Camac Valley Tourist Holiday Park, Dublin, Leinster

Setting a touring itinerary sounds like such an easy and fun sort of pastime; the reality is something else when there are far too many options for far too few days. Fortunately Chris and I have similar tastes, so there are some things you can almost automatically exclude, however it does pay to check before dismissing them out of hand.

So yesterday we decided that a visit to the Battle of the Boyne Centre should be on the agenda, to both educate and entertain. This is situated on the banks of the River Boyne, between Slane and Drogheda, nearer the latter. To hasten our arrival, we travelled via the tolled M50 and then the M2/N2, north on an excellent but otherwise unremarkable road. Here on the motorways one is allowed to whizz along at 120 kph, at least ten to fifteen kph more than we like for comfortable travel. 

Just sort of Slane we turned eastward and travelled the remainder of the journey through a network of small country roads, turning briefly into Bru na Boinne, another ancient site, this containing a number of stone passage and burial chambers. We might have lingered here, obviously a popular spot given the fact the car park was already packed out with cars and coaches, however I checked our guide book and discovered there was an entry fee, which would have been acceptable had this been our destination for the day, but it was not.

We continued on, soon arriving at the Battle of the Boyne Visitor site, situated in the restored 18^th century Oldbridge House near the village of Donone. This and the surrounding land was purchased by the government in 2000 as part of the Good Friday Peace Agreement, and here are attempts to tell the true story of the Battle and those who took part in it rather than see it simply as a red flag to those who march in the Orange Day celebrations up north, clutching the part truths that have grown up around it all.

Oldbridge House was built in the 1740s after John Coddington purchased four hundred acres of land from Henry Moore, the 4^th Earl of Drogheda and fifty years after the bloody war in what was to become the Coddington’s front garden. In the 1830s the house was remodelled by raising the flanking wings by one story and the installation of a new staircase, this making for a three story over basement country mansion typical of the period with views over parkland and the battle site. The Coddington family continued to live at Oldbridge until they sold the house and estate in 1984 and emigrated to Canada.

The museum is located in the lower rooms and spreads out into the yards adjacent to the stables; a wonderful exhibition with both static and interactive displays, all followed by an excellent film. With it being the long weekend, we were in for an additional treat with period costumed folk offering interactive living history tours. We were shown both the wonders and horrors of muskets used in the late 1600s; the matchlock and flintlock guns, and told all about the cavalry horses who were trained and ridden  in battle, how they differed from horses of today and the kind of training and performance that was required of them. The latter was demonstrated by a very talented horsewoman, bewigged and dressed as a Jacobean gentleman cavalier.

Later in the afternoon after we had lunched and spent time in the extensive walled gardens, we joined an hour long tour around the battlefield, spellbound as each stage was explained in detail. Who would have through such a bloodthirsty event could be so captivating?

The Battle of the Boyne in July 1690 was the largest single action between two opposing armies ever to take place in Britain or Ireland; the Jacobite forces under exiled James II numbering 24,000 and those under his son-in-law, William III, numbering 36,000.

William wanted to consolidate his position as King of England in order to ensure British participation in the anti-French alliance, and so secure the Dutch Republic from France’s Louis XIX’s aggression.

James II, who had been deposed as King of England by his daughter, Mary, and his son-in-law, William, sought to recover his throne through Ireland with French support. He arrived in Kinsala from France in 1689. He was supported by Louis XIV, who wanted William away from the power struggle in Europe, and by Irish Catholics who wanted to regain their power, wealth and religious freedom that had been stymied by James’s predecessors.

But this was only part of the story and the troops that fought on either side were from a multitude of countries; some with axes to grind and some simply mercenaries who were in it for the money. For instance the Williamite army consisted of English, Dutch, Protestant Irish, French Huguenots and Danes.

Bearing in mind they were such a motley lot, in a mishmash of uniforms, it would have been difficult to decipher who the enemy was when it came to the hand to hand melee. The Williamites wore a sprig of green in their hats while the Jacobites wore a piece of white paper, sometimes fashioned into a rosette. Imagine how well the hats would have stayed on in battle and how accurately the head count of the dead could be, if trying to establish which side lost the greater number. As it happened there were about 1,500 deaths, and no doubt a whole lot more maimed and invalided. War is a great way to cull the population.

The Williamites managed to put the Jacobites into flight, or at least James II who had an appointment elsewhere, and while William hung about for further skirmishes that followed, he left the last of the dirty work to his henchmen. The final telling was at the battle of Aughrim somewhere close to Galway; we will check it out in the next few weeks.

Of course my few brief words do the battle a terrible injustice, but I would hate to spoil it all for the fellow traveller who may choose to follow in our footsteps or do their own research.

One of our fellow battle walkers was an Irish woman who put the question as to why the Battle of the Boyne is held as such a divisive icon to both Irish protectants and catholic  if it was not the battle to end all battles. The guide explained that this was the only battle in which both monarchs fought face to face and in person, although William was a little more to the fore than the reticent James, and it was this battle that sent James off to France. The battles that followed were led by followers of the two monarchies rather than the monarchs themselves, hence their importance of the facts on which the historical animosity is based.

We did think the whole set up was quite wonderful. There is an entry fee for the Centre, but access to the grounds is always free and all the enacted history this weekend was all free to all comers. The grounds make for wonderful walking and picnicking, all in all a great place to bring family, and both locals and tourists were making the most of it yesterday, especially since the whole place was bathed in sunshine.

The very busy café is situated on the edge of the lovely walled gardens, these covering at least three hectares.  In the early 20^th century the Coddingtons built heated glasshouses in these gardens and established a thriving market garden business producing bedding plants for Dublin and Drogheda markets. Since the State have owned the gardens, that part immediately in front of the café, or teahouse, is quite formal, and a large section at the far end has been planted out in apple trees. The fruit is far from ready as Chris can well attest: I could have told him that! But it would be nice to return in the early autumn to check them out!

We did learn an interesting gem of information from one of the interpretative panels concerning gardens of large estates such as these, which I am sure is applicable to all, whether Irish, English or Scots: one hectare of garden could produce food for about twenty five people and about five gardeners were needed per hectare.

It was after 3 pm when our battlefield walk was at an end so there was no time to explore places further afield; we plotted a route home, again zigzagging through the rolling rural hills of Meath, the gold of the corn either ready for harvest or waiting for residual attention,  adding colour to the emerald green of the landscape. We passed many more very nice homes, further evidence that there is much in this part of the countryside very similar to New Zealand. Perhaps we will find greater differences when we travel beyond the capital and its immediate surrounding counties.

Today was a rather odd touring day, full of disappointments and pleasant surprises. For the former I must take full responsibility; had I done my homework better and taken my own cellphone, some of the frustrations may have been alleviated.

The plan was to head for the Bog of Allen Nature Centre, near Lullymore in Kildare  on the edge of the Bog of Allen. Here we hoped to learn about Irish bogs, their geology and everything else that might be of interest to a non-bog person. Had I looked more carefully at the opening times in our guide book, I would have deduced that a place open Mondays to Fridays  would not be open on a public holiday, albeit a Monday.  We pulled up to the gates to find them firmly closed and no evidence of any activity happening anytime soon.

Interestingly our Tomtom had wanted to take us further afield even though I had specified this particular address, so when we did give way to our petulant navigational device, it took us further on to the Lullymore Heritage and Discovery Park whose entry gates looked far more professional and money gathering than that nearer the tiny village of Lullymore.

We stopped, went to the entry and asked what this place was all about. On learning we were keen to explore Irish bogs and everything about them, the reception gatekeeper insisted we had come to just the right place. Here there were boardwalks over 60 acres of bog land, audio guides and so much more. Notices advertised the centre to have won several environmental and tourist awards and I have no doubt that this is the bees-knees in bog experience. However our discounted OAP entry would still be €8 and we were not enticed by the fact that there was a café and restaurant on site to fleece even more of our tourist euros. Sadly we were not in the head space to even consider this because I do think we would have been well rewarded for our expenditure. This is probably another instance of cutting off one’s nose to spite one’s face.

We drove away disappointed and parked up near an entry point to the Grand Canal to sup cups of instant coffee and spill the decadent innards of jam donuts all over shoes and jeans, or at least I did.

We had driven here via Celbridge, Clane, Prosperous and across a long straight road over the edge of the Bog of Allen. With such a dodgy foundation the road is undulating, the edges soft and travel should probably be at 10 kph rather than the prescribed 60 kph; we hit a hollow early on and reduced our speed significantly afraid we might do the suspension serious damage. 

My itinerary had been the Bog Centre followed by a walk along one of the canals, a rather loose arrangement but one I felt would sufficiently fill the day. Now late in the morning with the bog option discarded, for better or worse, the second best option usurped premier place. We found our way to Robertstown, where we expected incorrectly to find the canal crossroads, opening options for walking. Perhaps it was just as well we did not, given the mixed emotions of the morning; one canal with two directions makes for less discussion than a forked canal with three directions.

In 1751 a Board of Inland Navigation began planning a system of canals for Ireland. The construction of the Canal began in 1773. However engineering differculties and slow progress by the builders in the early stages of construction  meant that by 1779 only twelve miles and three locks had been built. In 1785 the Canal reached Robertstown and by 1791 the Barrow Line branch had reached Athy and in 1803 the great objective was reached when the Canal reached the Shannon at Shannon Harbour off the west coast. Passenger boats used the Grand Canal until the 1850s with commercial cargo traffic remaining until 1960.

Actually there are two canals across County Kildare, this the Grand Canal as well as the Royal Canal, a rival northern route opened between 1796 and 1816, although this was never as successful as the Grand Canal.

The Grand Canal forks somewhere near Robertstown , the southern branch the Barrow Line, and the main waterway running west of Tullymore  in County Offaly to Shannon Harbour, a total length of 114 kilometres from Dublin.

Alighting at Robertstown, we noted about three vessels tied up opposite the village, none of them looking as if they had moved within memory. As we set off eastward toward Dublin along the mown grass “towpath” we saw the canal to be full of vegetation with the reeds creeping in from the banks. The canal is certainly wide enough, and even deep enough for the kind of leisure craft one might expect to be enjoying the waterways, but without regular use, nature will take over and there will be no way through even for intrepid kayakers. However the towpaths are being opened up, and the first part of our route from Robertstown to a bridge over the canal was wide, was easy to walk and recently tractor mown, while the second stage, almost to Goatstown along a wide pathway once gravelled and again trimmed back to allow for easy access was even more accessible.

We walked at pace for fifty minutes before stopping for lunch, resting on our raincoats while being serenaded by the practice run of five thousand motorcycles racing around the Modello Park north of Carragh. When they did pause for lunch, we were able to enjoy the bird life all about us; ducks, a moorhen with four gorgous fluffy black chicks, a grey heron, swifts and dozens of birds hidden in the hedges and trees.

Returning to Robertstown, we ran into several other walkers, some with dogs, some without, and then there was the delighful Seamus who lives nearby, widower for twenty years, one time tourist to Australia, and everyday the “grandest” man any visitor could happen upon. We spent at least  ten minutes in his company and finally tore ourselves away, wishing him a good life. He responded with the typical and genuinely Irish catholic,  “God be with you! ”. What a lovely man he was!

Back in the car we attempted to find the canal marina Seamus had told us about,” just a mile away’. His mile was either too many miles away or we were on the wrong road, so we pulled up and sought another destination for the day, the original itinerary long abandoned.

I suggested we head to Donadea Forest Park where, according to a star on our map, we might find the 9/11 Memorial. After a few false starts we found  ourselves driving around the sides of a walled estate, and finally into a fine gated entrance with an announcement that entry would require €5 in coins.  The afternoon was well on and we were not keen to fork that out for a monument we might not even find. Later when I researched this Forest Park I found it would have been an excellent destination for a whole day, as the Lullymore Heritage and Discovery Park would also have been.

The Donadea Forest Park covers an area of 640 acres of mixed woodland , the remains of a castle, walled gardens, a church, tower, ice house, boat house, a Lime Tree Avenue and 2.3  hectare lake full of water fowl. Its been in government hands since 1981, previously home to the Aylmer fanily since 1597 through to 1935. The last of this line, Caroline Aylmer, died in that year, leaving the estate to the Church of Ireland who in turn passed it on to the State, no doubt for a blind eye here and there, but that latter statement is mine, not gleaned from any other reported source. I should have had my phone with me earlier to be in a position to make wider choices.

So on we went, now heading for home, via Celbridge, the town we had passed through on our way out this morning. This afternoon the main street was blocked off which was enticement enough to stop and check out the whys and wherefores, without the fact that our interest had been piqued as we passed through earlier, crossing the River Liffey that which continues on down thrugh Dublin, and the adjacent old mill buildings.

There was a street fete in full swing as we came back in on foot, Celbridge’s familes en masse, all enjoying the bouncy castles, the band on the back of the truck deck, or if not that the busker half way up the street. There were stalls selling all the paraphenalia one expects at annual  school gala in New Zealand, without the class roomfull  of recycled clothing, although the Vincent de Paul shop had its doors open advertising everything with a 50% reduction, so perhaps the school gala was a good simile after all. I reckon we were the only “foreigners” there, and everyone from all about except those who had headed into Dublin to welcome the homecoming women’s hockey team were here. Delightfully the big event of the weekend was the Irish Women’s Hockey tean coming second to the netherlands in the World Cup final in London; they were the first sporting team to reach an international final play off for fifty years or more, and the fact they lost was totally irrelvant. They are a positive lot, these Irish.

We walked up the street past the statue of Arthur Guinness and on to the entrance to the Castletown Estate, once hometown of Arthur Guinness and the courting grounds of Jonathan Swift, author of Guliver’s Travels, looking for the public toilets. Finally in desperation we asked the civil defense folk keeping the traffic out of the town. They directed us to a pub, an option we avoid unless spending money in their premises, but needs must. There seems to be a paucity of public loos in this country or alternatively, they are super discreet in advertising their whereabouts.  

Castletown is Ireland’s most celebrated and magnificent Palladian style mansion, built in the 1720s by William Conelly, who became an important political figure in 18^th century Ireland and Speaker of the Irish House of Commons. It had been on my list of options for the day and actually would have been a good choice from an economic and time perspective given the way the day had turned out, however hindsight is a wondrous thing.

Back home we found that one lot of family type campers had cleared out in our absence and were soon being replaced with another lot, their small children fed up with the day’s travel and making their frustrations known to their parents and anyone else within hearing. Amazingly we have found the local holidaymakers allow their wee ones  to stay up as late as my own bedtime, and then probably wonder why these over tired mites kick up such a ruckus when lights go out.

Tomorrow we will move on to our next camp; the route is keyed in to the Tomtom, and we are already aware that there will be yet another toll to pay. I made a half hearted attempt at tour planning for the next stop but gave up in disgust. We need at least twice as long as I have scheduled but will have to be satisfied with this flying visit.