Kenny Smith | A remarkable thing happens …

Bhí Armada na Spáinne anseo

It is a testament to the nature of this rugged bit of nature that there are beautiful places to stop, historically interesting places to stop, and also grand places with no signage or suggestions whatsoever. Sometimes you’ll find a place which has a connection to global events and you wouldn’t even realize it if you weren’t looking for it.

And so we’ve come to this spot, where out there the ocean does what an ocean does, and in here we try to cast our mind’s eye back some 440 years.

After the British routed the Spanish Armada — in sea battles that reshaped naval doctrine, bolstered the legend of Elizabeth the 1st, changed the geopolitical power structure, perhaps the course of human history and maybe even influenced the religions of Europe — the surviving vessels of the Spaniard squadrons were all headed home. Some of them sailed somewhere right out there.

The sailors and soldiers who had just been taught a new way to fight at sea and were licking their wounds now had to endure gales and stormy seas. Maybe the men on the galleon El Gran Grin, served by 75 sailors and carrying 261 soldiers, felt fortunate to have survived the British. It was a 1,100 ton vessel, loaded with 28 guns, and it had anchored off the big island that fronts the bay, so they could trade with the O’Malley clan, which ran things in the area. It was all going well until the winds blew in. Somehow the ship slipped its anchorage and it wound up on the shore, with most hands lost.

Then there was the San Nicolás Prodaneli, a bit smaller, but no less prickly. She had 68 sailors 226 soldiers aboard when she wrecked on the shore, right near here. History records that maybe 16 survived. They burned the wreckage and were picked up by their countrymen.

It’s easy to think that maybe they waded ashore, because that’s what you and I would think they’d do. But probably not. The weather is bad. It’s likely dark. And it’s cold. And you don’t know the area. You don’t know there’s a road, right there, just a few steps from the waterline.

If only they’d been able to see that.

I bet they didn’t see messages like this, either.

In all, five ships of the Spanish Armada sank in these waters. Some of the wreckage has yet to be re-discovered.

There are two subtle markers here memorializing them.

adventures / history / Ireland / photo / Tuesday — Comments Off
17
Mar 26

Dumhach Bheag

We continue on our way along the western coast of Ireland. We are driving the Wild Atlantic Way.

Our next stop is Dumhach Bheag, which is a beach. We’re going to see quite a few Bheags, I think.

Dumhach Bheag sits at the northern edge of Clew Bay, which is shaped like a rectangle, and you’d sail to the east, and pass Clare Island to get to the open ocean. Before that, though, you’d go by the hundred-plus small islands, drumlins, which were created by glacial action which creates elongated hill shaped like half of an egg shell, or the backside of a spoon. When you have a bunch of them together, as they do here, they’re called swarms, and this is a ‘basket of eggs topography.’

The beach is near the village of Mulranny, a former winner of a ‘European Destinations of Excellence’ award. They have a heather festival each summer. The local population is only 315, but at one time the Nobel Prize winning biochemest Ernst Chain (penicillin) and the actor Desmond Llewelyn (Q, from James Bond), each had homes here.

The railway linked Dublin, on the other side of the island, to the coast in 1894, as had been prophesied. Two centuries earlier, a seer named Brian Rua O Ceabhain told of a line to the nearby island. The story goes that he saw smoke and fire and iron-wheeled carriages. Maybe it’s not so far fetched. He was said to have been born in 1648. The first known tracked transport in England began in the mid 16th century. Then again, James Watt only patented a design for a steam locomotive in 1784, with the first working model produced later that same year. It wasn’t until 1804 that the UK had its first full-scale working railway steam locomotive. But, hey, talk enough, you’ll say something bombastic that turns out right. So maybe that’s not spooky.

But this is. Rua O Ceabain said that the first and the last trains would carry the dead. The first train moved the remains of 32 people who’d drowned when their boat capsized in the bay. And then, in 1937, a special train brought home the bodies of 10 young people who died in a fire in Scotland.

The line closed two weeks later.

Visitors who like to hike will enjoy the trip up the nearby Corraun Hill, which tops out at just 524 meters, and offers beautiful views of the area.

Only we’re not hiking just now. There are still sites to see, and the next one involves the 16th century, and shifting European powers.

adventures / history / Ireland / photo / Tuesday — Comments Off
17
Mar 26

Burrishoole Friary

We’ve come to the Burrishoole Friary, the ruins of a Dominican friary founded in 1469 by Richard de Burgo of Turlough, and built on the sly, without papal blessing. About a generation, and two popes later, Pope Innocent III forgave the brothers there, which must have come as some relief, whenever they found out about it. Slack, in the 15th century, was notably unreliable. Maybe some communication issues were why they didn’t get the initial node from Pope Paul II. Or it could be that de Burgo didn’t bother to ask. Until that forgiveness, though, the whole community was at risk of being excommunicated. That must have been a tense 17 years.

But the Dominicans had been around here for more than two centuries, by then. They knew what they were getting into and they were used to building houses.

It’s a beautiful and peaceful space. The exterior of the church and the eastern wall of the cloister remain, while the other structures have long since been destroyed and removed.

The grounds cozy right up to an estuary of the nearby bay, and there’s just one road leading people past the place today, but it was once a much more lively, and profitable, and controversial place. Politics and religion have always worked with and one another in these parts, and when the Dissolution of Monasteries came in the 16th century, they were at risk again. At some point it became a military base. And at other moments in history it was seen as a source of income. The water meant dozens of English ships visited each year. The land is good. There was an iron mine. Fishing was profitable.

By the 18th century the abbey was in ruins, with the collapse of its roof in 1793 marking the start of its decline.

The grounds of the friary continue to serve as a cemetery. It is also a national monument.

Inside the husk of the building are graves and memorials, as if nearly every square inch was to be given over to thoughts of the dead. This is not uncommon in Europe, though I think of it more in churches that are still in service today.

As you move through the grounds, and through the silent old stone building, you notice the markers aging along your path, and other people’s lives can flash before your eyes. The winds and the water take away almost all of the basic details of life, and as you read what has been left of the people who have left, you are faced with the lasting and spare nature of stone.

This cross has been erected by the parishioners of Burrishoole to the memory of Father Manus Sweeney a holy and patriotic priest who was hanged in Newport June 8th, 1799 because he had joined with his countrymen in the Rebellion of 1798. His name shall be in request from generation to generation. May he rest in peace. Amen.

Manus Sweeney was a local, born of merchant stock, who came to his position to replace someone as the local curate because the previous person had been having “seditious conversation among the lower classes.” This particular part of western Ireland was comparatively disinterested in the British, and Sweeney is around during a time when the French were stirring things up. Sweeney loved Celtic monuments and antiquities, so there was a bit of a romantic, in him. Much else that is said of his regular life is steeped in folklore or embellishment. Sweeney is said to have studied in Paris, and might have been a Francophile decades before we had the word. His problem was that the French abilities in the region were beginning to wane. It’s a classic story from there, where the man of the cloth tried to rally the locals in a desperate and bold move against a dominant force. It doesn’t always work out, and so Sweeney found himself being spirited about, living, for times, in literal holes in the ground and caves, evading capture, until the English caught up to him. And so the man who one of his contemporaries, a bishop, called hare-brained, was soon put to the noose. The rebellion, which had started in May of 1798 was largely over by October. Too small, too localized, too unorganized. And after the French suffered defeats on land and sea, the Irish were gripped even more tightly by the British, and here we have Sweeney’s marker, which remembers him fondly.

We are all, hare-brained or not, a product of our times. And some people are bold enough to rise and to meet them. But not all are asked or moved or required to act in the same ways. Not too far away from Sweeney’s marker is one for woman named Mary, died aged 84 in 1991. Her marker tells us and reminds others “A woman of substance was she, what she liked most was an old chat and a good cup of tea.”

And as such we are remembered. What will that message be? I love a good cup of tea, too, but does that strike the right note for all of time? Or at least the several years to come?

We like to think that the stone is an eternal monument, but that’s our own vanity and shortsightedness, a conceit of the living. Nothing lasts about stone. Even in this peaceful place, the wind and the rains and the things that grow in it are having their way with old markers, taking on the job of slowly erasing even the most basic details of our lives.

There are a few boats pulled up on the shore, sitting in the shadow of the old friary. They look like they’re in for a nice long rest. Even that fiberglass, and the one small road, don’t take away from the idea of the peace that has come to this place. It is a place where you can feel an unknowable truth: time moves differently for the dead.

adventures / Ireland / maps / photo / Tuesday — Comments Off
17
Mar 26

The Wild Atlantic Way — between Westport and Gweesalia

There’s a lot to see and cover, so I think I’m going to break things up into individual posts for the week. We’ll see how that goes. This is how it went today. We woke up and had breakfast at Knockranny House‘s Fern Grill, just a few tables over from where we had dinner last night. The is as lovely as they say, the hotel sits on a hill overlooking much of Westport and they highlight that with the restaurant’s picture windows. The food was good, too.

After a light Irish breakfast we packed up our things, loaded the car and set out to see more sites. This, roughly, was our route for the day. Just about every spot along the way between here and there offered a feast for the eyes, including the places that don’t get special signage or tourist advertising or places to stop your car.

Here’s a video of the highlights. Truly, I’ve got enough material for a half-dozen or more highlights, and I’ll post those, too. Until then, enjoy this.

It was cool and windy today. We got rained on in spots, but the sun also broke through, and you got the feeling that perhaps this was the day that the battle was won and the seasons changed. That’d be perfect timing for the days ahead. But, first, more about today in several individual posts.

adventures / history / Ireland / maps / Monday / photo / video — Comments Off
16
Mar 26

Up the west coast a bit

We woke up in Dublin on Sunday, which was great, because that’s where we went to sleep on Saturday night. The conference was over. I had spent time grading and working and finishing and delivering presentations. My lovely bride had spent her time running the conference and presenting and generally being awesome. (I never have that last requirement, which comes as some relief.) So, come Sunday, we were ready for a day with less to do, which meant, of course, we packed up our things, hailed a cab, and drove to the airport. There, we rented a car and departed the airport, reacquainting ourselves with driving on the left.

It’s an alien thing, and we’re now taking bets on who messes this up first by driving on the wrong side of some road. Also, we’re working on the terminology for the turns, which is the real challenge. Driving on the left and turning left makes sense, but you still have to wind up in the ~~right~~ correct spot. So it’s “tight left.” Driving on the left and turning right is fundamentally at odds with gravity, religion and the economy. So far, we are using “wide right” as our reminder to one another.

Anyway, we drove through some real countryside, heading across the island to Galway. Roughly, this route.

In the middle of nothing we found the need to satisfy hunger pangs and happened across a gas station that had a miniature food court stapled on to it. It was crowded because the local villages were holding weekend St. Patrick’s Day. While we waited — and waited — for your our food, St. Patrick himself wandered in. Good outfit, giant staff, clean white synthetic beard, awfully modern sneakers.

We arrived at our hotel, The Twelve, a fine modern hotel suite experience, where we stayed for approximately 17 hours, all of which was working, or sleeping. Before dinner I bent over the computer working on my TRP contract for work. It’s your self-report. Your what-have-you-been-doing-these-last-few-years report. I’ve been writing all of this for weeks and it’s actually a useful exercise. There are places where you can be reflective and philosophical and, if you allow for it, you can perhaps learn something about what you’re doing. Its the creative process of writing and self-discovery. Those parts were what was already done. Last night I was just putting all of the parts together, creating the internal links, making the PDFs. And then it was dinner time. We set out to meet our friend Sally Ann, her husband, and her student who presented at the conference. We went to a fish and chips joint and had a lovely time. Then it was back to the hotel, and back to work. After a few more hours I realized that the entire day’s work was for not. All that I have been coached to do is not what the CMS demands. That was a little moment of joy. Well, gather yourself, jot off a few emails, tear down the product you’ve made and send it in its individual parts. This document has grown to 88 pages. That’s what I’ve done the last two years. And much of that time felt like it was working on this. But it is submitted. One more thing off the list. And no small thing. Happy to have done it, happy to be finished with it. Wish I’d timed the whole effort, just to see what it took.

I didn’t even think about it at all over breakfast.

A good Irish breakfast is a fine thing. Lots of flavors. Some of them make no sense to my American sensibilities, but all of this was good. And it’s filling. I didn’t want anything until dinnertime, which is good, because after breakfast, after getting out of the room (hampered by a broken shower and solved by going to the room right next door) we were in the car and on our way.

We are driving about the northern portion of Ireland to see The Wild Atlantic Way. Here is a little video montage of the day. More below.

First, we hit Silverstrand Beach, which might not be on the Wild Atlantic Way. It’s about 250 meters of beach, meeting Galway Bay and stiff winds out of the west. Also, on the other side of a jettied pile of rocks lies this lovely cliff face.

(Click to embiggen.)

We’re finding a lot of shells with holes in them like this. Maybe we should make a necklace.

We stopped by Trá an Dóilín, Coral Strand, a beach filled with the remains of a seaweed called maerl, which has been pushed ashore, crushed by the water and bleached by the sun, it looks like coral. Maerl, when it is living, is a nice purple-pink color and in large quantities creates a spiky underwater floor. Scallops shelter in this prickly little carpet.

In the summer, this place will be dotted with snorkelers, looking for jellyfish and wrasse in these clear, cold waters. Historically, vessels called hookers would be at sea here. The shallow draft of the hookers meant they were good for the bays and the inlets, shallow waters and rougher seas. They’re not work boats these days, but for the last 50 or so years they’ve been pleasure craft. They host regattas for the hookers these days. It’s a small three-sail boat, with a lot of heart. One sailed all the way to New York in the 1980s.

Here’s a wider view of Trá an Dóilín.

(Click to embiggen.)

Then, we visited Glinsce. Not big enough to be a village, but important enough for a quick stop. The nearby sign had a helpful pronouncer, “gl – EENSH keh.” This area is important for its local fishing economy. The coastline here is quite rugged, and there are piers sprinkled along the coast up and down. We’re at one of them here.

Fishermen went out on row boats called currachs, simple wooden framed vessels that had a hide or canvas stretched over it. During the Drochshaol the Great Famine of the mid-19th century, the government encouraged more production out of the fishing industry, and so they built these piers and boat launches and the local boatbuilding industry took off.

The fishermen named their boats after saints sometimes, like Caillin, a 6th century Irishman. He is said to have studied in Rome, returned home, to this area, and started a monastery. Every other thing you can find out about him is fantastical, but scholars are apparently certain he was actual person. The boat builders put a little bottle of water from St. Caillin’s holy well into the keel off the vessels.

Let’s go see a castle!

No, that’s not it. That’s just some modern piece that’s meant to hide the house and BMW just behind it. Only kidding, this medieval-style gate dates back to 1815. The castle, about a half a mile walk down a sodden, muddy path, was built between 1812 and 1818. (There was a house and a Beamer right behind the gate, though.) Please stare at these cattle we passed on our way down that path as I tell you the tale.

She was not pleased with me getting so close and kept throwing hay at me until I got the message. It takes me a while to get the message.

Anyway, these castle ruins are near the town of Clifden. It was built for a man named John D’Arcy, whose family had owned thousands and thousands of acres in this area for centuries. Indeed, the original estate of Clifden Castle originally covered more than 17,000 acres. D’Arcy, a balding man with a prominent nose and worried eyes, grew this little area, and government funds helped the impoverished. By 1832, some 1,257 lived in 196 houses in Clifden, which also boasted schools, churches, a brewery and other industries. But a lot of this came at great personal expense. He died in 1839 and the land passed to his son, who wasn’t quite as good at managing things as his old man. Then again, it might not have been entirely the younger D’Arcy’s fault. The Great Famine came along just a few years later. Many of the people living on the lands fled or died, and the family went bankrupt.

Some wealthy Englishmen bought the castle, and it was a holiday escape for their family for several decades. Ultimately, it fell into ruin before the Great War. A local butcher bought the land for grazing, but that leads to an entirely different story we don’t tell around the cattle.

We walked carefully down the rutted tractor path, downhill and up, curving this way and that, trying in vain to keep water from seeping into our shoes. And then, at the final bend, we were stopped by water that was shin deep. I know this because I watched a man in rain boots walk back up from the castle toward his car. He said it would not be worth walking the rest of the way down, and I trusted his advice. This was our best view.

And then we headed on up Sky Road.

We’d been on Sky Road for a bit, but just after the castle it forks and you can take the Lower or the Upper Sky Road. Guess which one we did. And I don’t know that the steepness gives the road it’s name, but I don’t know that to not be the case, either. Up here, you get a grand view from up here over Clifden Bay and the offshore islands, Carricklahan East.

And you get the wind. Big gusts. All day long the wind would move you around. When we got here, the car was pointed downwind, and the breeze ripped the car door out of my hands and very nearly off its brand new hinges. This, believe it or not, was a relatively calm moment near the top of Sky Road.

It tops out at about 492 feet above sea level, which is, of course, just off to your left as you drive in this direction. In addition to the Atlantic, and the islands, you can also enjoy views of the fields, cut up into patches of heaths and grasses. The shoreline gets rugged here, as we are drawing a bit closer to the northwestern corner of the island, and the seabirds are making themselves ready for the spring. They’ve been told the sun may come out this week.

Improbably, especially given today’s wind, we saw a sign that described a growing national cycle network and this area has four loops, ranging from 16 to 40 kilometers. Today, the wind was blowing at close to 50 miles per hour. There were no cyclists, to be found … but only because we couldn’t find a place to rent bikes.

Our last stop, in the day’s dying light, was at the Aasleagh Falls, a picturesque place between where we’d been and where we were going. I was driving, following the GPS, and missed the turn. But I took the next turn, which worked out better because we went through a parking lot and down a path that went from charming country villa access to deeply rutted single track road, surprisingly quickly, before meeting an equally eroded path at a severe angle. You could only turn right. The GPS recalculates, and it wanted me to go left, but there’s no way I was making the angle in a car I’d only just met, while also driving on the wrong side of the car. So we got out and walked that direction while I pondered how I was going to back a car up out of the mess I’d just put us in. And then we found that there was a gate that was locked on that original road, so this worked out better anyway. So long as we could exit. And so long as no one locked the other gate.

We have a bag full of protein bars and warm clothes and a tank full of petrol. We could rough it.

The falls were lovely, you saw them from the side in the video, above, and you can see them in the distance here.

This is the Erriff River, which flows into Killary Harbour and then the Atlantic Ocean. So, if you come at the right time of year, you’ll see salmon jumping those falls. But I know you want to know how we got out of there. We didn’t! I am writing this from the back seat of the car! Guess who is mad at me?

No one, because we did not get stuck. I drove to the right, found a turnaround spot, and then gunned it back up that rutted path. We traveled on to the fabulous Knockranny House Hotel, an incredibly charming place in Westport. The only problem was getting in, because we timed it such that just before us in came a group of people who were very drunk, or who had never stayed in a hotel before, or quite possibly both.

I don’t know what the Irish version of “Count to 10 customer service” is, but the poor woman at the welcome desk was doing just that. Fortunately, those people got situated, after much trouble and deliberation, and went to the right. We checked in in under three minutes — I timed it — and went to the left. Here at Knockranny they have a restaurant that, a few years back, was somehow judged the best hotel restaurant in the world. This sort of honor seems silly and exclusionary. (There’s a lot of hotels in the world, and there’s a great little diner attached to the side of one in Tangier you just have to try …) But let me just say, this restaurant, The Fern Grill, was quite extraordinary. We’ll eat breakfast there in the morning before we set out for more adventures.

But, first, I have to write some students. I wonder if I should tell them where I am.