Blarney Caravan & Camping Park, County Cork, Munster

The weather was still reasonable when we set off after breakfast yesterday, south along the coast toward Kinsale, the main destination for the day. Our Tomtom took us down through the centre of Cork, not too ghastly today given the fact that it was a Sunday. As we worked our way through the maze of city streets, it did concern us that this might be our exit route when we move further south.

We travelled south on the N27 which becomes the R600 after the airport, then turned off to Charles Fort, an important historical landmark under the administration of Heritage Ireland. What a treat this was, if only to enjoy the views back up the harbour to Kinsale!

Charles Fort was built in this location to protect the interest of the British Crown. Construction work began with the seaward bastions in 1678 and was the largest engineering project during the 17^th century, standing on the site of an Anglo-Norman Ringcurran Castle which had been destroyed in 1656 on Cromwell’s orders. Sir William Robinson architect of the Royal Hospital , Kilmainham, adapted the classic star shaped design of the great French military engineer Vauban, but his advice to build extra fortifications at the top of the hill was not adhered to. An interesting post script to this and to the Battle of the Boyne saga, when James II snuck out of the port at Kinsale, is the further skirmish when the people of Kinsale refused to profess loyalty to William of Orange despite his victories over the Jacobite armies of Derry, The Boyne and Cork. The Jacobites realised the importance of holding Kinsale to safeguard contact with their principal ally France.

The Williamite campaign against Kinsale, under the joint command of the Dukes of Marlborough and Wurtemburg, was short and sharp. Because of the omission of the more elevated defence fort, the Duke of Marlborough was easily able to unseat the Jacobites in 1690 by attacking from the land, which had always been considered vulnerable. The seventy year old Jacobite Sir Edward Scott set fire to the town of Kinsale and withdrew with men to Charles Fort. Colonel O’Driscoll withdrew with soldiers to James Fort across the harbour, this fort now little more than a scatter of rubble and a fine picnic site on a sunny dry day. 

Most of the buildings on the twelve acre Charles Fort site were damaged during the Irish Civil War in 1922 and this medley of historical destruction and revolution is well documented in the excellent exhibition centre.

Two floors of one of the restored buildings is set up with excellent exhibitions about the fort, the battles and even more interestingly the life of soldiers who served in Ireland . I say this with reference to my great great great grandfather Samuel Scammell who passed through Ireland long enough to impregnate Anne who followed him across the world and bred a solid group of siblings who included my great great grandmother Lily. 

We loved Charles Fort and thought it was an absolute must-see for anyone travelling down this coast, but better if they were English literate, but because much of the excellent information is in either English or Irish Celtic.

The sun was still shining when we headed back up the harbour to Kinsale where we found a free park along the quay, as you would expect on this day of rest and prayer for the parking wardens. I had planned two specific destinations here, the first Desmond Castle under the administration of Heritage Ireland and the second, the Kinsale Regional Museum, which if I had read the guide book carefully, I would have seen the volunteers who man this apparently wonderful resource of local history, like to take three days off to catch up on their knitting or with their friends, starting Sunday.

Wisely we checked in with the lovely folk in the Information Centre and learned the volunteers like to have a life, and that Desmond Castle was closed, for what I understood to be for renovations however later when I learned that this now doubles as the Wine Museum, I think it might have had more to do with a modest attempt at temperance. The many cafés, bars and restaurants certainly counter that argument.

I was disappointed about the accessibility of Desmond Castle, “a fine example of an urban town house”, built around for the Earl of Desmond who had recently been given control of the wine trade from France, Spain  and Portugal to Bristol by Henry VII. Most likely this historical link has much to do with the fact it is now, when open, a wine museum.

I was also disappointed and annoyed at my own tour planning about the museum, however we spent a good hour wandering about the river front and the town, enjoying the colourful scenes, the historical information and the crowds of tourists and their tour guides. 

We were intrigued as to why the Spanish Armada is so positively memorialised here, but then one must remember that the Spanish were as anti-English as the Irish were, and sometimes strange bed-fellows will band together against a common enemy. Think of the Russians and the Americans against Hitler!

So along the quay area can be found this “Spanish Galleon Mainmast” replica erected by the town in 2001 to commemorate the 400^th anniversary of The Battle of Kinsale in the year 1601. To recap: following the failure of the Spanish Armada in 1588 and the dispersal of storms of the two or more during the last years of Philip II, Phillip III decide to provide direct support to Irish rebels fighting England in the expectation that tying England down in that country might draw even more of their resources away from their allies in the Netherlands, the Dutch Estates, which were engaged in a long running rebellions against Spanish rule. Phillip III dispatched one of his main men to Ireland with 6,000 men and a significant amount of arms and ammunition, Bad weather separated their ships and nine carrying the majority of veteran soldiers and gunpowder had to turn back. The remaining 4,000 disembarked in Kinsale in October 1601 in ships similar to the Spanish Galleon here immortalised. And this of course all adds up to the absolute tangle of politics and intrigue that went on all those centuries ago, and today still continues, albeit behind closed doors or on Twitter feeds.

We happened upon a tour guide who was telling the story of the sinking of the Lusitania which occurred off the Old Headland just to the south of Kinsale in 1915. The Courthouse, originally the Market House at the commercial heart of this very old town, built around 1600, was the location for the inquest on the victims of the Lusitania, the jury consisting of twelve local fishermen and shopkeepers together with a coroner J.J.Horgan and Captain William Turner, whose command of the ill-fated ship was severely criticised.

According to the local guide there are more questions than answers regarding this matter but here is not the place to discuss or analyse those, however I have read in several different forums some of those controversies and it is indeed and interesting matter.

Having ascertained that Kinsale was indeed worthy of a visit, even if only to be walked about, we retreated to the car and set off further south, following the Atlantic Way. We passed through places with the delightful names such of Ballinspittle, close to another even more interesting, Kilbrittain, on through lovely Timoleague, and over the hill to a second bay of Courtmacsberry, the seaside settlement of that name sitting directly opposite our descent and so very lovely at a distance.

On we went across another stretch of lovely rural scenery and down into Clonakilty Bay, where we paused in a car park of the township with the same name, refreshing ourselves with a coffee from the eski before turning back for home.

 Now we headed more directly north, heading for the shopping centre of Ballincollig, directly west of Cork, which promised to have a Tesco Extra. We had checked out the SuperValu at Kinsale and seen the price of broccoli and wine were horrendous (these two items our measure for fair pricing), so hoped we would do better with our tried and true Tesco. This turned out to be correct, although would not have been so had we needed to go out of our way to call by. We found our way home via Blarney and the route that will serve us well when we leave here tomorrow.

The sun was shining again when we rose this morning, yesterday’s late afternoon rain all gone, however it seems to be a pattern here, sunshine and showers, some of the latter heavier than we would like. I had spent some time yesterday evening trying to contact my younger son, who was hopefully celebrating his thirtieth birthday DownUnder, and again this morning before we set off. Instead I had to be satisfied with a message sent via text and can only hope he received it along with the card mailed to his new address. His life is somewhat topsy-turvey at the moment hence my anxiety to catch up with him on his special day. Hopefully he has spent time with friends, old and new. Such are the worries of mothers on the other side of the world, even when their children and entering their fourth decade!

We did not set out until nearly 10 am, a very relaxed getaway, and headed down into Blarney and across a series of roads through low lying countryside to intersect with the River Lee. It is this which flows on and around the capital of Cork, the city of about 120,000 folk, who mostly occupy that area of reclaimed marshland.

Our intention today was to follow the Lee Valley upstream before heading up into the more mountainous country, although “mountainous” land is something County Cork cannot boast, the highest peaks reaching only to about 650 metres ASL. We had tossed up several touring agendas for the day, the original to be to Cobh, pronounced “Cove”, a seaside settlement which apparently hosts ocean going cruise liners, holding that tradition from centuries ago. This was the last port of call for the first steamship, the Sirius, to cross the Atlantic in 1838 and for the Titanic in 1912. It is also the resting place for many of those that perished in the Lusitania, so it is altogether a likely place to draw the tourist. Last night Chris’s sister had again sung the praises of this spot, and my daily schedule was all set up for such a day. Instead The Chauffeur chose an alternative day out, and while I could have jumped up and down and said I wanted to go to Cobh, I also was keen to do the inland route. I just want to do everything!

Much of the River Lee on the map seems to be absorbed in the Taiscumar Reservoir, so we assumed correctly there was a dam at the eastern end of the lake. However the management of the waterways in the Lee Valley is far more complex than that. Arriving at Inishcarra, we discovered the Inniscarra 110 kV power station, and above it the towering forty five metre high buttressed dam. It spans the gorge for 247 metres and was commissioned in 1957. Naturally it was not a popular project at the time or at least with the farmers whose land was flooded but with a hand out to compensate, and the subsequent decades of tourism, water skiing and fishing opportunities, everyone has come around to the idea. Or perhaps not everyone; the Irish seem to have long memories.

We drove down to the base of the dam, ducked through a small steel opening in a larger barrier and wandered along the river for a short distance, startling a beautiful heron and catching the after splash of a large fish, not exactly seen therefore as big as we could imagine, a fisherman’s dream. The way was littered with discarded nylon line, cans, wrappers and all the debris a careless and inconsiderate fisherman might leave behind him. Today there was a report in the newspaper about the litter in some of the tourist hotspots; while this one was not named, it would fit well.

Back on the road and along the reservoir a little, we learned more about the area; that the lakes are divided and named the Innescarra and Carrigadrohid Lakes respectively, the two divided by a second hydro dam.

Travelling westward, we soon arrived at Dripsey where there is a castle and a history of mills, these including a paper mill, two cheese factories and a woollen mill, which remained in operation until 1988. The Dripsey Paper Mill was established  in 1784 and renowned for their fine quality paper. One of its consumers was the Bank of England, who used the paper to produce Treasury Bills and Bank Notes. However it closed in 1864 after employing up to four hundred people at its peak.

Alas while we thought our glimpse of Dripsey, as we motored through, quite charming, we saw no evidence of these historical remnants. On we went, next to Coachford, where we stopped and picked up the day’s newsapper and some excellent pastries from the local Centra superette. 

We did not linger here but pressed on again to Macroom which is a quite a sizeable town, serving the rural folk who live in the environs and the folk who populate the town, all 4,000 of them. We parked up near a brand new Dunnes Store, the first of this chain we had visited. We purchased packs of sox to justify our use of the loos, as one surely must, and were pleasantly surprised to see the range of goods the shop offered. We will no doubt be back to another of its branches, if only to use its loos while checking out the possibility of other purchases.

Enjoying the luxury of free parking, we spent some time wandering about this charming town, down to the River Sullane from which we enjoyed views back up to the remnants of the castle. The first castle here is thought to have been built by King John between 1200 and 1250. Later Macroon Castle became home of the McCarthys, Lord of Muskerry, and operators of many of the shops in town. It was burnt out on five different occasions, most recently in the War of Independence in 1922 following the evacuation of the British Auxilaries who had commanded it as a residence in 1920. In 1925 Lady Ardilaun made the castle estate to be held in trust for the people of Macroom, a very sensible political move if you ask me.

I was keen to check out whatever we could see for free through the gatehouse, so we walked back up into the town making our way through the entry arch, amazed to find the fire station, a vocational training school and a series of sports facilities. We also came upon a recently installed memorial to those who had been involved, to the detriment of themselves or their immediate family,  in the rebellion between 1798 and 1803, who were either executed, transported for life or disappeared from history. This seemed particularly poingnant given that just days ago we learned that many Syrian civilians have only recently learned that their own “lost” relatives are dead. To see a list of names like this, especially when they were not so much involved in wholesale slaughter as per the last two World Wars, but on a much more personal level, is very moving indeed.

After dining a la voiture, we turned north, then east at Millstreet, another surprisingly busy and sizeable township, up into the Boggeragh Mountains in search of the Millstree Country Park. Our progress was slow through beautiful rural and pastoral landscapes, then up into slightly less productive land now planted out in pines.

We came upon St John’s Well, a spot high on the hill facing west with splendid views, dedicated to  St John the Baptist where mass is celebrated on the 24 June each year. Here in a circular car park, or at least we used it for that purpose today, is a circle of stones, each to represent the Stations of the Cross, as are found in Catholic Churches, and surprisingly in Anglican ones as well! But most titillating for me was the advice that there is a special cure here for warts, with which I have been plagued for several years on one thumb. To Chris’s horror, I took coins from our parking stash, and strode up to the grotto, posted my donation in the secure collection vault and plunged my hand into the icy waters of St John’s grotto. I do believe that if the wart actually disappears, something that a number of chemical pharmacy recommended potions have had little luck in achieving, it will be the properties of the cold water here that will have done the trick; I “pray” this is so. Chris was not impressed, but then he is not impressed by the little shrines on cross roads and the like. He has not seen these in Belgium, France and Spain as I have, but then he has not lived and breathed with Catholic folk as I have.

Up the road we found the 203 hectare park on the slopes of Musheramor Mountain was not open to the public on Mondays, a fact that did not please us greatly, however we decided to head on over the pass toward Blarney, along very minor country lanes, so many bordered with fuschia hedges;  Chris’s sister had told us that we would most likely see these given our seasonal timing here.

Our disappointment was soon tempered by the sight of a Hen Harrier, not that common here or in fact in the British Isles at all. It has been designated as a protected species and rightly so; we were delighted with the sight. Here too on the slopes of this less idyllic pastoral land we came upon a small herd of local sheep, a rather motley group still wearing their tails and I wondered about that. In Scotland, England, Wales, and now here, we have more often than not seen that sheep are allowed to keep their tails, and yet in Australia and New Zealand we have a tendancy to whack them off as they are earmarked and scratched for blackleg. Given that our pioneer farmers came from these Isles, what made them change their shepherding practices? Is it that our flies are more virilent DownUnder?

The road we took is an old Butter Road, an eighty eight kilometre road built in the mid-18^th century, truly an engineering feat which incuded nine large bridges and fifteen smaller ones. Its construction and financing of the turnpike road was the sole responsibility of an enterprising Kerry man, John Murphy. I am glad there was no such toll on the road today; we would have chosen another route. 

Which in fact we had to do when we reached Rylane, to find the road ahead closed for roadworks. We consulted a young chap and his mother who gave us a long list of waypoint options, much of which was lost on us. However we found our way east, finally arriving after such a lovely drive, in the village of Tower, where we filled our diesel tank ready for our relocation tomorrow.