosscarbery. It kept my motor cool. My newsboy’s cap is oiled canvas. Rain runs off.
A Footnote: Jimmy Hoffa may still be cycling around West Cork, a labyrinth of country roads and cow paths, many without road sign or, too often, conflicting signs. Ireland treasures its chaotic signage; fingerposts disagreeing with one another about direction and distance. We Irish enjoy a difference of opinion. Another phenomenon, signposts without signs, suggests that road signs are harvested by tourists wishing to take a little bit of Erin back home to Ballydogshyte. May their lost souls wander the Inferno’s unmarked byways for eternity!
Rosscarbery to Clonakilty, a distance of about 20 kilometers, took me an hour to ride. Essentially one rides up one side of the peninsula and down the other, dodging cars and roadside flotsam. Cyclists know that man is the dirtiest animal. One pile I dodged contained soiled undergarments, his and hers, surrounded by empty beer containers. One does wish the inamorati would tidy up. Of course, I visualized a scene from the following gray dawn, “Oh Jesus Christ, where’d I leave me knickers!” But I digress, I’m in search of roots.
As I rode through sleepy Clonakilty, a crowd of smiling churchgoers milled outside their stone pile, spilling into the street. I thought about telling of the sinful behavior I’d detected just a couple of klicks down the N-71, but couldn’t think of an opener. Try, “Oh, hello, do you know what people were doing on the roadside last night not far from here? Drinking too!” So instead, I sang a cheery cyclists “good morning” as I dodged and weaved among the still god-struck. On I went to Desert, a place without church or pub, where people have the decency to close the door and sleep late on Sunday.
Desert is a left turn off the Ring Road which circles the north side of Clonakilty Bay. I walked up the steep narrow lane to a handful of homes, no more than a dozen, all of which were clearly of 20th Century construction. One, a bright blue stucco semi-detached bungalow of 1,000 square feet, was for sale for 295,000 Euros. ('ll put it on my Visa.) There is no village store, pub, church, or graveyard, just a sleepy hamlet overlooking Clonakilty Bay.
Rolling back down the hill, I turned in to the “Desert B&B and Campground”. The owner, a mature woman, was chatty, but said she didn’t know of any Morans in the neighborhood. “Moran is a County Galway name. I don’t think there are any Morans here.” (I’m here!) When I told her my great-grandmother’s surname was Buckley she softened,
Well now, Buckley’s a good West Cork name. (Thank you, Grandma Julie, for redeeming me.) Maybe they were from Desert Serges, down by Ahiohill. If they were, there should be baptismal records down in Skibbereen. Protestants sent their records up to Dublin and those records were lost in the War of Independence. Catholic records stayed down here.I thought about the improvidence of the Protestants in trusting their records to the central government; trusting anything to any government. Get on your bicycles, kids, grab your birth records, and roll on out of Dub before the gunfight!
While I was in the neighborhood I rode on out to Ring, a lovely village on the edge of Clonakilty Bay. Ring is near Virgin Mary’s Point. Donkey’s years ago some naughty sailors saw the Blessed Virgin praying on the strand and laughed at and made fun of her piety. She cursed them and, what luck, they all drowned in a storm! Like many European miracle stories, this one is pre-Christian, but Mary got stuck with it as Christian proselytizers poured old wine into their new bottle. I can’t feature gentle Mary cursing anyone, even godless sailors and old cyclists (motor- or bi-).
Ring has a lovely pub, Kitty Mack’s Beer Garden, just across the street from the ruins of an old police barracks, grassy lawn, and little estuary. In the estuary a pair of swans fed while gently brushing each other’s sides. I saw their old souls, reincarnated lovers, finally at peace; Tristan and Isolde.
As I watched Tristan nuzzle Isolde a group of touring cyclists spilled out of Kitty Mack’s startling me from my reverie. They looked like bizarre Amazonian insects in their brightly colored Spandex costumes, aerodynamic crash helmets, and impenetrable sunglasses. They greeted each other with buff bonhomie and began streaming toward Clonakilty, discreetly followed by a sag wagon hauling a big bike trailer. I heard my mother’s voice urging me to introduce myself, “Be social, Frankie, join in.” I ignored mom; ate a handful of raisins and nuts instead. Later they passed me in their sag wagon on the N-71, no doubt keeping their legs fresh for their tour around Rosscarbery and stops at Nolan’s and O’Brien’s on North Square. If I’d hitched a ride, I could have caught up on the trends in cycling fashion. Sorry mom, I’m a loner. I ride in tennis shoes and jeans cut off just below my knees. I sing old songs and talk to doggies and farm animals. I ask swans for their blessing and hear voices in the air.
It rained on the way home to Rosscarbery. It kept my motor cool. My newsboy’s cap is oiled canvas. Rain runs off.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Castle Freke in the Mist
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.
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.
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.
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