‘Tis Murphy’s Law that the
weather should be inproved on the morning we were to leave, but forward
bookings are forward bookings and are to be honoured, even if yet to be paid.
As we drove out of Killarney and looked up toward the Gap of Dunloe, we agreed
that this morning would probably have been the best of the weather for complete
appreciation of the stunning scenery that trip offers. Instead we will have to
be satisfied with the memories of the mist and low cloud, the tie-dyed sheep
emerging from this and the tight little road best for walkers and cyclists and
those quaint jaunting cars.
Instead we headed north
toward Tralee, the road travelled on our way back from there a day or two
before, then north east along the N21 which climbs up between the Glanaruddery
and Mulagharelk mountain ranges, which might be quite spectacular if the cloud
did not shroud the road and the views east and west. In fact visibility was so
bad, everyone was travelling at reduced speeds with their fog lights on; it was
like travelling in the pea-soup fogs of the Waikato.
Then down we came into County
Limerick, the countryside at once in view and not spectacular at all. At
Rathkeale we turned north onto the R518, then reaching the N69, north east
again until we reached the almost non-existant village of Kilkornan.
Fortunately the Forest Park was well signposted and we drove up through many
kilometres of minor roads before entering the barrier gated park. Here day
trippers can enter for a fee of €5 or campers enter with
the code they are given when they booked. Although I had written this down on
the rather scruffy booking notes I had jammed in the camping ground booklet, I
had forgotten that it was necessary so we sat parked like a couple of idjits considering phoning the number on
the sign. Fortunately a boy from a car behind, whom we were holding up, came to
our rescue and punched in the numbers hence we continued on through and
explained ourselves to his father a little later when we pulled up at the park
café which doubles as reception. There we lined up behind those ordering
cappuccinos and scrumptious looking cake, until it was our turn to confirm our
arrival and be shown the modus operandi
of the camp. All the powered sites, or should I say “electric hook-ups”, are in
the wooded area, something you would not see in Australia where half a tree is
likely to fall onto your camp during the night.
It is an absolutely lovely spot, with free
showers and free laundry services although for our stay and an indeterminate
period thereafter, the hot water service is out of order, much to the
consternation of our young host managers. 
Naturally at this time of the year
there is a high percentage of families camping here, and what a fabulous spot
to come for a week, more or less. There are woodland walks, playgrounds, a café
for the mothers and as I said, free showers and laundry facilities. It is
however some distance from the spots the touring foreigner might wish to
explore.
After setting up I dragged my ever suffering
husband down into the park for a walk, wanting to find the scene that had wooed
me to choose this site over others, aside from the fairer tariff. We walked on
down through dense wood, arriving at a lovely park, an arboretum planted long
ago by the rich folk who once lived here. On the edge of this we discovered the
grand mansion, a rather plain
construction with all windows boarded up, overlooking what was once a beautiful
lake, now no more than a wetland but with enough waterways to satisfy the
family of swans we encountered later.
Originally the name of this estate was
Curragh (meaning bog) before it was changed to Curragh Chase by Sir Aubrey
Thomas de Vere, who was a poet and author, born here in 1814. Aubrey died in
1902 having lived most of his life here, and having no direct heirs, the Chase was
acquired in 1952 by the Forestry Division and in the 1970s was established as a
forest park, covering an area of 313 hectares.
Curragh House was built in 1657 by Vere Hunt,
an officer in Oliver Cromwell’s army and a descendant of the Earl of Oxford,
who traced their lineage to Aubrey de Vere I, a tenant-in-chief of William the
Conqueror in 1086, something I can also do. However unlike the author of this
blog, Hunt was granted the land originally owned by John Fitzgerald, as one of
the Cromwellian plantations.
The estate remained home of the Hunt / de
Vere family for over 300 years. The existing house dates from the early 19th
century rebuilt by Sir Aubrey de Vere, 2nd Baronet. Sadly the house
was accidentally destroyed by fire in 1941, although apart from the boarded up
windows, there is little evidence of that fire today.
On
our return, Chris spent some time fiddling with the radio, trying to zone in on
the station he had found to be less god-bothering than others that leapt into
life at the push of the power button, but was disappointed. “Spirit Radio”
seems to be the best we can do, so what with that and no televsion, and
internet here rather dicey, we are almost living back in the Dark Ages. Thank
goodness for the e-books his daughter put onto our iPads; for these we are
eternally grateful.
This
morning we slept late, possibly due to the fact we have been working our way
through the Harry Potter DVDs Chris brother lent us to cover such periods of
alternate entertainment. I must say that I am appalled how very dark these have
become as we have progressed through the series. The third turned out to be a
game-only CD and another later one turned out to be geared for the wrong zone
for our external hard-drive; the finale is still waiting for us on another
media-void evening.
Today
was to be all about the city of Limerick; we headed for the Crescent Shopping
Centre, one of the few parking solutions hostess Maria had suggested. We parked
here for free and caught the bus into the city, arriving soon after 10 am.
Despite my concern for our tardy start to the day, we would not have wanted to
arrive any earlier. The city was still deathly quiet; not only was this a Monday
morning but the morning after the great victory of the Limerick hurling team of
Galway yesterday, by just one point, but
after forty five years in the wilderness of championship loss.
I have mentioned that The Pope is about to arrive on Irish shores
for the first time since 1979 when his predecessor came to razzle and dazzle
his faithful flock here, and certainly the logistics of estimated crowd control
has been dominating the media, along with the dodgy mica-mineral filled
concrete used in construction over the last two years now causing beautifully
crafted buildings, both private and social nature to collapse and leave the
occupants either homeless or out of pocket and homeless, an even worse fate.
But yesterday and the days before and after, along with the visible hysteria of
the sport loving or even sport tolerating public, the hurling finale has superseded
all of these other media reports. As we drove up from Kerry yesterday, cars and
houses and everywhere in between were festooned by green and white flags and
anything else that could be considered flamboyant enough to announce support.
This has been the event of the year; forget the Pope, or even the poor folk
abandoning their crumbling homes.
So today as we wandered into the centre of the city, there
was still evidence of the litter celebrating revellers will leave during the
night, and the people making their way to work or whatever else they might have
had cause to leave their beds for, slowly, carefully, to avoid the rattling of
sore heads.
After a short time finding our bearings, helped by a tear
off map from the Tourist Office we made our way to the Limerick Art Gallery on
the edge of the People’s Park, best found without the so-called assistance of
maps within that park or even the city map we had been given gratis. We had
spent ten minutes wandering about the park looking for the entrance, or even
the building, before being correctly directed by a pharmacist on the opposite
edge of the park.
The city gallery is a modest affair, with space for selected
exhibitions rather than any collections that may or may not rest within its
vaults. Today the ground floor was given over to an exhibition of works by
Gabhann Dunne titled “Crossing the Salt”. All I can say is that it takes all
sorts, and I am not of the sort to appreciate Gabhann’s work. Chris reckoned
she had managed a good deal on blue paint, understanding that artists are often
cash strapped for materials. Maybe that is so, although the work he was
referring to featuring a number of abstract birds was the best of the work, in
my uneducated opinion.
Upstairs in the small galleries were the works by three
other artists, one a touring collection of work by long dead German
photographer, Karl Blossfeldt, who in the late 19th and early 20th
century created this extraordinary body
of work capturing the symmetrical and exquisite wonders of nature, these all
various aspects of plant life. However viewing forty of these photogravures was
similar to examining forty etchings; while acknowledging them to be quite
brilliant, they is something monotonous about them, that induces an element of
boredom.
Another featured artist was Naomi Draper whose works made up
of pressed seed heads or flowers somehow fused together to produce great
lengths of “fabric” were amazing. The work however was limited to four or five
pieces; naturally there was no space for boredom, just a sense of the
incredulous.
The last artist, an odd piece by Rachel Myles, should have
been left in her studio or put in the rubbish bin; the definition of art is
often highly contentious.
And that was the Limerick’s Art Gallery; a little
disappointing to say the least.
From here we returned to the centre of the city and visited
the Limerick Museum, also a rather modest affair, but most enjoyable for its
concise nature if nothing else. Here a collection of items, purchased, loaned
or donated, has been skilfully curated to weave together the entire story of
Limerick from its beginning, through the ages of immigrants and colonial
settlers, art and industry. It is a very recent creation, the first curator
appointed in 1977. Within the confines of space and exhibits, the right balance
has been struck to inform without causing the visitors eyes to glaze over as
can happen in some museums.
Here, contrary to the impressions we had gained on arrival
in Limerick and those which continued during our later wanderings, we learned
that Limerick has had a vibrant and very important place in the history of
Ireland and the world. It was founded by the Vikings in about 900, who married
into local Irish families, subsequently conquered by Anglo-Normans, who brought
English and Welsh settlers, more of whom arrived during the Plantation of
Munster. English and Dutch soldiers stayed on after the 17th century
sieges, while German Protestants, known as Palatines, arrived a century later.
In recent decades, Limerick had received immigrants from around the world, as
well as thousands from the European Union, as was evident today when we heard
the babble of Baltic languages and saw the veiled Moslems gliding along the
streets.
The Georgian years were the glory years industrially for the
city. Besides its world famous bacon, clothing and lace enterprises, Limerick
had a wide variety of lesser known industries, employing hundreds and producing
high quality goods. For one hundred and fifty years, Limerick was one of the
leading centres in Ireland for the manufacture of both tobacco and
confectionery, neither of these particularly popular in this day of smoke and
sugar free health drives.
In more modern time, Limerick has seen its fair share of
political turmoil, closely associated with some of the key events that led to
Irish independence. Eaomon de Valera, later President of Ireland, was one of
three local men to take leading roles in the 1916 Easter Rising. The others
were Con Colbert and Ned Daly whose staunchly Republican Limerick family raised
funds for the rebellion. Limerick, with its strong Republican tradition, was
also a major theatre of action during the War of Independence against the
British. The county saw terrible violence during the brutal civil war that
followed independence, which was brought to an end in 1923 with the death of
Limerickman Liam Lynch, commander of the anti-treaty forces.
And to re-cap on what that treaty was: at the end of the War
of Independence, the British and the Irish signed a treaty which gave a large
degree of independence to twenty six counties of Ireland while six remained in
the United Kingdom, a ridiculous arrangement if you ask me, but I wasn’t about
to be consulted. Disputes over whether to accept the treaty led to the Irish
Civil War in which pro-treaty force were eventually victorious.
Chris and I have found this whole business most absorbing
since being here, perhaps neither of us really understanding the issues until
we were here breathing the aftermath and stories of this rocky past. When it
comes down to it, when has partition ever been successful? Think of India and Pakistan,
or dozens of other places about the world, where outsiders have drawn lines
through maps and hoped for the best.
We wandered about the streets and along the bank of the
River Shannon, noting the beginning of the canal that joins up with those seen
in the east, linking this part of the country with Dublin, although there
appears to be little waterway traffic these days. We crossed over on to the
“island” sitting between the Shannon and the canal, here the River Abbey,
toward King John’s Castle impressive across the river, but holding no appeal
with its entry fee.
Instead we thought we would pop into St Mary’s Cathedral,
since it professes to be the oldest building in Limerick. It sits on the site
of a onetime Viking Parliament and a later Royal Palace of the Kings of
Munster. As a place of worship, it was founded in 1168 by King Donal Mor
O’Brien, King of Thormond. The guide
books suggest its worth a look, but when we entered the side door and found two
stout lady parishioners (wo)manning the entry way strongly suggesting a “donation”
of at least €5 per head, we chose not to pay the entry fee
because when the amount is stipulated, it is no longer a donation. Another case of cutting off one’s nose to
spite that face, again.
Rain had dogged us all the day, and it
started again as we made our way back into the centre of the city. We hunted
out the Milk Market, but found it to be locked tight against trespassers, open
only on Friday through to Sunday. By now the people of Limerick had thawed
their heads and were out in force but we were still not particularly taken with
the city. The buildings are a motley drab or scruffy lot, many empty, to let or
ready for demolition, and there was no hint that change is on its way. We
caught the bus back to the Crescent Shopping Centre which did seem to be a bit
more promising, shopped for a few fresh consumables at the Tesco there then
made our way south to Adare which Maria had encouraged us to do sometime during
our stay here.
As we neared the village, the traffic almost
reached a standstill and we wondered if there had been an accident, or perhaps
the ever frustrating road works. Finally when we crawled into the centre of
Adare, we found it simply to be a matter of folk looking for a car park, reversing
into one, holding all the traffic up, coupled with the fact that there were a
few very drunk exuberant Limerick hurling fans standing on a corner outside the
pub which had topped them up since last night, leaping up and down, shouting
and generally entertaining the travellers and anyone else who could be bothered
to take notice. Many drivers passing by were tooting out in support and there
was general chaos, which was still a whole lot of fun, but could well be
imagined turning into something less in another hour or so.
We spent twenty minutes or more doing as
everyone else was doing, snapping dozens of photos and lamenting the fact that
two of these thatched cottages had been ravaged by fire in 2015.
Our route home via minor roads should have
been a breeze, however our Tomtom brought us close to our camp but outside the
forest boundary, not having been able to identify our road-accessible position
when I keyed it in as a “favourite”. Still we made it home at a reasonable
time, early enough to debate and plan a big road journey for the morrow. The
weather will have no bearing on our decision in the morning; the app suggests
there is no rain for today and the two days that follow, but we know that to be
rubbish. Perhaps “no rain” simply means “no deluge”; who knows?
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