ROCK OF AGES

September 22, 2014
Farewell to the Blue Horizon and the coast as we head in towards the center of Ireland.  Breakfast for me was scramble with salmon; Loni opted for a poached egg with ham.  All good.  Moving on of course means repacking the car with all our stuff.  We’ve become quite fast at it once we figured out the ideal logistic for cramming everything in.  Yes, the boot closed.

Our first stop today is the port town of Kinsale, a lovely burg whose excellent harbor shows evidence of use all the way back to prehistoric times.  Only 2,200 residents, I bet it quadruples during the summer with foreign and local visitors.  It’s very picturesque and pleasant to walk.  LOTS of colors on the buildings.  Some refer to it as “Happy Valley,” perhaps a veiled reference to the nearby Eli Lilly plant that turns out Prozac.  Here’s one laid-back duo.

Sort of the town center.  Hard to pin down, as it is a snake’s nest of streets.

Shopping was the order of the day.  Fortunately, only Alice found something to buy.  Loni was about to spring for some scarves for the girls, but noticed that they were made in Italy, not Ireland.  Fah.

Did I say the place was colorful? 

Chuck, he of the opera and symphony set, found his personal favorite pub.  If only.

Ok, now on to the big show of the day, the Rock of Cashel.  Looming high above the Plain of Tipperary, it’s a long way, to go.  Sorry, couldn’t resist.  This is one of Ireland’s most historic sights, the seat of the ancient kings of Munster from AD 300 to 1100.  St. Patrick here baptized King Aengus around AD 450.  The local clans had waged war over possession of the place until, in 1101, the wily Murtagh O’Brien gave the Rock to the Church, thus gaining favor with the clergy while at the same time preventing the rival McCarthy clan from regaining possession.  It gradually evolved from ring forts and thatched cottages to the impressively massive stonework of today’s ruins.

In the forecourt facing one end of the cathedral, there’s a huge chunk of debris that fell off the wall.  Lord Inchiquin’s cannons weakened the structure during the 1647 massacre, and in 1848 a massive storm (known as the “Night of the Big Wind” in lore) flung the piece down.  Or so they say.

The cathedral was built between 1230 and 1290, the Gothic style exemplified by the pointed arches and high, narrow windows.  When the Protestant Lord Inchiquin attacked the Catholic town of Cashel in 1647, hundreds of the townsfolk fled to the sanctuary of this cathedral.  Displaying all-too-common of Christian virtues, Inchiquin packed turf around the exterior and burned the cathedral down, massacring the faithful inside.  So much for faith, the power of prayer, a loving god, etc. etc.

Another example of sanctimonious hypocrisy is that of archbishop Miler Magrath, the “scoundrel of Cashel,” who sadly lived to be 100.  His remains lie in a grand wall tomb similar to this one.  He became the Protestant archibishop of Cashel, while simultaneously profiting from his previous position as Catholic bishop of Down.  He married twice (vows be damned), had numerous children, confiscated the lid for his tomb from another bishop’s grave, and converted back to Catholicism on his deathbed.  What an opportunist!
The view over the Plain of Tipperary is quite nice, including another ruin below.  This whole area was once forest, but in keeping with Ireland’s designation as the most denuded country in Europe, it is all fields now.

One view that is a personal favorite of mine, for reasons I can’t explain, is the adjacent graveyard with its forest of Celtic (or Ionic) crosses.  In Ireland,  it is a popular myth that the Celtic Christian cross was introduced by St. Patrick during his time converting the pagan Irish. It is believed that St. Patrick combined the symbol of Christianity with the sun cross, to give pagan followers a sense of the importance of the cross by linking it with the idea of the life-giving properties of the sun.

There was a lot of interior stuff, most of it dimly lit, and my photos didn’t turn out so hot, so I’ve excluded them.  There’s plenty of history, however, and the tour guide did a good job.  We were ready to move on, to Kilkenny to see its castle.  Started around 1200, it became the seat of power of the Anglo-Norman Butler family for 500 years.  It originally had four walls, but Cromwell’s army knocked one down, leaving the U-shaped remains of today.  Remains is hardly the word, for this was exquisitely restored to a livable mansion in the Victorian era.

We didn’t get inside, but really enjoyed a relaxing stroll about the castle and its grounds.

Refreshed, we meandered through the town to our next B&B, Rosquil House.  Loni ranked this as one of her favorites, liking the elegant breakfast room.  I enjoyed the lack of a duvet (I hate those things:  I roast and sweat under them), and was very comfortable with blankets and coverlet. Chuck liked it, too, as it had rare (for this town) off-street parking.

Dinner was at the Marble Rock Pub & Restaurant, and was excellent.  I had a Cottage Pie and Loni wolfed down a Pork Cordon Bleu.  Happy happy.