Strandhill Caravan Park, County Sligo, Connaught

                

Our last two days around County Sligo have been wonderful, but then so has every day been so in Ireland; we are absolutely enchanted with the place.

Yesterday morning we set off down N4 into County Roscommon, pausing to admire the lakes we passed on their western shores; Lough Arrow and Lough Key. We stopped on our outward trip to snap a few photos before continuing on and turning south on the N61 through Boyle, an attractive town that invited further exploration but we had a different destination in mind.

Near Tulsk we were distracted by an impressive sculpture up a side road which we subsequently discovered to be a memorial to those of Roscommon blood who lost their lives in the Republican uprising of 1916.

Back on the road we soon turned eastward on the N5 for the few kilometres to Strokestown, our destination for the day. Here is Strokestown Park House & Famine Museum, the house, an 18^th century mansion which has been restored to a state suitable for visitors.

This was the seat of the Mahon family from its completion in 1696 for almost three hundred years.  Nicholas Mahon was granted approximately six thousand acres for his services during the Cromwellian “invasion” of the 1650s, the land confiscated from the Gaelic O’Conor Roe family. The new settlors were securely established by the beginning of the 18^th century and a period of relative peace began. It is interesting to note that following the Cromwellian Plantation of the 1650s, Catholics owned approximately one tenth of Irish land.

While many of the landed gentry merely exploited their tenants for rental income, “improving” landlords sought to modernise agricultural and industrial production on their estates by encouraging tenants to modernise their holdings, adopt new, scientific, farming methods and put their families to work in the cottage linen industry. Incentives were provided in the form of reduced rents, loans and free distribution of fertiliser, tools, looms and spinning wheels.

During the 18^th century, the Strokestown estate, under the management of Thomas Mahon, was regarded as a model of good husbandry. Landlords lived in great luxury and spent lavishly on their houses, demesnes and lifestyles. However, the massive expenditure which the economic prosperity of the 18^th century had enables could not be sustained in the next century. By the 1840s a large percentage of the Irish landed estates had borrowings well in excess of the value of the property, and the popular stereotype emerged of the Irish landlords as a rapacious, heavy-drinking, gambling class.
 

And it was into this already strained circumstance, when the landholders were already trying to maximise returns from their land by changing the tillage style of farming to a larger scale pastoral grazing approach (similar to the “revolution” that went on with the Scottish land holders earlier in the century that lead to the Clearances), that the potato famine arrived.

Part of the estate, the stables, has been turned over to the Irish National Famine Museum, opened in 1994 and more recently renovated to include a more modern approach as is required by museums of this technological age.

The Great Irish Famine of the 1840s was the single greatest disaster of 19^th century Europe. Between 1845 and 1850, when blight devastated the potato crop, in excess of two and a half million people, over one quarter of the entire population, either died or emigrated.

The Famine Museum is designed to commemorate the history of the famine and in some way balance the history of the “Big House” which is also open to the public as part of the three way or combined ticketing arrangement.

The story of the famine starts with a look at pre-famine life in Ireland for those who lived in the “Big House” and the ordinary poor. Much of the information is drawn from the Mahon estate office archives, a unique collection of over 40,000 letters, accounts and administrative documents. The museum is twinned with the Irish Memorial Historic Site in Grosse Isle, in Canada’s Quebec, where 5,500 Irish emigrants from here and close by are buried in mass graves. This is all part of the hideous story that is revealed here, that the least work-able were “generously” given free passage to North America, and already half starved, caught typhus on board the ship or immediately in arrival, and perished in an absolutely ghastly manner; all this revealed here in the museum.  

Denis Mahon inherited the estate in 1845 from his cousin, for whom he had acted as proxy for some time given the incapacitation of that cousin, Maurice. The Strokestown estate agent, John Ross Mahon, convinced his boss that emigration on an extensive scale was the only way to bring the estate into order, because the maintenance of the destitute for which the landowner were responsible through in the workhouses and other various assistance packages that were trialled, was a lose-lose situation. Offering a ticket to leave and a generous box of goodies to help them en route, worked out as a far more economically viable option. And on top of that, those that were left were more likely to be in better working order than those that were shipped off with no genuine bill of health. Denis Mahon dug deep and provided £4,000 for the passage of more than 1,000 Strokestown tenants. Added to these were another large group from the Gore-Booth estate, that which spawned Constance Markiewicz who subsequently turned against the regime that she had grown up and became such a champion of Paddy Irish (or more particularly, Patricia Irish).

Of course there is so much more to this story and it goes without saying that we found it all very interesting and further evidence of the British yet again failing their Irish constituents.

One could only be buoyed to learn that Denis Mahon was assassinated within two years of his taking over the estate in his own name, and while many of the atrocities were conducted by his agent and henchmen, in the end the buck has to stop somewhere and that was with Mahon. There are several accounts of this execution, some which suggest that it was a case of mistaken identity, but I prefer to believe that this man got his come-up-ance.

Mahon’s daughter had been married off well, and with her husband, Henry Pakenham Mahon, they continued their land gathering ways. Finally the last of this Mahon line sold the property in 1979 and that is a story all by itself.

A local entrepreneur who had done well building his car, tractor and commercial vehicle sales businesses wanted extra land to expand. His business backed on to the Mahon estate and he and the Pakenham Mahon survivor had not seen eye to eye for some time. When he learned the estate was for sale he approached the vendor to ask if he could buy a small holding; the answer came back, all or nothing. So he stuck his neck out and bought the whole estate, the land and the house for about £400,000, excluding contents which he has rescued through various channels over the intervening years at exorbitant prices. Now in his very senior years, Jim Callery admits that it was a crazy project especially since he has since had to weather other economic storms. He opened the house to the public in 1987 and since then, the museum, the walled gardens and a woodland walk.

The walled gardens were a disappointment, given that we have seen so many very beautiful 
examples of these over the years of our touring through these isles, however when we came upon the photos of the garden as it was before the work that was started, we appreciated better the work-in-progress state they are currently in.

The house has not been restored to any glamour status, and is in fact a little shabby. Entry is by guided tour only and our guide, a delightful young man who has travelled extensively doing what he does here, gave us a highly entertaining and exaggerated spiel. We prefer serious historical fact, with no elaboration when there are gaps, so this was not really for us. However in the context of the museum and the rest of what was on offer, I was glad we had taken the three-in-one ticket. 

Annoyingly when we exited for lunch, we found that we should have paid less, taking advantage of being aged, although I guess we should be glad the other young man on the counter never guessed that we were over that threshold of age.

The woodland walk is an opportunity for a bit of exercise and some fresh air, and if you are in the company of wee ones, a delightful journey through fairyland. Many of the trees have little doors at their base, some with ladders and other paraphernalia to excite the imagination. This has all happened through the inventiveness of a woman whose daughter has suffered cancer for some years, and the decorations are part of a fundraising operation.

Well satisfied with our visit, especially given that our focus had been all about the Famine Museum, we set off around and north to Carrick-on Shannon in County Leitrim, keen to check out the Shannon waterway. Here like so many areas about Ireland, there are chains and patches of lakes. Somewhere I read that the soil in County Leitrim is exceptionally retentive of water, which accounts, with its many lakes, for a standard joke that land in the county is sold by the gallon rather than the acre. 

Actually the same could be said for much of the country because if you examine a map of this island carefully, one has to wonder whether it is a lake of many islands, or an island of many lakes. It reminds me of the paper decorations I made with my granddaughters some years ago: we folded an A4 sheet of paper, into four, then four again, then cut into it with scissors, this way and that, then opened it up discovering a “snowflake”, which now I think of it, closely resembles this Ireland in its entirety. A quick question to Google suggested there are more than 12,000 loughs; this I can believe.

Here at Carrick-on-Shannon, we learned that that goods transportation on the river ended after one hundred and sixty years in 1959 when a barge made its final delivery of twenty tons of flour from Limerick to this spot.

We parked up by the marina and spent nearly an hour walking along the river, checking out the boats and remarking that most of the watercraft were either motorboats or adapted barges rather than narrow boats, of which in fact there were none. We thought it a rather charming spot however the afternoon was moving on and we still had far to go. With that we set out Tomtom for home and headed directly back along the N4 until we reached the turnoff for Strandhill. En route we did pull into the lookout near Lough Key near Boyle to check the rather impressive equestrian statue out, that named The Gaelic Chieftain inspired by the Battle of the Curlews fought in 1599. 

Much later in the evening, far later than we would normally venture out for dinner, we walked up to The Venue at the top of the village, and partook of an excellent dinner. The food was superb, the service equally so and our position beside the large windows looking out over Sligo Bay could not have been bettered. We lingered over the meal, our bottle of wine, the coffee and a carafe of water, then finally moved into the bar to listen to some traditional Irish music, the whole point of the exercise given that we had only recently splurged out for a restaurant meal.

The singer accompanied on his guitar, Kevin McManus, was very talented, but sang country numbers, including a few John Denver hits with an couple of Elton John compositions thrown in. Alas this was not what we had expected. We hung about for three quarters of an hour, one of three couples seemingly doing the same, in the company of another six portly middle aged regulars holding up the bar, who might once upon a time have been rockers. 

We walked home in the dark, heels clattering on the pavement, a few lights shining through the curtained windows and arrived home safely far way beyond my normal bedtime.

Despite the late evening, we were awake early this morning and ready to head off for the last day out of Sligo before the children had started their school day. Today we headed west, along the southern edge of Sligo Bay, passing through some lovely lush farmland on the N59 to Ballina, where we stopped down by the quay, the boat ramp on the river that runs out into Killala Bay. After a brisk walk out in the even brisker wind, we continued on, now on the minor 314, through Killala, soon passing through the more barren bog land I had expected earlier on.

This is the Ceida (pronounced cage-a) Coast, a bog land where Stone Age settlement has been revealed beneath the metres of bog land. Here there is a visitor centre built in the early 1990s, inserted into the landscape with a viewing platform perched on high. The structure won several architectural awards subsequent to its opening and I have to say it fits into the landscape very well. But today the winds were ferocious, and we chose to remain in the centre rather than venture out onto the fields, where one can either take a guided tour or make one’s way around oneself. Had the weather been better, it might have been interesting to search for the plants growing along the surface, and of course the views out across to the sea cliffs are spectacular, with the added wonder of the high rocky stack standing a little off the shore edge.

The bog over Ceide Fields has preserved the landscape as it was when it was first farmed five thousand years ago. Excavations in the tomb and enclosure show both by objects discovered ad by radiocarbon estimates that it dates back that far. The survey of the field walls where the bog has been cut away showed an intact structured landscape. Probing extended the fields tenfold to give the one thousand hectare monument which makes it by far the most extensive Stone Age monument in the world.

The archaeologists have arrived at the following conclusions from the evidence here:

• ·         That it was an organised community capable of carrying out well planned projects.
• ·         That it was a large community able to clear massive tracts of forest and then divide up the entire area by building a quarter of a million tons of stone into mile after mile of walls.
• ·         That it put a lot of effort into building permanent “houses of the dead” which suggest the people had strong spiritual beliefs.
• ·         That it had a mainly pastoral economy with the fields used for year round grazing of cattle.

This really is a most fascinating place and we were delighted we had bothered calling even if we only took advantage of the static displays in the “museum” and the film which is run every half hour.

We continued on west from here, delighting in the landscape, the heather covered bog amazingly grazed by pockets of sheep and cattle, who all obviously know the safe trails about the landscape. Human habitation is sparse, as you would expect, although dense enough to warrant a school at Falagh near Carrowmore Lake. Here we took a short cut south back to the N59 and headed back east toward Ballina.

We had considered crossing the Ox Mountains east of Ballina, however by now the weather had closed in and we saw little point in climbing high into the cloud. Instead we took the coastal route along the R297 past Enniscrone and Easky, and on back home.

After unpacking the day’s bits and pieces, I headed across to the reception area for the last time and posted photos to my Facebook page and picked up emails. I only hope that I am able to access my own O2 internet tomorrow when we settle into our camp in Northern Ireland.

Strandhill Caravan Park, County Sligo, Connaught

               

Our first day in County Sligo dawned sunny and dry, albeit cold and windy. We remained firm with our plan of venturing into the County capital first and foremost, having little expectation of much to hold our interest, but needing to deal with financial matters that are best suited to towns rather than poxy villages.

We arrived at about 9.30 am finding our way to a car park along the quay manned by a scruffy individual who was happy to take our €3 for all day parking and we were none the wiser whether this was a good deal or not. The positive was that we were no longer restricted to any particular time, although would most likely kick ourselves if we were in and out of the town within a couple of hours.

Our first port of call was the Tourist Information office where we were assisted in a most friendly manner and came away with a town map, more enthusiasm for this rural service centre and an invitation to a free guided tour about the town later in the morning. Money matters were dealt with although not quite to plan, however we were then able to put them aside and check out Sligo. 

I do like heading for the river or quay of a town, where applicable of course, and here in Sligo the Garvogue River rushes through with great force, today more so than say, a month ago, given the recent rains. There are several bridges across the river, one dating from the late 1600s and the more picturesque a replacement for the medieval “Old Bridge”, named on completion in 1847 for Queen Victoria, but in 1947 renamed the Hyde Bridge after the first President of Ireland, Dubhglas de Hide, more appropriate given the change in sovereignty. 

We wandered up along Stephan Street to the County Museum, a very small affair with a comprehensive exhibition about Countess Constance Markiewicz, the first woman to be elected to the British House of Commons, but so very much more, and another about the Yeats family whom Sligo has adopted as its own. Other celebrities and events get small mention  however in fairness we left to join the walking tour long before I had finished reading about Constance or checking out too much else.

At 11 am we joined three other tourists, attractive young women almost old enough to be our grandchildren, and led by the passionate historian and archaeologist Auriel, we spent an hour and a half walking about the town learning of its past and visiting the locations of those happenings. We admired the County Council Buildings, the Court house, the Anglican Cathedral which was just visible behind the chained up gates and the interior of the more welcoming Catholic Cathedral, the ruins of the Dominican friary, various pubs which offer the best in food and music, retail outlets which also off the best in their fare, and had a few interesting interruptions by local chaps who were keen to add their bit to Auriel’s spiel, all uninvited.  

I found it all very interesting and even more so, the underlying un-said commentary. Our guide carries a lot of anger about the unfair historical actions of the British, all of which I can understand and empathise with. However it struck me that if the Republic is full of well-educated young people as angry as our guide, there is little chance of real peace anytime soon.

She left us down by the quay, a most opportune spot to sit and eat our lunch, and to mull over the plans for the rest of the day. Nearby was a moving sculpture of a family torn apart by mandatory immigration and a plaque that explained that 30,000 people emigrated through Sligo between 1847 and 1851, those years of the Great Hunger. Reading that, it seemed a sacrilege when Chris fed his crusts to the seagulls and pigeons gathering about our feet.

We had popped into the Yeats Memorial Building soon after our arrival in town and learned it would be late opening; “something had happened”, which left us to imagine all sorts of scenarios. We had both been keen to check this out, Chris less than I, however after our tour and the little taste tester in the County Museum, Chris had lost all interest.

I mentioned the Yeats family while we were still in Dublin, and while the poet, W B Yeats did live in Dublin, it was here in Sligo that he and his siblings used to come and stay with their maternal grandparents who were wealthy business people of the time. It is here too that all the children formed their attachment to County Sligo which was to later influence their output, be it poetry, painting or fabric design. All over Sligo are to be found extracts of verse printed on walls, and statues and murals relating to W B Yeats abound.

We did find our way up to The Model, reportedly one of Ireland’s finest art galleries. It is housed in a rather grand building once home to an interdenominational primary school, but today there were only three galleries, two not much bigger than bathrooms, with an exhibition of works by the Yeats, mostly the patriarch, John Butler Yeats who was a fine portraitist. While we found the exhibition to our liking, we were disappointed that all the other galleries were closed being readied for new exhibitions.

It was probably not even 2 pm when we returned to our informal car park and set off. The Rough Guide had sung the praises of a drive tour around Lough Gill, a lake that featured in W B Yeats poetry. The lake is about eight kilometres long and two kilometres at its greatest width, it does have a couple of islands, and a lakeside castle I wanted to check out.

There is also another pretty little lake to the north of Lough Gill, Colgagh Lough which we stopped above to admire beyond the roadside blackberries and fuschias. 

Parke’s Castle was built by an English Captain named Robert Parke in the early 17^th century over the remains of an earlier tower house. The reincarnation should more correctly be described as a semi-fortified manor house of the plantation period, sharing many of the defensive characteristics of a castle.

The tower house was built by Brian O’Rourke, Prince of Breffine (an area which now includes County Leitrim and parts of County Cavan). In 1588, O’Rourke sheltered the shipwrecked Captain of the Spanish Armada in his castle, many of the chieftains having formed alliances with Spain in their war against the English. O’Rourke was subsequently carted off to London and executed for treason against the Crown and Parke was granted ownership of the castle and surrounding land. The masonry of the tower house was used in the construction of Parker’s manor house.

The last member of the Parke family left the castle in 1691. The advent of gunpowder and artillery brought about the demise of many of Ireland’s castles, while others fell into ruin through neglect and re-appropriation of materials. Parke’s Castle is one of many monuments which have been rescued and restored through state intervention and the Office of Public Works.

The greater part of the restoration was begun in 1982 and took eight years to complete, however all properties such as these require on-going work, and today a large part of the yard was cordoned off to accommodate the re-thatching of one of the roofs. In this day and age, when such work is undertaken by law abiding tradesmen, this involves significant scaffolding and the roping off of a ridiculous area to safe guard those who might venture too close.

Back on the road, we continued on around the lake in a clockwise fashion, as close to the shore as possible, which is not very close at all. We paused to admire the attractive village of Dromahair through which the Bonet River flows, the primary inflow of the Lough, then pressed on through pleasant rural countryside until we emerged on to the N4 just south of Sligo. Here we refuelled and then took ourselves back to Strandhill by the route we had travelled earlier in the day, the Sligo Harbour and the impressive height of Benbulben to the north, and Knocknarea to our south, that which forms the backdrop to our camp beside the surf beach.

We called into a pub / restaurant at Strandhill, recommended by Auriel has having both good food and music. We intend to shout ourselves an Irish night out tomorrow night, to celebrate twenty one years (and one day) since we moved into our home back in Onerahi.

Strandhill Caravan Park, County Sligo, Connaught

Yesterday was our last full day touring day out of Galway which should have enjoyed better weather, however beggars can’t be choosers; we have a touring roof over our heads, raincoats and hats to shield us from the worst of the rainy squalls, and fuel in the tank; more than most.

So we set off hoping for the day to improve, with a full day’s schedule, the Chauffeur having come to terms with the mileage to be covered. Initially we headed north on the N24, all of this on the tail of an oversize Spanish touring coach who would not pull over to let the growing queue of traffic pass, and was so wide that on the rare occasion there was no oncoming traffic, it was impossible to do so. Needless to say the Chauffeur had much to say, little of it endearing.

We turned north west at Headford on to the R345 as did the coach and most of the queue, now heading into County Mayo and for Cong, the first of our destinations for the day. Finally we managed an overtaking manoeuvre, soon arriving at the charming village of Cong, overflowing with other coachloads of tourists, albeit still early in the morning, so we pressed on without exploring this little gem beyond a cursory inspection as we would our way through. 

From here we headed along the northern shore of Lough Corrib, the second largest lake in the island of Ireland and the largest in the Republic of Ireland, that which feeds the River Corrib that passes through Galway and out into Galway Bay. The lake covers an area of 176 square kilometres and has a maximum depth of almost fifty one metres. When we did pause to take some photos, Chris remarked it would make for a fine sailing location, and that is when we checked out these statistics; with an average depth of six and half metres, it probably would do so.

Misty rain was still falling and the scenic landscapes confronting us were quite beautiful with the mist, the fresh colour of the fuschias and montbretias along the roadside, and the brilliant red of the rowan berries. The odd rainbow added to the scene, and we were delighted just as we had been with the atmospheric appeal of the Gap of Dunloe, even though we thought it all would be so much more beautiful in better weather.

The road passed on up between the Maumturks Mountains and those of Joyce’s Country to the north, black legged undocked sheep grazing on the steep slopes of the range. We came down to Leenane, still in the rain, but still enjoying the the descent into narrow Killary Sound. 

After picking up overpriced morning tea eats from the one store, aside from the tourist souvenir gift shops, we turned north, first winding our way around the end of the sound and pausing to check out the lovely waterfall at Aasleagh on the Erriff River with a number of other independent tourists such as ourselves and one salmon fisherman who was readying himself to catch one of the hardy fishy specimens attempting the ascent of the falls.

The road followed the western bank of Killary Sound before passing through Delphi where there were a number of rather lovely tourist lodges offering bike hire, fishing, zip wire adventures and the like. I thought that if we were rich it would be quite a wonderful place to pass several days; the area is truly beautiful.

Two long slim lakes lie to the east of the road after one climbs up between the Mweelrea Mountains and Sheefry Hills; Doo Lough and Glencullin Lough. While the mist still shrouded the peaks, it was still a wonderfully picturesque place to be, the light between the showers rather special. 

We paused at the memorial erected in memory of the six hundred starving souls who gathered in Louisburgh in March 1849 seeking food or a ticket to the Westport workhouse. They were told to apply to the Poor Law officials who were meeting the next day at Delphi, over ten miles away. While some died overnight, the remainder struggled across the mountains following sheep tracks and wading streams. When they arrived at Delphi, the Poor Law officials rose from their sumptuous lunch, refused to help and told them to return home. No one knows how many died by the wayside of cold, hunger and exhaustion. Some were buried where they fell. This dreadful story is one of many such hideous tales of the Great Famine which is marked by such moving memorials.

Further north we emerged near the coast at Louisburgh, a settlement that did not hold our interest, then on a little further east, now heading toward Westport, we considered stopping to check out the holy pilgrimage spot of Crough Patrick. The mountain itself rises to 765 metres ASL, and it is to the summit of this that large groups of pilgrims climb on three separate and special days of the year: St Patrick’s Day in March, Assumption Day in August and Reek Day on the last Sunday in July, a day adopted from the pagan harvest festival of Lughnasa.

Of course anyone can walk to the top on any day they choose, and to assist with this, the Visitor Centre and shops in towns nearby offer walking sticks and other useful paraphernalia. As we passed by we could see people making their way up to the top, tiny dots on the well-formed path. We might have found out more about the spot had there not been a charge for entering the car park; instead we had to rely on the literature we carry about with us.

It was here, according to legend, that St Patrick spent the forty days of Lent alone on the mountains, distracting himself at one point by casting all the snakes of Ireland over the precipice of Lugnacarrib just to the south of the summit. I do hope he managed to get rid of them all; I have not yet encountered on, nor hope to do so.

We found Westport absolutely delightful, starting with the port area exposed to the westerly winds that have been blowing fiercely for some days now. I was surprised how very shallow this harbour on the edge of Clew Bay is, mostly because I had thought of this place as being an important west coast port, “port” being the operative word.

Once we realised that the town was not within easy walking distance, or at least in these unpleasant conditions, when we had a vehicle at our disposal, we drove on into the town centre and spent an hour wandering about delighting in every aspect, particularly the tree-lined boulevard along the Carrowbeg River from which all streets rise. 

Westport is a designated heritage town and is apparently unusual in Ireland in being one of only a few planned towns in the country. That statement alone seems open to contention because we have already visited quite a few towns that were deliberately planned. 

There was an accordion player outside one of the colourful pubs and four mature ladies taking advantage of the music with a traditional turn. In another street there was an Irish balladeer of greater years, another sweet sound that enhanced this wonderfully busy and beautiful town.

We travelled on now east-north-east to Castlebar, a town I wished to call into for ancestral reference more than any tourist recommendation. It was here that my great great grandfather Ambrose Samuel Scammell spent a few years after arriving with the 65^th Regiment in about 1841. It would seem that this grandfather of mine was a bit of a rascal; he deserted from here in late 1842, but a month later was back in custody, doing time for a couple of months.  After being released and back to duty in 1843, he managed to hook up with my great great grandmother Ann, and soon had her up the duff, as they say. They married three weeks after the baby was born and in April the next year was marching for Dublin to catch the boat to England, then on DownUnder with Ann and baby George following along in another ship. 

We found the barracks, now apparently deserted although there was evidence of some sort of barrier control, just not when we poked our noses in. I learned that these were completed in 1834, so they would have been as-new when Samuel was a sometime resident.

But our visit raised more questions than it answered:

• ·         Was the 65^th Regiment actually stationed here in these relatively comfortable digs or did they have to camp outside the city?
• ·         What was Ann doing in Castlebar?
• ·         Was Samuel the father of baby George?

And then when you start to consider these and the possible answers, even more questions arise. This is why I, a puzzle solver by nature, which is also how I saw my work, delight in the search of my own family history.

Castlebar was first significantly settled when Norman settlers, the de Barra (or Barry) family came and built a castle in 1235, lending the family name to the town. Barry’s castle no longer exists, but there is a rather interesting sculptural installation in a little square that is worth a mention. 

In 1798 General Humbert and the United Irishmen defeated the Redcoats in a battle that has become known as the Races of Castlebar. There are several other memorials about the town relating to this, but it was this with the pikes I was most taken with, although the bronze and stainless steel artwork actually depicts a cloud of doves signifying the reconciliation after the conflict . 

It was here too in Castlebar that I spent a moment or two with a nun who had managed to get to Knock to see the Pope on Sunday morning. She was still buzzing from the experience, and said the rain had been of no account; the pure joy she and her fellow believers derived from the brief visit was something she would carry to the grave. Chris was quite surprised I had asked these questions of the woman; he had not noticed her striped scarf marking her out as one of the Brides of Christ. I told her that I was delighted she had been able to make the excursion and had had such a positive experience; Chris thought us both quite potty.

In fact he is glad that the papal visit is now over and the news might be more about closing post offices, or Brexit, or Florida shootings, or poor old McCain’s funeral in the US of A, rather than the overwhelming commentary of all things Catholic.

And just to linger on “all things Catholic”, it is worth explaining Knock, which we passed by today on our journey north. It was here in 1879 that a number of residents “saw” a vision of the entire holy family here which after much deliberation by the religious powers that be, was confirmed as a miracle, especially after a few mysterious cures and favours occurred, and Knock has now become a great place of pilgrimage. It has not shared the same commercial attention that say, Lourdes, has enjoyed, but after a visit from Francis this last week will have gained renewed interest. 

In 1972 the foundation stone was laid for the modern Basilica of our Lady, Queen of Ireland and in 1979, Pope John Paul II, the last pope to visit the country before this latest excitement, popped in to celebrate mass and everything else a pope might do on such a visit. Just hope there is enough accommodation for all the extra future religious tourists.

From here we made a direct run for home; the N84 took us down the eastern side of both Lough Mask and Lough Corrib. Arriving back in Galway we called into the Tesco supermarket before returning home to our camp beside the sea.

It was still windy this morning when we packed up and we did wonder how the trip would be, however away from the coast, it was a little more sheltered. We came up on the N17, an uninspiring road until we reached the more undulating surrounds of County Sligo. Our camp is about eight kilometres short of the county town, but near the airport which does not seem to get much traffic and next to a beach which is “absolutely unsafe for swimming” and yet seems to host several surfing events.

We have yet to venture out onto the sea shore or even up onto the sand hills to check the surf out. Rain has set in again and the washing I so carefully hung out, is now wetter than when it came out of the machine.

We spent some time last night and again this afternoon discussing our itinerary for the next couple of weeks, but are constantly frustrated by the paucity of caravan parks in the places we would prefer to be. Tour towing is not the same as taking your caravan to the one seaside spot for a holiday, and we do try to keep our towing to the more major routes, avoiding those little white and yellow roads so marked on the map. It seems that we will simply have to continue with long day drives out from the better places camps.