Wednesday, September 14, 2016

Rock of Cashel

We're in Kinsale, County Cork now, right at nearly the southernmost part of Ireland and I believe the place from where my maternal grandparents sailed to Quebec in the mid 1850s. I've always envied people who can trace their ancestry back generations, who have roots and know where they are from. 

Not only don't I have much information on where I'm from on either side, but after the Second World War my Dad worked for GM, establishing new dealerships across Quebec and Ontario. By the time I was twelve I'd moved twelve times. So I don't have a great sense of place.

From our room we look out to a harbour of fishing boats in the  Celtic Sea, around the corner and east of the Atlantic Ocean. 


             Kinsale harbour through the mist.

More about the strategic town of Kinsale later.


Yesterday at the Rock of Cashel



       The Round Tower

The Irish priests hid bullion and themselves in this 11th century tower (it's the real deal and the oldest standing structure in the church, castle and residence). They hid from Oliver Cromwell's generals who were systematically annihilating the Irish at every turn. 

To get inside, they climbed a rope ladder on the outside and dragged the ladder in after them. Inside there was a system of wooden ladders to access the various floors. In order to kill the priests, the generals coated the tower walls with pitch and set the tower alight. Inside, the ladders burned and the priests succumbed to smoke inhalation. How the tower survived all that is a mystery.



This opening was used to push beams through during construction.


Elaborate stone work was restored over the ages. The inside was heated only by the odd fireplace and there were no conveniences, not even a hole on the floor for use when nature called. The windows were slits covered by a membrane from a cow's bladder to keep out the elements. The priests cooked mutton in the open fireplaces. Apparently cooking mutton smells foul. 

A priest's life was better than the rest in medieval times. Life was nasty, brutish and short back then and if you were lucky or not you lived to age thirty-six with very few teeth left in your mouth. So much for any romanticised view of the Middle Ages.

Hore Abbey

As you drive into Cashel, the ruins of Hore Abbey, a Cistercian monastery, rise from a field. 


            Pastoral view from the church.


             Stones with Celtic cross.

Ireland is rich with a complicated history of struggle, fielding attacks from the English.




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