The Caves of Kesh Corran

As early as the 9th century, stories were penned surrounding the myth and folklore of Kesh Corran Mountain in Sligo. Particularly compelling are tales involving the caves in the face of the mountain which, from below, appear to be cozy little hobbit holes nestled within the Shire.

Far from peaceful and comfy though, legend depicts the caves as settings of dramatic and violent encounters with the “other world”. I’m intrigued by the story called “The Enchanted Cave of Kesh Corran.” It involves the Irish hero, Fionn Mac Cumhaill (pronounced Finn McCool) and his warrior band, plus fairies and witches.

To summarize, “Fionn’s band, the Fianna, were hunting wild boar in the area, while Fionn was watching the hunt from atop the Keshcorran cairn. Unfortunately Fionn neglected to ask permission for the hunt from the Conoran, who ruled from the fairy palace inside one of the Caves of Kesh. Conoran then sent three witches – his daughters – to punish Fionn for the trespass.

The three sisters, called the “Hags of Winter,” set a trap to capture Fionn, and bound him with a magic cord that made him as weak as an old man. He and his warriors ultimately escaped after being rescued by an ally who beheaded the witches.”( voicesfromthedawn.com)

So the Caves of Kesh Corran made it to my list of must-see places in Ireland. After a few short camping trips over the past few weeks to little festivals and places I’ve already blogged about, here was something new and beguiling.

When we got near the sight, we easily spotted the caves up on the mountain, just like in the online photos. We followed directions I found online to the parking spot at St Kevins Church. As we pulled in, an older man with a farmer look approached the AvantBard (our camper) to salute us (Irish people often say “salute” instead of “greet”. I like that for some reason). Dixie said we might like to have a look at those caves. The man said he thought that was a lovely idea and then I thought we’d be sitting there all day. When Irishmen start a chat, it’s a marathon. (I like that for some reason too. They’re so relaxed, never in a hurry which is a great cultural quality but sometimes annoying).

Now as soon as I open my mouth in Ireland, I always get the same response. “You’re not from around these parts, are you?” And I always come back with the same old silly reply, “You picked up on the accent, did you? You’re right! I’m not from here. I’m from Cork!” It usually (but not always) reaps a chuckle.

The man told us he had lived in this tiny, remote village his whole life. He had spent 45 years as a soldier in the Irish army, we assume stationed in nearby Galway. He was warm and articulate and gave us a brief history of the area. There were those who wanted to commercialize the caves and bring more economic growth to the village. But he and others objected because they were just so content with the quiet, simple country life.

He continued telling us he has two nieces in the civil service in America. The extended family was planning a vacation there this summer, but the nieces advised them to reconsider because of all the uncertainties. So they postponed the trip indefinitely.

“America isn’t what it once was,” he lamented softly, staring at the ground. There was a moment of silence as if for a death, then we changed the subject back to the mountain.

He told us we could stay put and walk a mile to the trail head, or we could drive to the “other parking lot” (which we knew nothing about) and save the trouble. We thanked him, wished him well and drove to the closer lot.

It looked like a really steep incline. Dixie was ready for lunch but I was too excited to eat. I went on ahead, knowing I’d be slow and he would catch up. It wasn’t as strenuous a climb as I’d expected, mostly a switch back type trail, with only a short steep climb. Still, Dixie caught me before I reached the first cave.

There were a few other explorers there milling around from cave to cave (there are 16 of them, some interconnected). They weren’t the most glitzy caves I’ve seen, the kind with crystalline stalactites and stalagmites that compete for your attention. There was mostly dirt and rubble and signs that the local sheep had discovered a handy shelter. 

I found a little niche up on a mound of boulders and crawled up to see what was below on the other side. It was another cave opening to the outside. There was a teenage girl standing alone down there and I howled a low pitched “Hellooooo” from above. She let out a terrifying scream and I was a little ashamed of myself. I apologized later, okay?

Archaeologists say the caves have been used by people for millennia. Maybe religious rites or burials? They’ve found some neolithic artifacts there, some bone fragments and unrelated teeth (nobody knows), but they don’t think the caves were used as housing. There were also wild and scary animal remains there dating back as far as 12,000 years.

The weather was remarkably gorgeous. When we left the caves we went on to Strandhill beach about a half hour away. That’s where I found fossils this time last year. Being the obsessive, greedy hoarder that I am, I wanted more…more…more! And I found more! The rugosa corals are especially plentiful there.

We spent the next day and night in Kinvara near Galway, one of our favorite little seaside haunts. Then home through the Burren, the spectacular 250 square km moonscape whose exotic beauty (the combination of stone and wildflowers) will take your breath away. 

We stopped by the road and Dixie had a cup of tea while I wandered among the 350 million year old limestone slabs, looking for…. more fossils (I found a wee little one) and just pondering the times when mountains, caves, beaches and fossils belonged to themselves and were not harassed by intrusive folks like me and Fionn Mac Cumhaill. 

 

Wicklow Mountains

I don’t know about you, but my phone and laptop know me better than I know myself. It seems every time I even think a thought (let alone speak a word), there the topic appears on my screen... with details I didn't know I needed to know. I wish my devices could be my lovers. I’d never have to ask for anything again. They would just know. 

Whenever I’m admiring pix of your grandkids on Facebook, seductive things pop up in my view… like megalithic tombs or sandy beaches. I always fall prey and abandon your grands for further Google searches to satisfy my lust for more Irish adventures. 

A couple of weeks ago an ad appeared for The Ballinastoe Woods Walk in County Wicklow. I believe Tolkien’s name was invoked to dazzle people like me into packing up the AvantBard (our rv) and heading east. We had just returned from a long weekend in the southwest (see post last week), but Siobhan, the weather lady, was calling for sunshine and I was feeling the spirit.  So what could we do?

Because we do have some commitments here at home, we planned to just be gone for one night. The Wicklow Mountains are about a two hour drive away.

Siobhan didn’t let us down. It was a gorgeous Thursday and a beautiful drive. A camping friend of ours had recommended a B&B in the area which turned out to be more like a lodge. They were happy to let us park up for the night in their lot… but not before we had rambled through a nearby woods beside a river to find a really pretty triple waterfall. A group of four young people were getting ready to go swimming there. As we scuffled away from them, we heard blood curdling screams. Guess the water was COLD!

When we returned to the lodge we were famished and they were serving dinner. We took a table by the fire and I had the first steak I’ve had in a very long time. And, like God, I saw that it was GOOD…VERY GOOD… and inexpensive. And morning and evening were the first day.

But not until this: It just so happened that a trad session was scheduled to take place at the lodge later that night. Imagine… on a Thursday night! We were assured we’d be welcome and of course we had guitar and fiddle in tow because you just never know. 

It was a small group that had disbanded before the holidays and were reconvening for the first time in the new year. The first guy to arrive looked vaguely familiar.

We introduced ourselves and he asked where we were from. “You’ve probably never heard of it,” says Dixie. “Thurles in Tipperary.” The guy’s eyes popped open and his face lit up. He was from Loughmore which is a village of Thurles. His brother (who looks just like him) plays music with us at the Monk’s Pub every Wednesday night. Just shaking my head. It was a really nice evening.

The next morning we set out to find the spot I saw on Facebook that looked like Middle Earth. I’ll let the photos speak for themselves. It was a glorious little hike over the mountains. There’s a boardwalk path we followed and honestly, I never found the spot that was publicized although I know we were in the right place. But that didn’t matter at all because it was just so perfect of a day. The views did not disappoint! 

As we were driving away from the mountains, I asked Dixie to pull into a scenic overlook so I could take a few shots. As I was walking uphill and about to cross the road back to the Bard, something happened. I don’t know what. Did I trip? I was instantly on the ground… feeling a fierce pain shoot up my arm and hearing an alarming crunch. 

“Please God, let that sound be my wrist and not my iPhone!" Sad to say, I would be lost without my phone. It was, in fact, the edge of my iPhone case. What a relief! The phone and my hand were still intact, although the hand did swell and bleed a little but thank God it still works (to play Wordle and see pix of your grands).

I’ll be flying to Florida at the end of the month (first class and non-stop for a change). Can’t wait to see all my family. Thirteen of us gathering together, if no one gets Covid or breaks a hip. In the mean time Dixie and I will start preparing the garden for spring flowers, feed the birds, practice our music, watch as little news as possible and hope to see or hear from you soon.

 

 

Is It Spring Yet?

You may have noticed (or maybe not) that I haven’t posted in a while. We haven’t taken our rv, the AvantBard, out since before the holidays. The weather has been “cat” as they say, and I am on day 108 of what they’re calling “The Hundred Day Flu”. It’s a bad cold that’s going around and won’t go away. It’s slowly drifting away from my eyes and ears leaving just a little residue in my lungs. Springtime, where are you???

But this past week we started making up for lost time. We actually went on TWO camping trips. One to the west and one to the east.

As you may recall, every February we go to the Scoil Cheoil an Earraigh (Music School of the Spring) in Ballyferriter near Dingle in the beautiful southwest. This is a Gaeltacht area of Ireland meaning Irish is the first language there. 

The weather forecast is always a consideration when going anywhere in Ireland. Siobhan, the weather lady, cautioned it would be miserable in the southwest but what could we do? The festival wouldn’t wait.

We were surprised to drive the entire three and a half hour journey with not a trickle of rain. But we did notice the wind picking up the closer we got to the coast. We were expecting dark clouds and showers and were glad we’d be mostly inside for the weekend.

That evening Dixie unleashed his guitar at a little session in one of the pubs across from our usual parking spot. I relaxed and listened. Around 2 AM we strolled back to the Bard in a little drizzle, feeling like we’d dodged a bad weather bullet. We crawled into our cozy sleeping bags and settled down for the proverbial long winter’s nap (although they were calling it spring). 

When…. Whoa… what’s going on!!! I woke with a start feeling tossed about in a clothes dryer! Lashing wind and rain relentlessly swirling and pounding from all sides. We had our front wheels up on chocks for leveling, and I was certain we were going to be swept off and sucked up Wizard of Oz style. My head was spinning with dread as fast as Auntie Em’s unfortunate farmhouse. I had no idea where we’d be at sunrise. And where was Toto?

In spite of my fears, this was actually pretty exciting. I’m too old to die young so bring on the adventure, right? Once the storm began I never got back to sleep and I was even a little sea sick. It was definitely a rollicking night to remember. That Dixie slept through it all… too many large bottles of Guinness I think.

Next morning some shopping, beach combing and rambling around Dingle. It had all calmed down and the Bard was still on the chocks.

 

A big change from former years… two girlfriends to play with! Their husbands are musicians and they love to come along in their campers. I introduced the two of them and now we’re all tight. We’re already planning the next trip out in April.

By four in the afternoon our little entourage from Thurles (about ten of us) had arrived and sussed out a spot in a quiet pub. We began the long (eight hour!) session that would highlight the weekend. Full of confidence and anticipation I opened my fiddle case and… NO BOW!!! I’d left the %^&*(& bow at home! It was an easy mistake to make that involved changing fiddles and fiddle cases and bows the night before then changing back. Still, it was like I’d been hit over the head with a banjo.

Of course, disappointments come and go throughout life. I’ve had my share and I’m sure so have you. But it’s been a while since I slipped off the moon and hit the ground so hard. I know it was very inconsequential in the scheme of things, but nevertheless I was actually stunned for a moment. Can’t play without a bow. I’d just have to… sit and listen to trad for hours on end. Irish trad is great to PLAY but… eight hours suddenly seemed like a very long time.

I need not have fret (or is it fretted?) Immediately phones came out and pleas were extended. Within an hour I had a very nice bow to borrow for the weekend and all was well. I love these guys! They always have my back (and no one even mentioned the word ‘dementia’).

The next day we relaxed in the cool, calm, dry Kerry air then another session at night. You can see the video of me leading a small crowd in a couple of verses of Cill Chais which is a song I learned in Irish. Many Irish people learned it in school so they sing along. It’s about the sorrow from the felling of the forest surrounding Cill Chais castle. It was written as a poem in the early eighteenth century.

Before we headed for home Sunday, we returned the bow to it’s generous owner and stopped by Wine Strand, a nearby beach I’d never been to but seen signs for. Couldn’t believe my eyes as we drove down the narrow boreen to the beach and there in a farmer’s field overlooking the beach… three glorious standing stones. 

I wriggled under the barbed wire fence to get a closer look. One of them was an ogham stone which you will recall is a standing stone with the ogham alphabet carved along its edge. The ogham alphabet is a series of strokes across horizontal lines that was used from the 4th-9th centuries and, on the stones, was probably spelling out names.

Isn’t this the best kind of discovery… one you didn’t google or find on a website but just popped up unexpectedly out of nowhere? As C.S. Lewis would say, I was “surprised by joy” (although Lewis was referring to Jesus and I just saw three old stones).

We were home Sunday night and saw the forecast looked fabulous for the next weekend. With cautious optimism we started googling and looking at maps! Then on Thursday we were off to the Wexford mountains in the east. See you there in the next post. 

 

Progress in Thurles

Exactly 850 years ago something unexpected but spectacular happened here in Thurles. Can you guess what? No, you’re wrong! It has nothing to do with dragons, aliens or Willie Nelson. In October of 1174, the Norman lord, Richard de Clare (known to his friends as Strongbow), suffered his first defeat in his conquest of Ireland. 

As I’ve referenced before in this blog, the epic battle was fought here in my backyard and the surrounding fields. The area was named Loughnafolla, the Valley of Blood. That name is still used to this day to describe the nearby neighborhood. 

The battle is all old news to Dixie and the other residents of Thurles. Just another bit of medieval history they learned in school. But to me it’s BIG. My house looks out on a medieval battlefield. It’s the coolest thing ever!

The Normans first entered Ireland on the shores of the southeast and we camped there once before and explored the area. You can read all about it in an earlier post (click April 2023 on the sidebar). We weren’t too impressed with The Norman View campsite. It was on the water but there was no access. Just a field with a view.  

We went back to The Norman View a couple of weeks ago. We have joined a camping group and that’s where they were going. We had no idea what to expect. Saturday night they had “an auld session” in a big shed, and we were welcomed and appreciated for our musical talents. Great group of people and great craic!

Before we left for home on Sunday we asked where to find the nearest beach. It was walking distance away. Why didn’t we know this before? And…. it’s the exact beach where the Normans came on shore…. Baginbun it's called. Stunning rock formations from the Cambrian period. I wonder if the Normans were impressed or even noticed the beauty. Probably not. They didn’t sail all that way to see a bunch of rocks. 

Over the years there has been development in Loughnafolla and the surrounding areas of Thurles. It is mostly residential now. I wonder if children realize that when they tell their friends they live in Loughnafolla they’re actually saying, “I live in the Valley of Blood.” 

But some areas remain undeveloped. The fields behind our house were untouched for centuries. Then in the 1800s (I think), some monks settled in Thurles and cultivated the fields. As well as agriculture, the monks brought the first schools to town. We are in their debt.

The fields are still known here as “The Monks’ Fields”. The Monks Pub, where we sing and play our music, is around the corner and the owner is affectionately known as The Monk. His family has owned the fields for several generations.

I have been so happy here. When we sit in the garden, we often notice cows looking curiously over our shoulders from across the fence. The serenity of space and privacy has been a gift that we never expected to find from a home so close to town. On a cloudless night, the moon and stars can feel as close as house guests.  

But all that is about to change. There is a shortage of homes across the country. A local land developer bought much of  The Monks’ Fields and is building a neighborhood out our back window where the cows graze. Like the Normans, he is on a mission and doesn't notice the ecosystems he's disrupting nor the calming vistas he's displacing. 

From this to this!

I cannot be devastated because I daily encounter Syrian and Ukrainian refugees milling about the town, and I dare not feel sorry for myself. And Dixie continually reminds me that people will be so thrilled to have affordable housing so close to town. 

Nevertheless, I feel loss. When the digging began a few weeks ago, I crept into the site when the workmen had gone home, hoping to find an artifact  from the monks or, better yet, the Norman battle. I found a rotten old sandal and some broken shards of glazed pottery. 

As I was examining some unearthed stones, I noticed some interesting anomalies in a couple and brought them back home. I texted pix of them to Thomas, who knows everything, and he immediately recognized them as little crinoid fossils (sea wormy things) and sent me links for identification. 

This began a maniacal obsession for excavating fossils in those fields. Every night I’d watch for the last workman to leave then I’d set to work. I have a nice little collection now of several types of fossils. Nothing too impressive or of value, but more like reminders that 250 million years ago those fields were under the ocean. They have not spoken their last word.

They have their place in the cycle of time and I was privileged to enjoy them for a short period. Everything is temporary and must be conceded to progress and then back to regress in a continuing rhythm of evolution.

The Normans desecrated this small island with magnificent castles and grandiose country houses. But most teeter in ruins now and the land awaits the next great intrusion. It will likely come in the form of cheap cookie cutter homes. I have developed a new appreciation for the unremarkable Norman View campsite.

I'll soon be looking out my kitchen window at a wall. I asked the builder if he would be so sympathetic as to build me a tall, beautiful stone wall, so I don't have to stare at the side of a house. He said he would. He isn't on a malicious crusade like the Normans. But he is a conquerer nonetheless and I can't help but feel overcome.

Maybe my new wall will contain a few fossils. I'd love that.