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.

 

Back To The North

We were knackered when we got home from Sligo around 6ish on Sunday August 18, my 70th birthday. I’d spent late morning and early afternoon on the beach at Strandhill on the northwest coast combing through slimy piles of seaweed and scattered algae-covered rocks looking for fossils and anything else interesting. I’ve always loved treasure hunting in this way and I’m seldom disappointed. This day was no exception.

Strandhill

We were so lucky to have found an overnight parking space the night before at this local and tourist hotspot, thanks to an App that shows unpublicized camper friendly lots. We were overlooking the beach and watched a gorgeous sunset as we ate our dinner from the Bard. 

The pub we wanted to visit was a kilometer away from the hubbub of cafes and shops by the water. Dixie remembered it from decades ago when he played there during a festival in town. We found three old lads just inside the door playing a gig of classic folk and soft rock. We sat by them, got quickly acquainted, and sang a few songs of our own. I thought it was around 11:00 when we left but it was actually 1:00. Sheesh that went fast!

Great music in the Venue Pub

Earlier that day we had driven down from Malin in Donegal, the northernmost county in Ireland. We made a stop at Rosses Point which is a scenic peninsula we’d wanted to explore.  So far, we have done most of our camping in spring and autumn and on weekdays. It was a little disconcerting to find mobs of people overrunning and contaminating (it seemed like) the natural beauty. The commercial campsite was full so we moved on… gladly, and landed in Strandhill which wasn’t far away.

Rosses Point Beach with Benbulbin in the background

In Malin, the night before, we had parked up in a lot by a stunning 10 arch stone bridge on the Ballyhoo River. It was erected c.1760. That’s just three years before my great great great…. grandfather, James Johnson, was born in Limerick, Ireland. He would, of course, never have seen this bridge but it’s fun to fantasize about the times and places back then that harbored bits of my DNA. 

The 10 Arch Bridge is 2nd largest in Ireland

James came to America as a young child and later fought in the Revolutionary War. He was captured by the British and taken aboard a prison ship in Charleston. The conditions were so egregious that several of the men planned to jump overboard and swim the three miles or so to freedom. Three of them went first and seemed to have been successful. 

A few nights later James was preparing to jump when he noticed something floating by in the water. It was the body of one of his comrades who had escaped earlier. James, being the smart and rational ancestor that he was, decided liberty could wait. 

James was freed at the end of the war and bought a farm. When he was 63 and too feeble to work, he learned to read, starting with the alphabet. It is written that when he died, at the ripe old age of 93, he was “well and extensively read, particularly in Methodist theology.” 

Interesting to note that my mother and both my grannies also lived to be 93. I imagine when I’m 92 I’ll be getting nervous.

I like the feeling of being a link in a family chain. Since my mother died five years ago my brother and I have often found ourselves pondering our childhoods and speculating why our parents did certain odd things the way they did. Like us, they were surely the products of their times, and I’m certain my children will (and probably already do) speculate about Greg and me. It’s just what children do, right?

We had come to Malin from farther north, Malin Head, which is the farthest point north in mainland Ireland. When we were tootling around Donegal during Covid, we never made it up that far and resolved to come back. 

It took four years to find a few days when we were free and the weather looked decent. Every night when we watch the forecast on TV Dixie mourns, “Poor Donegal”. It seems it’s always cold and rainy up there. But Siobhan, the weather lady, called it right this time and we had not even a fine mist all weekend. 

Malin Head

Malin Head itself is a giant outcrop at the tip of the Inishowen Peninsula, overlooking the northern Irish islands. It was extremely windy but with temps in the mid 60’s we took our time walking the trails along the water and savoring the views. 

Earlier in the day we had hiked the short distance to the Glenevin Waterfall just a few miles away. The story goes… an American woman named Doris Russo bought the property and a rundown house in the 1990’s, hoping to open a B&B. It wasn’t until she moved in that she discovered the waterfall nestled among the trees and undergrowth. With community support she made the site accessible to the public so everyone could enjoy it. Gotta love those American women that emigrate and make things better for all!

We had begun the day at Fort Dunree on Lough Swilly which was built to protect the area from a French invasion in the late 1700’s. Beautiful site and loaded with history including the tragic story of the shipwreck of the HMS Laurentic during WW1. It had been a luxury passenger ship but was recommissioned as an armed merchant ship for the war. It struck a mine and went down very quickly. There’s a very tasteful memorial there with the names of the lost crew.

Around Fort Dunree

We went straight to the fort from the ferry at Rathmullen where we had spent the night on the pier. There was a sandy beach there also and the ruins of Rathmullen Priory which was built in 1508. No trip is complete without some good old church ruins and graves.

This was Thursday, our first day out, and I wagered Dixie that within 48 hours he would have found a social, familial or historic connection with a stranger. It always happens. It was actually less than 24 hours later that he struck up a conversation with an Englishman. He discovered the man, a professional photographer, remembered photographing Dixie’s father, known in hurling circles as “the Rattler”, in Manchester in the 90s during an award ceremony. SMH 

You may have noticed that the events of our weekend camping trip are written in reverse order. That’s because I’ve just turned 70 and I don’t really want to get any older. So I’m declaring that from now on everything goes backward… like with Benjamin Button. I know this will work, right???

 

Catching Up

I think my muse has had Covid or something. She won’t move. I’ve tried coaxing her into some kind of action but she just makes moaning sounds and goes back to sleep. Imagine, calling yourself a muse and then just lying there like a dead horse. I’m exasperated. 

So I’ve decided to go it alone. I’m going to get this blog post out before my trip back home next week. We have taken the Bard out three times since I last posted and I do want to share it all with you, especially those friends who have inquired.

But I don’t feel inspired to write. I’d rather practice singing Jolene which I just learned, work on the four parts of Trim the Velvet on my fiddle, try out the recipe for Graham crackers somebody posted on the Americans Living in Ireland FB page, watch another episode of Dark on Netflix, read another chapter of Life After Doom by Brian McLaren (it’s a downer), prune the overgrown geraniums in the front garden, FaceTime with a grandkid (or you), do a respectable workout on the rowing machine (it’s too rainy for a walk), pay my bills (ok, that’s a lie), or almost anything else.

 

But since I’ve started writing I feel the muse stirring a little, so maybe I’ll be okay. I’ll get her some coffee or something.

It’s been an eventful couple of months… as things go in my life. Eventful means I’ve gotten out of bed every day, gotten dressed and done something or gone somewhere. I used to harass my mother when she’d say she’d had a busy day and I’d ask what she did and she could only name checking the mail and laundry. Now that I’m in her shoes, I get it. Especially when the weather is windy and drizzly.

I have retired friends who say they’ve never been so busy since they quit work. Not me. I don’t sign up for things. I don’t make an effort to be social. I enjoy my own company more than being with groups of you. But I absolutely love having coffee with just you and having you share what’s happening in your life and how that makes you feel. I’m a one-on-one kinda person. 

Dixie and I are a great match! It’s a miracle really. When we got together, statistically we had a very small chance of surviving the first year or so. Both older, had former relationships and now set in our own independent ways. Dr. Phil would have given us little hope. 

But we are blessed with similar temperaments and he likes to disappear playing golf with his friends, having occasional “quiet pints” in the pub, reading a lot, and being comfortable with himself. And we both love all the time we spend together as well… taking walks, shopping, cooking, making music and going camping in the AvantBard.

Which leads me to our recent travels. (My muse is rolling her eyes that I have rambled so before even getting started on the travels. Her fault, she should have intervened).

So in late April we went back to the southeast, the area where the Normans first landed. That Norman history is so interesting to me. We parked at a church across from a pub in a little village called Carrick-on-Bannow and spent two nights undisturbed. The first evening, the pub owner played traditional Irish tunes on a mouth organ and he and Dixie had a little session together. I wish you could see the video but it won't upload. Suggestions welcome.

By day we visited ruins including 12th century St Mary’s Church in Bannow. We learned that in one year around that time 50% of the village residents died of the Black Death (Glad my muse just had the Covid... wouldn’t want to lose her for good). It’s hard to process the suffering back then… and in some places now.

St Mary's Church, Bannow

Who took the body???

After all this time you’d think the world would be a more hospitable, gentler place. But watching the news I see that things really haven’t progressed much. The strong still prey on the weak, power and wealth still corrupt, disease still happens, and the most vulnerable pay the price for the luxuries they never get to realize.

 

Jaysus… my muse better get into gear… I’m depressing myself!

Back to the road. While we were in the area we took the ferry to Saltee Island, just a 15 minute ride. It’s Ireland’s biggest and best bird sanctuary and we knew this time of year would be nesting season. There were only 10 or so of us on the boat and, being early in the season, this was the only run of the day. So we basically had the island to ourselves.

Since I’ve been in Ireland I’ve wanted to see a puffin. No need to have tea with one, just wanted to catch a glimpse. They typically nest in burrows near the water and on cliffs but only for three months or so then they’re gone. I don’t know where. Seeing a puffin has been on my bucket list.

When we landed on the island and walked a short way, I raised my binoculars in anticipation and sure enough, I thought I spotted one in the distance. I was getting really excited. Dixie called my name and I shooed him away with ”I think I see a puffin!” He called my name again and I could hear urgency in his voice. “For Pete’s sake, what is it? Have you broken your foot or something?”

I lowered my binocs and there at my feet stood a little black and white magician, looking at me curiously like he thought maybe I had appeared out of thin air. My mouth dropped of course. I stood like a statue and slowly raised my phone to get a photo. As the day wore on, I realized I needn’t have been so cautious. The puffins were everywhere and they were unafraid and unaffected by our intrusion.

 

We saw all kinds of birds I couldn’t name but especially gannets, razorbills and shags ( I looked them up)

 

I spent way too much time trying to get the perfect shot… took way too many pix. It’s been on my mind lately that when I take a photo, I’m really not living in the present moment but living in the future, when I can look at the pic or show it to you. How much more rewarding would it be to just breathe and let every magical moment imprint itself into my soul, even if my conscious mind doesn’t remember it all! I will be changed with each encounter and that should be more than enough.

I know it’s called living mindfully. It’s a popular topic nowadays because I think so many of us find it so hard to do and we want to do it. I’ve toyed with the idea of no photos but I’m just not ready for that yet. But I do want to savor my moments with nature as never before.

 

It’s starting to sink in that the climate crisis is real and it doesn’t look like there will be any significant solutions. When Americans say the economy is their most important priority I know we're in trouble. It’s become cliche to say The Earth Is Fragile and We Are Ruining The Environment. As Al Gore pointed out almost 20 years ago, it’s an Inconvenient Truth. I believe we are all in denial because it’s just too formidable and devastating and frightening to grasp. (That’s it… I’m firing my muse!)

Back to travel… in early May we went back to the annual Cuckoo Festival in Kinvara on the west coast. You can read about this festival in earlier posts. You might recall that last year we parked in a field and got stuck. Lordy, how inexperienced we were! 

This year we parked up right away on the harbor and had a fabulous time. One unexpected treat was an amazing old-time fiddler in the crowd. Look at the video. I felt a sense of nostalgia listening to the oldtime. It’s the genre that started me on the fiddle and I still love it.

In late May my brother Hal and his wife Lynn came to visit for two weeks. I was a little nervous about entertaining them for so long because Hal doesn’t really like sight seeing and is prone to motion sickness. He actually got queasy walking up the spiral staircase of a castle.

We went easy on him and stayed close to home, but had four fabulous music sessions that lasted almost til sunrise. He took Thurles by storm and we can’t wait for them to come back.

When they left, the summer sun rose up like the prodigal son who had been cursed for his absence but was now adored for his return. We were inspired to go somewhere we'd never been.

The Beara Peninsula is sandwiched between the more popular Ring of Kerry to the north and the southern tip of Cork to the south. We made no plans or arrangements. We just took off with enough food and water and comforts to last two or three days. You’d have thought we were heading into the wilderness.

As soon as we hit the peninsula we passed a road sign for Kinneigh Round Tower and went in search. It was an exquisite old abbey ruin with the round tower dating back to the 11th century. After exploring the tower, the church and the graves, we had lunch there in the camper.

This is cool if you can read it!

The scenery on Beara was breathtaking. At one point we found ourselves at a high elevation overlooking green fields, mountains, the sea and we could barely make out a beach in the distance. Then I could barely make out campers parked at the beach. We flew down and sure enough were able to camp in the field by the water.

See the beach way out there

We asked someone how to get to the nearest village and were pointed to a road. But the road forked and we, having a 50-50 chance, took the wrong fork. It turned into a long but impressive scenic hike and we had no regrets. Walking back to the camper was much quicker though.

The next day we drove all the way to the end of the peninsula where we took a cable car to an island just off shore. We walked a little ways there but mostly relaxed at the church ruin perched by the shore.

We spent the next night in a parking lot in Castletownbere, a fair sized port town. I was obsessed with finding a particular nearby stone circle I’d read about but we only found the way to it after asking someone on the street. All our maps, GPS, and internet directions had us going in circles (not to be confused with the stone circle we were looking for). But it was well worth the fuss.

Then heading home we zigzagged through two mountain passes. One took us north and the other brought us back south, almost where we started. The views were absolutely stunning and what’s more… the whole area was practically deserted. Not a single tour bus and very few vehicles at all. 

The surrounding peninsulas are highly publicized, marketed and cater to the crowds. We prefer the solitude and quaintness of small villages and towns where you assimilate with the locals and feel at home. The Beara Peninsula is a hidden gem of a place and we intend to go back. 

If you’ve read this far, you are a saint! This blog is mainly a personal journal to help me keep track of where we’ve been. It makes me very happy to know that someone back home actually reads it. Irish people often ask me how I landed in Ireland. I say I came for a short visit and got carried away by the fairies. 

Sometimes it feels like I am detached from America and yet not really Irish of course. It’s a quirky in-between place that isn’t really lonely but is strange. I am so grateful for friends like you on both sides of the pond. You are the real muse! Thank you!