On the Road in Ireland - Part 1

Let us go forth, the tellers of tales, and seize whatever prey the heart long for, and have no fear. Everything exists, everything is true, and the earth is only a little dust under our feet. 
― W.B. Yeats

For months we had mused on what to do for our summer road trip. We certainly weren’t short on ideas (never a problem), but Terry’s injury—a torn ACL from last year’s road trip—slimmed down the list considerably. There could be no climbing; no mountain-biking; nothing that could cause a re-injury, because she was scheduled for knee surgery directly after our vacation. But nevertheless, I was tasked to come up with something.

     

I don’t recollect how I landed on the idea of Ireland—I was Googling all sorts of places—but somehow, there it was, jumping out at me on the computer screen. I didn’t have much depth on the country. It was the land of leprechauns, Guinness, Yeats and U2, right? Maybe it piqued my interest because Terry is one-quarter Irish (Mulcahy is about as Gaelic as one can get), and even my Barry lineage was supposedly rooted in Éire long ago. Who knows? But the more I read about it—the people; the incredible history—the more fascinated I became. I pitched it to Ter. She was hooked instantly. And so began the planning for the Ultimate Irish Road Trip, just six weeks before launch.  

First thing, I booked the second week of our trip—a six-day Backroads cycling tour. Then we tackled the first week, renting a car and mapping out a 500-mile lap of the Emerald Isle, staying at B&B inns whenever possible. It was during all of this research and preparation that I stumbled upon a particular edifice worthy of note: I had a family castle in Ireland. That’s right, a frickin’ CASTLE! Yeah, that had to go on the “Must See” List.

We landed in Cork on a Monday night. After thirteen hours of flight and connections, we 
were ready to toast the journey with Irish whiskey at a restaurant overlooking the River Lee. 
Located on the southern coast, Cork is the second-largest city in Ireland (pop. 200,000). 
It started out fifteen centuries ago as a secluded monastic outpost, and then a thriving Viking 
settlement, and later, a fortified Anglo-Norman port city. This would be our hub base, where 
the two segments of our trip would start and finish.

The first two nights, we stayed at the Garnish House: a B&B at the west end of town, across from the University of Cork. Their Irish breakfasts were to die for, serving porridge with a dose of whiskey. Start your day with a fortified meal, I always say. 

Driving a car in Ireland was an experience: Everything you know is reversed (except the gas and brake pedals, thank God). We rented a small, BMW hatchback. For more $$, we could’ve added the Irish sat-nav accessory, updated with the immortal phrases "Yeah, straight on, you can't miss it," and "Jaysis, I told you that already," but instead rented a wifi plug-in at half the price and used our iPhones for navigation. Terry did most of the driving. I took on the role of navigator extraordinaire. In due course we got the hang of it all—though the first couple of days were a fear-and-loathing madcap adventure.

“Okay, merge into the roundabout, take the second left...Watch out for that car!”

“I see it.”

“You’re on the wrong side of the road!”

“Oh relax.”

“Take a right on that street up ahead.”

“Which way?”

“Jaysis, I told you that already.”

The Anglican Saint Fin Barre’s Cathedral dominates the skyline in an older section of town. Completed in 1870, it was named after St. Finbarr, the patron saint of Cork, who founded a monastery on this site in the year 606. 

The Resurrection Angel on St. Fin Barre’s Cathedral was a gift from the church’s British architect, William Burges. The statue is solid copper, plated in gold.

Barryscourt Castle is a 20-minute drive from Cork, situated on a rise of land bounded by
green pastures and tidal plains. Like many of the old castles here, it’s a national monument,
maintained by the Office of Public Works. Just before leaving home, I had discovered that
Barryscourt was closed this year for renovations. But no fret: I contacted the OPW monument
tour manager in County Cork, Karen Healy, and she granted us access for an impromptu
visit! The only person on the site when we arrived was the groundskeeper, Robert. He’s an
amiable chap of meticulous gardening skills (that's his handiwork in the photo) who, after
chatting for a spell, wound up giving us a private tour. Robert is a cool dude. 

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THE BARRYS OF IRELAND

Philip de Barry departed Wales for Ireland in 1183 to assist in securing territory in South Munster. He came from a lineage of Norman noble knights. His father, William FitzOdo de Barry, ruled over a lordship in Wales, and his grandfather, Odo de Barry, had fought under William the Conqueror in the invasion of England. After claiming land in South Munster, Phillip constructed a castle house named Barryscourt, which was completed around 1188. 

Phillip had two brothers: Robert and Gerald. Robert came to Ireland with the first Norman invasion force in 1169 and was wounded during the siege of Wexford. Gerald would remain in Britain and become the royal chaplain and historian to King Henry II.  

Phillip had four children: Robert, William, David and Margaret. Robert was killed at the Battle of Lismore in 1185. Margaret would marry a nobleman of the FitzGeralds, an Anglo-Norman dynasty with close relations to the Barrys. No records exist on David. William would inherit Barryscourt upon Phillip’s death in 1200.     

William had a grandson named David de Barry, known to the Irish as Barry Mór, which in Gaelic means “Barry the Great”. David inherited Barryscourt around 1255, but was slain at the Battle of Callan in 1261, and thus passed along all of his holdings to his eldest son, also named David. In time, the Barry Mór branch would be known as the Barrymores. 

Throughout the 13th and 14th centuries, the Barrys would build more castle houses on their holdings in South Munster. They would also inter-marry with Celtic clans and gradually become more Irish than English.

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This wall is one of the last remnants of the original compound of 800 years ago. The gate was added in the 15th century to gain access to a new orchard and garden. Originally, three sides of Barryscourt were protected by tidal marshes, right up to the outer walls. The Normans were masters at building a defensive stronghold.

Me and my castle. (Though I tried, I could not get Ter to call me “Your Lordship.”) The groundskeeper, Robert, told us that back in the time, the exterior walls of castles were whitewashed. What an impressive sight to view one of these alabaster strongholds gleaming from afar. For Barryscourt, however, its best years were behind it by the 16th century. During the Desmond Rebellion, the Barrys would side with the Irish-Norman clans and the castle was torched in 1581 to keep it from falling into English hands. It would be rebuilt—but then attacked once more during the Confederate Wars and subsequently fall into ruin.

Our next stop is Blarney Castle, and like Barryscourt, not far out of Cork. It’s larger than my
family fortress, and a vastly popular tourist attraction as well. Celtic overlord Cormac Laidir
MacCarthy (whose son would marry a Catherine de Barry) built Blarney around 1450. The
MacCarthy dynasty ruled over all or parts of Munster for five centuries.

These slotted windows, called loopholes, are strategically positioned around the castle’s battlement walls. Archers can stand here, well protected, and launch arrows onto attackers that have been drawn into a concentrated field of fire. Blarney Castle was the McCarthy family seat for nearly 200 years, its walls never breached—until 1646, when the English lay siege and captured it. Subsequent owners—loyal to the English Crown by design—lived in the castle until the early 18th century. It was then abandoned for the finer accommodations of a stately manor.

The biggest attraction at Blarney Castle, by far, is the Blarney Stone. People stood in line for twenty minutes just to get a chance to kiss it—upside down, lying on their backs, 100 feet off the deck. Legends abound as to the origins of this block of limestone set into the top battlement of the main tower wall. Supposedly it was a gift from Robert the Bruce, King of Scotland (the MacCarthys supported the Scotts at the decisive Battle of Bannockburn). Celtic mythology also comes into play, where Cleena, fairy queen of the Banshees, promised those who kissed the magical stone to be blessed with “the gift of gab and great eloquence at flattery.” In either case, Ter refused to hang upside down and kiss a rock that strangers had slobbered on, and she said I didn’t need to kiss it either, because I already had the gift of gab.

Much nicer than kissing the Blarney Stone...  

Nothing better ends a day of castle-touring than a pub crawl along Oliver Plunkett Street. This Cork district has a bustling vibe, day or night, with no shortage of bars and restaurants.  

Oliver Plunkett’s is a rockin’ pub, showcasing live, traditional Irish music most nights. The
walls are loaded with photographs of bands and artists who have played here, as well as 
old pics of Cork’s local boys: blues/rock guitarist Rory Gallagher; IRA leaders Michael 
Collins and Tom Barry. There were also photos of John F. Kennedy and Johnny Rotten. 
This be the place of revelers, where the stout flows and the music sings to the heart. 

“The Irish seem to have more fire about them than the Scots.”

— Sean Connery

After two nights in Cork, we traveled north into the pastoral countryside of County Tipperary,
driving through intermittent rain showers. First stop: Cahir Castle. This is one of the largest
castles in Ireland, still mostly intact. It was built in the early 1200s by the Butlers, an Anglo-
Norman family who wrested this land from the O’Brien clan during the Norman Invasion.
Originally it stood on an island in the River Suir, water lapping along the walls on all four
sides, making it one of the most impregnable fortresses in its day. The river was re-
channeled in the 19th century and now passes along only two sides. For movie buffs: 
Extensive footage for the 1981 film Excaliber was shot here.  

Send it, babe.

This gate and inner wall were added in the 14th century to enhance stronghold defenses. If the outer wall was breached, the attackers would swarm through this open gate into an atrium, only to be halted by another gate that was shut. The first gate would then be closed, trapping them in the atrium. A phalanx of crossbowmen, hidden along battlements just above, when then pick them off with armor-piercing bolts, or drop large stones, or pour hot oil on them. Aye, tiz gruesome work, laying siege to a castle.  

This is the view of the present-day village of Cahir from the Butlers’ private quarters high in the castle keep. For nearly four centuries, the fortress remained unconquered. But when the Butlers refused to submit to the Crown, and instead aligned themselves with Hugh O’Neill’s rebellion, it brought the wrath of England upon them. The Queen’s army arrived in 1599 and lay siege to the castle with artillery for three days before the defenders surrendered. And thus a new mode of warfare—black powder and cannonballs—soon rendered the mighty Norman castle obsolete.     

“I find that I sent wolves, not shepherds, to govern Ireland, for they have left me nothing but ashes and carcasses to reign over.”
— Queen Elizabeth I (1533-1603)

With storm clouds brewing, we leave Cahir and venture further north to the hallowed Rock of
Cashel. The name Cashel comes from the Gaelic word Caiseal, which means "stone fort,"
which is what was first erected on the summit of this rocky crag in the 4th century. From these
heights, ancient Celts ruled the kingdom of Munster. Saint Patrick converted the pagan King
Aengus to the Christian faith here in 450. Later, the legendary Brian Boru would reign as High
King, as well as the O’Brien dynasty that followed. 

From atop the Rock of Cashel, one has a commanding view of the countryside. Other than remnants of the outer wall, nothing remains of the old stone fort. In 1101, High King Muircheartach O’Brien (great-great grandson of Brian Boru) deeded Cashel to the Catholic Church to thwart his rival, Cormac MacCarthy (direct decedent of the king baptized by St. Patrick), from ever seizing the fort and claiming High King. The strategy worked. Cormac would seat the MacCarthy power base further south to Cork. And to show there were no hard feelings, he financed the construction of a small church at Cashel, which is now known as Cormac’s Chapel. 

We were gathered under the great dome of the cathedral, listening to our tour guide—whose name was Seamus Mulcahy!—expound on history and architecture, when the clouds parted and diffused sunshine flooded into the ancient nave. The warm light is a pleasant relief from the blustery wind beyond these muted walls. The cathedral was constructed in the mid-13th century, Seamus explains, with expansions being added to the church complex over the next 200 years. While he lectures on details of these structures, the sun yields to grayness again, rain looking imminent. Troubled times would befall the church. Oliver Cromwell’s army would sack and torch it in 1647. But the Cathedral of Cashel would be rebuilt and services conducted here until 1749.

Departing the village of Cashel, we drive past the ruins of Hore Abbey, a 13th century
Cistercian monastery. Not only were we getting accustomed to driving on the left side
of the road, we were also getting used to seeing medieval ruins lying in pastures or half-
hidden in the woods. Surely all of them had tales to share—or secrets to veil. But that
would have to wait for another day. It was late afternoon now, and we still had a long drive
ahead to Waterford. We take the rural backroads. Maybe we’ll spy more ruins.

To be continued…