There’s a village in West Cork called Leap – say “Lepp”. Where does that name come from? As is often the case in Ireland, it all starts with a story . . .
Tradition had it that St Patrick never went west of Leap (in Irish that’s Léim Uí Dhonnabháin, which translates literally as The Leap of O’Donovan), and that’s the sign at the entrance to the village, above. It was St Ciarán of Cape Clear who did all the converting in our part of the world: read about him here. So when The O’Donovan, pursued by British soldiers ‘leaped’ over the deep gorge which you can still see to this day, he was escaping into a much wilder country. The gorge (this is as it looks today – below) divides the West from East Carbery. So difficult was it to pass “beyond the leap” in those old days, that it was said: “beyond the leap, beyond the law”.
Apart from O’Donovans Leap, the village is celebrated today for its associations with Hallowe’en, Ghosts, and Scarecrows. And we are approaching the time of year when these phenomena come to the fore. At the present time, a few shopfronts are being decorated, but there are plenty of Scarecrows waiting in the wings for their moment to arrive!
You can see that Leap – in West Cork – will be worth a visit once the festivities are in full swing: that will be between Monday 23 October and Sunday 5 November this year. Back in 2015 we visited the Leap Scarecrow Festival and wrote this post about it (click here). Interestingly, it became the most popular post we had published up to that time – it’s had around 3,250 views since it first appeared. Have a look at it now – but also remember to go to the village of Leap at the end of this month!
The first story concerns Jasmine Allen – she is the charming and erudite Curator of the Stained Glass Museum in Ely, in the UK. At a recent Stained Glass Symposium in Trinity, she showed us how stained glass studios were advertising their artistry and products at exhibitions in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries in Britain and Ireland, starting with the Great Exhibition in 1851, but happening at regular intervals after that. The Irish International Exhibition was held in Dublin in 1907. It was inspired by the success of the Cork International Exhibition of 1902 (see Robert’s post about that here) and even copied their thrilling water slide! For a marvellous collection of images from that exhibition, see this Flikr Album from the Church of Ireland. The story of their discovery is also fascinating.
Irish international exhibition from Herbert Park, by National Library of Ireland on The Commons
One of the exhibitors was James Watson and Co of Youghal. Jasmine subsequently sent me this image, saying: Catalogues of these exhibitions are all too brief and I would love to know what happened to it. Is it in a church or secular building in Clontarf? I only have a very bad image from the Art Journal (early b+w photography was worse than engraving for capturing stained glass!)
Story 2: Michael
I sent the photo to the group of colleagues, mostly contributors to the Gazetteer of Irish Stained Glass with whom I correspond on a regular basis and who are always helpful, asking if any of them knew the fate of the window. I got several “no idea” responses and then I heard from Michael Earley. Anyone interested in Irish stained glass will be familiar with the name of Earley, and Michael Earley, a great-grandson of the founders, has just completed doctoral studies on the Studios. I’ve featured Earley windows here and there in my blog posts, but here’s an example of their work – you will find it everywhere throughout Ireland, often distinguished by glass of unique and brilliant colour, enormous packed scenes of multiple angels and saints surrounding a central images, and beautifully rendered figures. Here’s one from St Aidan’s Cathedral in Enniscorthy.
Michael didn’t know what had happened to the window, but he did send me two pages from the Irish Catholic Directory of 1908. The first page was an advertisement for James Watson and Co, The Art Work, Youghal, Co. Cork. Here it is:
Much to savour in this ad – the prices, the variety of windows, “colonial work”. . . The second page, though, hit the jackpot. It was from the same Directory, and was a full scale black-and-white photograph of the window. Titled The Morning of Clontarf, a subtitle reads “This window was exhibited at the Dublin Exhibition, 1907, and was favourably noticed by The Art Journal”.
Now I had an excellent image with which to pursue my inquiries – and I knew exactly who to consult!
Story 3: Vera
The art historian who knows more than anyone else about Watson of Youghal is Vera Ryan. In fact, it was Vera who curated the Crawford Gallery 2015 exhibition of the Watson Archive, when the Crawford acquired the Archive. She also wrote the piece on Watsons: Divine Light: A Century of Stained Glass, in the Summer 2015 edition of the Irish Arts Review. A couple of years ago, when I was trying to find information on a Watson window which was the centrepiece of an article I was writing for the Clonakilty Historical and Archaeological Journal (now published and available here), Vera mentored me as I tried to dig my way through the archive. We have been exchanging information ever since.
Above is a window in St Michael’s Church, Tipperary, erected in 1914. The design (below) and cartoon (below below) for this window were still in the Watson Archive and were displayed in the Crawford Exhibition. This represents a special opportunity to see the evolution of a stained glass window from concept to completion.
This opportunity is relatively rare in stained glass studies – there aren’t many collections like this, so it is wonderful that the Crawford rescued the archive, which has now been passed on for expert conservation, to the National Gallery of Ireland.
When I contacted Vera, she remembered the Brian Boru window well, and told me that the cartoon was part of what came to the archive, although in a very fragile state. The window, itself, she thought, was still extant, and possibly in Knappogue Castle. The important person to talk to, she said, was Antony Watson, great-grandson of James Watson and the executor of the Watson Estate. Before I did that, I tried some detective work of my own.
Story 4: Jody
I don’t know Jody Halstead, but in 2016 she stayed at Knappogue Castle and posted a video to YouTube, titled The Knappogue Castle Most Visitors Don’t See. At about the 5 minute mark she arrives at a landing and as her camera roams around, it captures a stained glass window – and there it was! Here’s a screenshot from the video.
Because of Jody, now I had proof that the window was still in existence. The next challenge was how to get a good photograph of it. Once again, thanks to the glorious (and relatively small) world of Irish stained glass scholars and enthusiasts, I knew who to turn to.
Story 5: John
John Glynn is an outstanding photographer with an interest in stained glass. His was the excellent image from Kilrush I used in my post on Brigid: A Bishop In All But Name, and he lives in West Clare, about an hour by car from Quinn, where Knappogue Castle is located. I thought he might already have taken a photograph of the window – he hadn’t but promised to do so as soon as he could. To my great delight, he did it right away. Here is what he sent me.
This and all detailed images of the Brian Boru window in Knappogue, are the work of John Glynn, and used with his permission
Isn’t it an amazing photograph! What’s also clear in this photograph is that the window is incomplete. To make it fit the opening, the predella, or bottom section, has been removed. Here’s what’s missing.
The text, in old Irish script, reads FOR THE GLORY OF THE CRUCIFIED AND ERIN’S GLORY TOO. The Celtic Revival interlacing that surrounds it is beautiful, and accomplished – it’s the thing that Watson’s were to become most famous for. So that’s a loss. Perhaps it was felt that the script was not suitable for a secular building: however it is more likely that it had to go in order to make the window fit. The rest of the window, comparing it to the original black and white images, seems to be intact. I was curious as to how the window came to be there, and this brings me to my second-to-last story.
Story 6: Antony
Vera kindly put me in touch with Antony Watson, and yesterday we had a long talk on the phone. Antony’s father was John Watson, Manager and Chief Designer for Watson of Youghal. John’s father was Clement, universally known as Capt Watson (he was an officer in the RFC/RAF), and Clement’s father was James Watson, seen here with a marble altar carver.
James had come from Yorkshire to run the Irish office of Cox, Sons, Buckley & Co, Church Outfitters, and eventually bought the Irish branch of the company. Here’s one of their early windows, in Ballingeary, from the 1880s, when they were still being signed as Cox, Sons, Buckley, Youghal and London.
Antony told me the most enthralling stories, and I want to devote more posts to cover some of that treasure trove in the future, but I don’t want to get too distracted from Brian Boru now. Antony loved his life in and around the studios and workshops when he was young and has a very clear memory of the Brian Boru window. It stood, he said, in a rack in what was called the Great Hall (a grand name for a storage area for tall items). Here’s Jack, Antony’s father, with a client, in the early 1990s.
Watsons got the job of installing leaded windows into Knappogue Castle when it was bought by wealthy Americans – Mark and Lavonne Andrews. He remembers the day they arrived to see the Brian Boru window – there was a frantic tidy-up beforehand and the whole of Youghal turned out to witness two stretch limos arriving in state and disgorging the ‘Texas millionaires’ and their retinue.
Story 7: Mark and Lavone
This is Mark Edwin Andrews, highly educated (Princeton) and cultured, and at one time Assistant Secretary of the Navy under Truman. He went on to become an industrialist and oil producer. His wife, Lavone Dickensheets Andrews (so sad I can’t find a photograph of Lavone) was a prominent architect. Together they purchased Knappogue Castle in 1966 and set about restoring it from a ruinous state. Knappogue is located in Quinn, Co Clare, the heart of Brian Boru country. It’s now owned and managed by Shannon Heritage.
It was Mark and Lavone who rescued the Brian Boru window and had it fitted into Knappogue Castle, some time in the 1970s. And there it still is, a testament to the enduring attraction (and durability) of stained glass windows and their power to enchant and intrigue us.
It’s a highly unusual window in so many ways, not least that it is a secular rather than a religious subject. It showed off, when it was exhibited, one of our historic heroes, Brian Boru (for more about Boru, see Robert’s post, Battling it Out), as well as the Celtic Revival decoration which Watsons mastered: both the subject matter and the treatment established them firmly in the Nationalist Camp. This of course, was a canny move designed to appeal to Irish Catholic church-builders. Antony tells me that nobody espoused Irish Nationalism more enthusiastically (or astutely) than James Watson, in the broad Yorkshire accent he kept to the end.
As an image of Faith and Fatherland, this window knew exactly who it was appealing to. It appeals to us still.
The story of a Swiss Government foray into West Cork at the time of the Cold War has seeped into folk memory. When we settled in Ballydehob in the early twenty-first century we heard many accounts and – as is often the case – sensation takes preference over sober fact. Nevertheless, the tale is worth telling, and I have set out what I perceive to be accurate. It all centres around the man above – Colonel Albert Bachmann – and two locations: Murphy’s Cove, Tregumna, and Liss Ard House, just outside Skibbereen.
Contrasting atmospheric conditions: Murphy’s Cove, Tregumna, on this misty October day (upper pic) and Liss Ard House on a beautiful June day in 2021 (lower pic). Our story properly begins in 1962 . . .
The cover of Esquire magazine, January 1962 features an article headed ‘9 Places in the World to hide’: one of these places is “Cork – Ireland”. In fact, the article suggested that Cork was considered the safest place in all Europe in which to hide from the predicted nuclear holocaust. I was a teenager in the UK at the time, and remember the worries of everyday life through that year – in particular the Cuban Missile Crisis. 1963 was little better – dominated by Kennedy’s assassination. We didn’t have a television in those days – friends did; but our ears were glued to our wireless sets, not knowing what to believe, or expect. Now – sixty years later – I’m older and wiser. I survived.
. . . COLONEL ALBERT Bachmann, who has died in Cork at the age of 81, was the James Bond of Switzerland. He came to west Cork in 1963, fell in love with the area and bought property there. At the time he was rising through the ranks of Swiss military intelligence, though Switzerland is typically seen as the world’s most neutral state with few if any belligerent enemies. Bachmann took himself on a secret mission to Biafra, then trying to secede from Nigeria, where he implied mysteriously that he was involved in secret arms deals with the Shah of Iran. He passed himself off as an upper-crust Englishman called Henry Peel who smoked a pipe, though with his Germanic accent it is difficult to imagine this disguise was successful . . . He was promoted to Colonel in the intelligence and defence section of Switzerland’s Untergruppe Nachrichtendienst der Armee (UNA). This gave him authority over three units of secret Swiss military intelligence, including a special service set up to respond to any threat of Soviet invasion, which he felt very sure could happen . . . .He hunted with the West Carberry, where he was something of an embarrassment, having his own ideas about which fields he could gallop across without the permission of the owners . . .
Obituary in the Irish Times 14 May 2011
It has been said that, with Swiss military money, he bought 200 acres of land in West Cork, including Liss Ard House (above, from Skyscape). From 1976 onwards, Colonel Bachmann converted Liss Ard into an exile for the Swiss Federal Council (the governing body of the country, which has seven elected members). Known locally as “The Funk Hole of Europe”, it was equipped with all modern high-tech computer facilities long before such equipment was widespread in Ireland. The cellars were dug out and strengthened to store the massive Swiss gold reserves that the government would bring with them.
Above are some of the cottages in Murphy’s Cove that Bachmann bought, possibly also with Swiss money. Ostensibly they were to house fleeing diplomats in the event of the predicted collapse of civilisation. The Colonel’s interests, however were not always related to the Cold War. He set up a pub in Tragumna, the Skibbereen Eagle: named after an infamous local newspaper. Rumour has it that the kitchens were oversized because they would have to feed the exiled envoys. It’s still a popular establishment.
In fact, the more you try to delve into the life of Bachmann, the more enigmas you encounter. Some reports say that he raised the money himself to purchase Liss Ard: the historian Titus J Meier showed in a book that Bachmann acquired the property on the west coast of Ireland with the help of private and institutional sponsors. The Swiss Government only paid annual rent twice, each time amounting to 50,000 francs.
. . . Bachmann was obliged to retire in 1980. An official investigation criticised P-26 [a Cold War stay-behind army in Switzerland charged with countering a possible invasion of the country] as an illegal paramilitary programme, operating as a clandestine, parallel structure within the Swiss security network, and lacking governmental authorisation or control. When Bachmann’s secret army was finally dismantled, its war chest – gold worth six million Swiss francs – was donated to the Red Cross. But he always insisted that it served a vital function. “How vital,” Bachmann told the reporters who sought him out, “I cannot tell you.” . . .
Bachmann’s Obituary in The UK Daily telegraph
Another view of Liss Ard Estate (courtesy Irish Examiner)
Esquire Magazine January 1962
Col Albert Bachmann: born November 26, 1929; died April 12, 2011
For a part of my life I lived in the west of Cornwall, looking out over St Michael’s Mount (above). Back in the 5th century, the Archangel himself appeared to fishermen on that rock. Legend has it that the Mount was constructed by giants and, also, King Arthur battled and defeated a giant there. As you all know, we have just passed Michaelmas – the day of the saint – September 29th.
There is another ‘St Michael’s Mount’ on the coast of Brittany: Mont St Michel (above, from an old lantern slide). I have mixed memories of that place, having gone there on a school trip when I was twelve: I had all my hard-saved pocket money stolen from me in one of the little winding lanes that goes up to the summit. Michael is the patron saint of high places, so expect to find him on pinnacles.
This St Michael’s church is certainly in a high place. It’s at Hammerfest in Norway, and has the distinction of being geographically the highest church in the world! (image by Manxruler)
I asked Finola if there was very much in the way of St Michael imagery in Irish stained glass. There’s a fair bit: on the left, above, is a Watsons of Youghal image of the Archangel in his role as weigher of souls. He stands at the gates of Heaven waiting for you on Judgment Day with his scales in his hand. Often, beside him, angels hold up two books: the smaller one records the names of the blessed, while the larger book is a list of the damned… On the right is our friend George Walsh’s depiction of Michael defeating Satan, who here takes the form of an impressive dragon.
This St Michael is very local to us: it’s in Teampall Church at Toormore, and is by Clokey of Belfast (Finola’s photo). Look carefully and you’ll see the Saint pinning down the fire-breathing Devil.
Also in my distant youth I was an ephemeral chaser of ley-lines: I have since thought better of it, but the idea of a straight line starting in Ireland and connecting seven St Michael sites while traversing Europe and Greece was attractive, and fleetingly convincing. Of course, there are many more Michael sites scattered around the Christian world which don’t fall anywhere near this line.
. . . As with other ley lines, no scientific evidence indicates that the alignment was planned and meaningful, making the claim pseudoscientific, but commonly reported at these sites. Physicist Luca Amendola noted that the deviation of these sites from the loxodrome that allegedly connects them ranges between 14 km and 42 km. According to legend the Sacred Line of Saint Michael the Archangel represents the blow the Saint inflicted the Devil, sending him to hell. Some also say that it is a reminder from Saint Michael that the faithful are expected to be righteous, walking the straight path . . .
Wikipedia
It’s nice to see that the phenomenon starts (or finishes) at Skellig Micheal, off the coast of Kerry (pic below courtesy of OPW):
Here’s an interesting view of the three somewhat feminine Archangels painted by Francesco Botticini in 1470. Michael is on the left. With them is Tobias who, in the popular Biblical tale, overcomes obstacles as he and his heavenly guardians set out to discover a cure for his father Tobit’s blindness. They are successful, for Tobias returns with a cure for his father as well as a wife!
I couldn’t resist this wonderful image of a St Michael’s site (from Wikipedia). It is the tenth-century Sacra di San Michele on Mount Pirchiriano in Italy. It also happens to be on the Saint’s ley-line!
I’ll finish this little review of St Michael where I started – off the coast of Cornwall. This 1920s postcard of the Mount, from a painting by A R Quinton, sums up the romantic image which I still carry from my days lived on that coast.
It’s been too long since I started my series Ireland 50 Years Ago, intending to update it regularly. We had been gifted a complete set of Ireland of the Welcomes from the 1970s, and my first three posts reflected on what was seen as important to highlight about Ireland, to the word, 50 years ago. Alas, my good intentions got derailed by all kinds of other interesting topics, with the result that 1972 got left out altogether. What I’ve decided to do is go through the six 1972 issues now and pick out one thing from each issue to highlight. It’s a quirky selection of things that appealed to me for various reasons.
January-February
Daphne Pochin-Mould was a hero to us in the Archaeology Department at UCC in the early 70s. She came occasionally to do a slide show of her aerial photos, and I have a hazy recollection of going to her house in Aherla. We knew then she was an amazing woman, but I hadn’t realised just how amazing until I read her entry in the Dictionary of Irish Biography.
March-April
Viking/Medieval Dublin – Excavations by the National Museum of Ireland by Breandán Ó Riordáin
This was not the infamous Wood Quay excavation, which came later, but an ongoing investigation by the National Museum located around High Street and Winetavern Street. Ó Riordáin described the Viking artefacts that were found, and the good state of preservation that were the result of burial under a dark-coloured peaty layer of debris that had accumulated over hundreds of years. Houses, with central hearths, were “formed of upright posts with horizontal layers of wattled or rods (generally of Hazel, ash or elm) woven between them”. Carved bone trail pieces were evidence of ‘schools’ of artists. The Norman period of occupation left a very well-preserved assemblage of artefacts too – including this shoe.
Ken Mawhinney has an article in this issue called The Waterwheel: Joy of the Industrial Archaeologist. He provides lists of where waterwheels are still to be seen but the one which resonated with me was the Monard Spade Mill. When we as students visited there around that time it was home to a pottery (Monard Glen – I bought coffee cups for my mother) but I remember being shown around by the knowledgeable people who were living there. Much of the original machinery was still in place.
Richard Condon, the American writer of thrillers, was living in Ireland in the 70s and indulging his gastronomic appetites by roving throughout the country visiting restaurants. Does anyone local to West Cork recognise this establishment? Here’s what Condon has to say about it:
And, of course, as confirmed to me by Jim O’Keeffe, it was what we all know as The Courtyard. The building is still there, with the iconic iron gates with the words O’Keeffe on them.
So there it is, a highly personal and idiosyncratic selections from Ireland of the Welcomes 51 years ago. I’ll try to catch up on 1973 before the year ends.
After the destruction of most of Ireland’s churches and ecclesiastical sites during the Dissolution of the Monasteries, what was left of Ireland’s Medieval stained glass fell victim to Cromwell and his Model Army. Puritans, called iconoclasts, rampaged throughout northern Europe, destroying all sacred figurative art, and this was followed by two hundred years in which a horror of ‘idolatry’ was the prevailing attitude of the Established Church. As a result, from 1650 to 1770 there was little-to-no glass in Ireland that could be labeled ‘stained glass’ or that contained figurative elements. What we see as commonplace in churches now – beautiful windows full of pictorial representation of Biblical scenes – was completely absent, along with sacred sculpture and paintings of any kind.
While the same was true in many northern European countries (as opposed to the more Catholic south), there was one area producing tinted glass during the early 16th century, and that glass eventually found its way to all kinds of places, including Britain and Ireland. We now call it Netherlandish Glass, since the production of it was centred in Holland and Belgium. (The two images above are of a Resurrection scene from the set of Netherlandish glass pieces I am writing about today.) It was brought back as souvenirs by travellers, since it was seen as such a novelty, or acquired through trade. Some of it also found its way here over the course of the 17th and early 18th centuries as it was sold as “antique”. At the time, it was mostly used for decorating private houses, but eventually much of it ended up in Churches.
There are bits of it here and there. On a visit to York some time ago, we saw some incorporated into church windows – like the example above from St Helen’s in York. In Ireland there are only a handful of examples, mostly in Protestant churches that are not routinely accessible. To my great delight, however, I recently became aware of a set in a Catholic Church, St Mary’s, in Sandyford, Dublin.
The windows are in a side chapel. There are four, each incorporating two sets of Netherlandish Glass. Only the roundels are Netherlandish – each has been set into a window of later construction (possibly 18th century), the design of which is interesting as it contains blue enamel paint (a subject for another day), see below.
I have been unable to find any information about the windows – where they came from, who donated them, when they were assembled into the arrangements we see now. However, I do have information on the roundels themselves, thanks to a paper by the acknowledged expert in this area, William Cole*. I am relying on his erudition for some of what follows.
First of all, how was this glass produced? Typically made in circles (hence the term ’roundels’) or ovals, sometimes in squares or rectangles, the lines of the design were painted using glass paint – ground glass in a medium of water or gum arabic – and kiln fired to make the paint adhere to the surface. Colour was added using sliver nitrate mixed with water or vinegar, always to the back of the glass, and the piece was fired again, this time at a lower temperature. The silver nitrate permeated (as opposed to adhering to) the glass, staining it yellow (hence the term ‘stained glass’). A longer or a third firing deepened the yellow produced by the silver stain into an orangey colour. Take a look at this video for more precise information. Silver stain is still routinely used in stained glass, but at the time these roundels were made it was the only option available to introduce colour onto a glass surface.
The roundels are charming. They use subjects that would have been familiar to their 16th century audience – stories and characters from the Bible. Above is the Prodigal Son being greeted by his father, the other figures may include the mother and the resentful brother. A side-scene shows the Prodigal approaching – his hat is the same as the one on the ground in font of the him. The background was how the artist imagined the Holy Land as he worked away in the Netherlands, sometime around 1510. There are three shades of yellow – light for the background, medium for clothing trim, and a deeper shade for the trees and decorative elements on the father’s hat and the mother’s scarf. The darkest shades were probably added and fired first.
And here is the Prodigal son being invited to the feast. The feast appears sparse indeed, but look to the left and you will see the fatted calf being prepared. An article on The Prodigal Son in Sixteenth and Seventeenth-Century Netherlandish Art by Barbara Haeger points out that this was a popular image partly because both Catholics and Protestants, although they may have nuanced approaches to the subject matter, could both read the story as a demonstration of the father’s love and compassion and God’s willingness to forgive repentant sinners.
Another popular story was that of Joseph and his coat of many colours – although perhaps we can feel some sympathy for the glass painters who could only actually use one colour – yellow – so had to rely on the viewer to fill in the blanks in their mind’s eye. In the roundel, above, Joseph is being sold to the Midianites – or perhaps, as Cole suggests, being sold on to Potiphar. Subsidiary scenes on the far left show Joseph being put down the pit, and one of his brothers killing a sheep so they can dip the coat in the blood. Cole assigns this piece to around 1540.
Two images of St Michael round out this collection. In the one above, St Michael stands above the dragon, sword raised ready to strike. This roundel is unusual because not only silver staine has been used for colour, but also some sepia enamel paint for the wings and the underside of the cloak. Enamel paint, although it could add another colour (at that time normally just brown) was undesirable it made the glass opaque.
The other St Michael stands in the same pose, but the dragon is more complex and interesting. One piece of lead crosses the roundel – perhaps it broke in firing and this holds it together. I will leave you with my final selection, which Cole labels A Bishop’s Arms – note the prominent crozier.
I hope to photograph other Netherlandish glass in Ireland over time. Let me know if you find any!
*Netherlandish Glass in Ireland by William Cole. The Journal of the Royal Society of Antiquaries of Ireland, Vol. 121 (1991), pp. 146-170 available at: https://www.jstor.org/stable/25509007
Welcome to the UCD Library Cultural Heritage Collections blog. Discover and explore the historical treasures housed within our Archives, Special Collections, National Folklore Collection and Digital Library
Roaringwater Journal 