Ireland: The West Coast

Colorful shop in a Dingle alley typifies Irish love of color and flowers.

 Armchair Adventures

published July 29, 2012

by Paul Sullivan

Ireland's Beautiful Dingle Peninsula

             Ireland's Dingle Peninsula isn't very large. From the city of Tralee to the town of Dingle is less than 30 miles. But it may be one of the few places on Earth where you can take a drive from 2012 back to the Iron Age in less than a couple of hours.

            This is no joke. When you can travel in both space and time like that, the additional dimension brings new meaning to the reason why we love to explore.

            On the drizzly morning when we left our B&B at Camp Junction headed for Dingle, the road soon turned into little more than a paved wagon path, twisting and bending up, up till we emerged on the flank of a grassy mountain.

            The scenery was beyond words, reminding of a drive from Billings, Montana, over a mountain range and down into one of the less used entrances to Yellowstone.

            My son, Tim, was driving, and I bid him stop so we could stand in the rain and soak up the exhilarating scenery. Fewer than 10,000 humans inhabit the whole peninsula, but there are more than half a million sheep, and I could spot them, widely dispersed white dots across these lonely green ranges.

            Crossing the ridge, we made a long, straight descent toward a mist-shrouded sea. Tim wanted to see a place locals call Inch Beach. But hopes of driving this wide sandy expanse yielded to common sense after a local told us we could do it, but would likely have to pay the lurking tow truck operator a hefty fee.

            Back on the winding coast road, we came to the town of Anascaul. It would be just another small Irish coastal town but for the stop we had in mind.

            Just on the edge of town we found what we looked for. An old blue-and-white pub bearing a name no one would expect here: The South Pole Inn.

            In 1923, one of the most famous and heroic of the explorers of the Antarctic, retired to this, his birthplace. The man was Tom Crean, second officer in the Royal Navy who accompanied Robert Scott on two major explorations, leading a party that rescued Scott close to the South Pole on one of them.

            In 1914, this quiet, pleasant giant of a man was chosen for Ernest Shackleton's legendary bid for the pole, aboard the ship Endurance.

            There is not space here to recount one of the most heroic and amazing stories in the annals of human exploration. I know what a sweeping statement that is, but those who know never forget this story. Suffice to say that, once more, Crean came through, playing a pivotal role in the survival of the ship's entire crew and their return to England.

            Learning that Tom Crean's pub survived (Google the South Pole Inn), I could not have returned stateside without visiting. We did better than gawk, we had lunch in this little hostelry, which was sold out of his family after Crean's death in 1938.

            I was both honored and humbled by this visit. And as we emerged from the pub into the rain, we walked across the street to a small park. There, a likeness of the pipe-smoking explorer stands, his arms full of puppies born to one of the sled dogs

aboard Endurance. (Among many other duties, the Irishman found time to take care of the expedition's dogs.)

            We drove on around the west end of the peninsula. The scenery here was spectacular-steep cliffs plunging hundreds of feet into the North Atlantic. But strung across the tops of these cliffs for miles was something else I had come all this way to see.

Small, simple stone huts, "beehive huts," the archaeologists call them.

            They are old, and they have survived over incredible periods of time, guardians of this rugged coastline, home to a rugged civilization that survived here over millennia against great odds. Life here must have been difficult, yet some of these sites have been

carbon-dated at more than 4,000 years old, a few even believed to date back 6,000 years.

            Tim and I loved our entire Ireland trip, but if I was limited to only one place, this would have been it: Dingle, County Kerry and surrounds.

            Next time-if there is a next time-I'll come back to this place. There is far more than I can relate here but these are highlights we both found rich and rewarding. Earlier, I mentioned something called the Dingle Way. Hikers come from around the world for this eight-or-nine-day trek around the peninsula.

            We talked to a young hiking couple from Maryland who had just finished the trek. They loved every mile of it but said it wore them out.

            My Ireland to-see list is already long, if I am lucky enough to return someday.

            And just in case you're wondering, no, we did not see Fungie, the people-friendly wild dolphin that welcomes visitors to Dingle.

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Wandering Ireland-Part 3 of 4

The Rock of Cashel

Armchair Adventures

published July 22, 2012

by Paul Sullivan

To the Coast by Way of The Rock

        So many things in Ireland go by more than one name. The Rock of Cashel, for instance. It suggests, well, some special sort of rock, wouldn't you think?

            But what if your map should call it St. Patrick's Rock or The Fortress Rock at Cashel?

            Well it is all those things and more. What it is, has to be any Hollywood set designer's doped dream of what an ancient castle or fortress must be.

            Son Tim and I drove away from Kilkenny, Ireland, thinking we couldn't find a more spectacular medieval castle than the big one looming over the River Nore there.

            Cashel changed our minds.

            Dominating the skyline of the town of Cashel, The Rock, as guidebooks often call it, is a complex of thousand-year old buildings clinging to a huge limestone upthrust jutting up from a lovely green grass plain. It fairly defines the phrase, medieval fortress castle-my name for it.

            And it isn't my imagination that those fields are the stuff of dreams and song. These are the plains of Tipperary, made famous in a World War I song my mom and dad sang me as a child.

            Little wonder there are so many photos. This is the place you bought that expensive camera for.

            We parked in the lot below, craned up at the Rock, shot the obligatory photos and trudged up the hill, an easy walk, incidentally, despite guidebook descriptions.

            Many of these Irish historic sites today, including The Rock and Kilkenny Castle, are owned and cared for by the government-the equivalent of our national historic parks.

            And as at our own heritage sites, you can expect guides and an introductory video, usually quite well done.

            Before entering the castle, we looked for and spotted another historic site, one that I had read was nearby. It is the ruins of the Hore Abbey-graceful, peaceful ruins, ignored by the crowds, in a field about a third of a mile away. I wish now that we had taken time to visit there. The walk alone would have been worth it.

            From a distance, The Rock appears to be a single, quite old stone structure. That is deceiving. While the assorted structures are jammed together atop their prominence, there is actually the Cormac Chapel, the Round Tower, the Hall of the Vicars Choral, St. Patrick's Cross, the beautiful 13th century roofless chapel, and the walled graveyard and grounds.

            These names correctly indicate that this complex of nested structures served many purposes for many owners over the span of its long life, including residence, cathedral and-always-fortress in an often lawless land.

            There is something else, too. It is the Forgotten Void, a small enclosure between an old chapel and the Round Tower. The Tower is believed the oldest stone construction on the site, dating to about 1100 a.d.

            No one seems certain when this limestone outcropping was first built upon, but with the tremendous defensive advantage it afforded in many warlike times, The Rock has been in use for a very long time.

            St. Patrick is said to have baptized King Aegnus in about 450 a.d. at this place. The castle was given to the church at the beginning of the 12th century and the cathedral was built on the site prior to the year 1300.

            We took the tour, felt the winds that whip this hilltop religious redoubt, and headed back down off The Rock, well aware we had been someplace we would never forget.

            Several blocks away, we went in search of food in Cashel, deciding upon a nondescript place with the name "Ladyswell Café." Tim chose the restaurant, and chose well. It was full of locals, and locals always know best when it comes to dining. I had the seafood chowder; he had the pesto chicken salad.

            A word about Irish food here. This little country chock full of rich farmland is dairy heaven. You had better be prepared for real cream, real butter, and so forth, and the best quality. And if you are working your body as nature made it to be worked, it won't hurt a bit. Wherever you travel in this land, the sea is never far, either. And the bounties of the sea are a staple of Irish menus.

            It was time to move on. We hoped to see the west coast at Tralee and the Bay of Dingle that evening and the Irish countryside was calling.

            We took back roads leaving Cashel. As we turned a corner in this country of beautiful farms, I looked back over my right shoulder and saw, proud and lonely, this ancient sentinel of The Rock.

            We stopped and took a long look back at this hauntingly beautiful site. The photo that you see above is what we saw.

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