Ogham Stone or . . . ?

It’s been an eclectic week – Amanda, Peter and I had a skite out to Inchydoney, and I finished off the week with a trip to Barley Cove.

Inchydoney Island is a beautiful, unique and historical part of West Cork. Just south of Clonakilty, it was indeed once an island but now is connected to the mainland with causeways. The reason for our trip was to check out an intriguing stone, spotted by Willie O’Regan, along the shore. Willie’s thought was that it might be an Ogham stone and he wanted to check that out. It had fallen forward out of the bank in recent high tides, revealing parallel grooves along its length – just the sort of thing you might expect from an Ogham stone.

We rendezvoused with Willie on the north side of Inchydoney, across from Clonakilty (above) and walked along the shore, while he told us about the history of the area. We could see across the pond known locally as the Beamish Lake to the Hungerford House, originally called Inchydoney House. It has been purchased and magnificently restored in recent years, the owners pouring resources and loving attention into their project, including restoring the walled garden.

The shoreline had been – er – shored up by rocks and rubble all along its length. It may originally have been walled – designed landscapes were very popular in the 18th century – take a look at New Court, for example. There may also have been small inlets and launching places along the edge. At one such possible spot Willie showed us what he had found. 

We examined it thoroughly and took lots of photos. It wasn’t an Ogham stone – although anyone could be forgiven for mistaking it for one! The grooves are actually plough marks. 

As the plough passes over and through the soil, it runs across stones that are just at the right depth below the surface, gouging out these grooves. Over the years, many grooves appear. Sometime the stones, if they are small enough, roll over and the grooves appear on other surfaces, as seems to be the case with this stone.

Plough-marked stones like this could be any age – this one could be medieval or more recent. It was probably finally unearthed and tossed to the edge of the field to join the other rocks keeping the water from eroding the shorelines, eventually falling forward and revealing itself to Willie’s keenly observing eyes. It tells a story – a story of cultivation and hard work and a story of never throwing anything away, and a story of a man who walks these shores for pure pleasure and never misses a trick. Thanks, Willie – we had such a good time on this walk!

And – to learn all you ever wanted to know about Inchydoney Island, read Robert’s epic post from 2021, Inchydoney – and Virgin Mary’s Bank. 

And Barley Cove? As last year, I went out to see what I could see of the Early Sand-grass. A remarkably homely little tuft of grass that is nevertheless precious because it is extremely rare. I found lots and it felt so good to be out in the fresh air, lying in the dunes, and taking an unconscionable number of photographs of this humble little representative of our incredible West Cork biodiversity.

And then home through some of the most scenic coastline in Ireland. Not that I’m biased.

Flail, by Debbie Godsell

It’s not often an art exhibition has me running to my word processor to get a post out, but this one did it for me! On the surface, this is a quirky, amusing, thought-provoking, installation about the annual Harvest Festival, as practised in the autumn in Church of Ireland communities all over Ireland. Except it’s so much more than that. It’s titled Flail, and it’s on right now at Uillinn.

Debbie Godsell has taken the idea of the harvest festival and the communities that celebrate it, and turned it into a personal exploration of her own experience with it, as a child growing up in the C of I, and as a photographer recording the custom of decorating churches. In Ireland, this is a custom unique to the Protestant church – the minority religion. As such, there’s a strangeness to it when viewed by someone who grew up Catholic. Not strange in the sense of peculiar, but in the sense of unknown, slightly other-worldly, why-have-I-never-known-about-this?

But yes, it is quirky and amusing. Just take a look at these heads – they are the first thing you notice when you come in, titled ‘Ancestors’. Made from all kinds of found materials, some represent real people (hello, Great-Aunt Molly!) although most are simply heads – a bit like you might find on a scarecrow out in the fields around harvest time.

But after the first encounter you realise that this also of course, is the thought-provoking part of this exhibition Now you notice that they are on sticks, mirroring perhaps the heads on pikes that seemed to spell the end on many rebellions against English rule down through the centuries. In her notes, Godsell states:

Here, the heads take on an unsettling childlike quality, drawing from elements of folk drama and ritual. Rudimentary in form, they are a fusion of figures from Irish history and the artist’s own imagined lineage. Blurring the line between historical facts and personal mythology, the work interrogates themes of memory, identity and inherited trauma, challenging how history is constructed and remembered.

What does it mean, in Ireland, to be part of a minority religion? What has it meant in the past, and now? What if that religion was perceived to track closely with class, and land ownership, and unionist sympathies? 

We pride ourselves, in Ireland, now, on being a pluralistic and non-sectarian society. But if that is true at all, it is only recently so. The Ireland I grew up in – in the 50s and 60s – was deeply sectarian. Protestants and Catholics rarely mixed and we were forbidden, on pain of sin, to enter each other’s churches. We were educated separately, played some different sports (Anyone for lacrosse? How about men’s hockey?), sounded different, went to separate Brownie troupes, studied different curricula at school . . .

This exhibition explores the harvest-related parts of that separateness, but the opening, in which Debbie Godsell was interviewed by art critic Cristín Leach, also featured a discussion on folklore and a hymn by Cristín!

Cristín has said that Flail is ‘complicated territory’ for her and the hymn, Harvesting History, sprang almost spontaneously from engaging with the first Flail exhibition. It has been beautifully set to music by Susan Nares, and the West Cork Choral Singers presented it at the opening. Here’s a snippet.

I was particularly fascinated by the folklore discussion. As Roaringwater Journal readers know, we have used the Duchas/Schools Folklore Collection extensively over the years. One particularly important piece of research for me was to look at what it had to say about the Reverend Fisher – Saint and/or Souper of Toormore. What I found was a little shocking and it opened my eyes to an aspect of this wonderful resource that I had never previously considered – the decidedly sectarian nature of the collections. While some Protestant National Schools did participate in the School’s Collection of 1937/38, Protestants are very under-represented as informants. See this excellent article from History Ireland for more on this*.

Cristín and Debbie talked about the prevailing view of Protestants as seen in the overwhelmingly Catholic responses in the Collection – and it wasn’t a pretty picture. As I discovered with Fisher, and as Amanda has discovered with Holy Wells Folklore, the Protestants are basically blamed for anything misfortunate or discreditable – some examples here, and here and here. 

Go see this exhibition if you can. It’s fascinating, but more than that, it’s important. We are still trying to come to grips with our history, in Ireland. Art like this helps immeasurably.

* A ‘Protestant folk’? Author(s): Deirdre Nuttall and Críostóir MacCarthaigh Source: History Ireland , Vol. 25, No. 5 (September–October 2017), pp. 48-51 Published by: Wordwell Ltd. Stable URL: https://www.jstor.org/stable/10.2307/90014607

Light is the Canvass

This wasn’t the post I planned to write for today, but it’s the one, in the end , I felt I wanted to do more than any other. It would have been Robert’s birthday on Wednesday (March 5) and somehow a contemplative post filled with beautiful images (many of which he helped me to process), and set to sublime music, was calling out to me. Watch it on YouTube for the best experience. I hope you enjoy it.

One way to think about a piece of stained glass is that, for the artist, light serves as the canvas, while glass is the medium. Additional materials may include glass paint, acid, and other treatments used to enhance the design or respond to the context of the window or panel. Throughout the ages, stained glass has surrounded us—adorning churches and public spaces—yet we don’t often pause to look beyond its surface. We admire the light it casts without considering the artist’s hand, the vision, and the craftsmanship that bring it to life. I have tried to do that in this quirky set of photos. I wandered though my (embarrassingly) huge archive and chose the ones that spoke to me. As I look at what I have chosen I see I am drawn to abstractions and faces – a duality that Robert the sociable architect would approve of. 

This photo of us was taken ten years ago. The music is Ave Maria Stella by the late great Mícheál Ó Súilleabháin. It’s available here, and is used with permission. 

Sit Stand Smoke – and Remember Kathleen

This week I experienced, in Virtual Reality, what is was to belong to a Flying Column during the Irish War of Independence. With the men, I crawled through a West Cork field, gun at the ready, alert for any sign of the British army or the Black and Tans.

Or, at least, that’s what it felt like, and I must admit to a slight pounding of the heart as we were crouched behind that stone wall. In reality, I was on a swivel chair in the old Uillinn coffee shop, now repurposed as a VR theatre, wearing a VR headset. The Sean Keating painting that this experience is based on is the iconic Men of the South and you can read all about it here. 

Keating’s grandson, David Keating, and his creative partner Linda Curtin, have produced the VR experience, shooting it in West Cork in “360 stereoscopic + volumetric capture” with the help of many local people and the new West Cork Film Studio. Dr Éimear O’Connor provided the expert consultations on Sean Keating (below) and features, amusingly, as an exasperated director of the action. If you get a chance to see this anywhere, grab it! You can also read more about Sean Keating in this post by Robert from 2020.

And this War of Independence action leads nicely into Kathleen O’Connell. You will remember her as one of the heroines of Karen Minihan’s book More Extraordinary Ordinary Women. Take a quick trip back to this post and read all about her and her daring and courageous deeds.  I concluded this section by saying

Kathleen was ruined financially by all her support for the cause. Letters of support for her pension application were fulsome in praise of her work and her commitment. She was awarded a grade E pension in 1939. She died, here in 1945, aged 50. She had not married and had no children, and all memory of her gradually disappeared from Ballydehob. When Karen went looking for the house she had lived in, it seemed nobody could remember the heroic Kathleen O’Connell who had once lived here.

How wrong we were! Memory of Kathleen was far from dead. A relative of hers recently contacted Karen and on Friday afternoon we spent several hours with him and his charming grandson, rediscovering Kathleen from a man in whose family her memory was still fully alive. (He didn’t want his photo in the blog post, although Neven, the grandson, was happy to be in it.)

The first thing he showed us was her grave, at the historic Abbey Graveyard in Bantry. It contained many family members, including Kathleen. Our guide had knowledge of everyone in the grave and how they were related, and told us that there were probably more people in the plot than commemorated on the headstone. The grave looks out over the sea at Bantry.

Next, he brought us to the cabin belonging to her Uncle Pat where she sheltered men on the run. It’s located in the hills behind Ballydehob, down several lonely boreens and across a couple of (very muddy) fields. The cabin, now roofless, still stands and still has the wonderful oak mantle across the open fireplace.

We marvelled that Kathleen was doing all this on her bicycle – it’s several kilometres above Ballydehob and about 100 metres above sea level. And of course few of the roads would have been paved at that time. Our guide told us that she was totally and passionately committed to the cause, and that, since she was an only child, she carried her parents along with her. It was really they who underwrote all the expenses she incurred in her work. 

In the family, it was understood that she had been engaged to a man who was a member of a Flying Column – just like one of the Men of the South, but that he had been shot. We could only wonder at the trauma and distress she had experienced. She left for America in 1925, but returned to live in Ballydehob, and her father eventually outlived her. 

Our final mementoes of Kathleen were particularly poignant. Surviving in the family were two of her books, school books we think, in which she had written her name.

Each was very British – a reminder to us all what the standard school fare was at the time when we were members of the British Empire.

I have located a copy of the Royal Prince Reader (1910) on EBay – in Rajastan! A further reminder that empire was promoted through children’s literature as much as through military occupation.

Somehow these two books, her own possessions, brought Kathleen to life as nothing else could have done. We imagined her devouring these stories in school, and her gradual disillusion as she matured with what the Empire stood for.

It is an immense comfort to know that she is not forgotten after all.

Muskerry Miscellany

I’ve had the most marvellous Muskerry weekend! Muskerry (pronounced Muss-cree), or Múscraí as it is more properly spelled in Irish, encompasses a large area in west Cork and much of it is Irish speaking. This weekend my two destinations were Ballingeary and Inchigeelagh. We didn’t stop at Gougane Barra on the way this time, but can’t resist including this photo to remind you of the stunning scenery there.

Ballingeary was Saturday and our destination was the village hall, for the last night of the original ceoldráma (musical), Gobnait! This production is by the same team who mounted An Tuairin Dubh a couple of years ago and I was dying to see their new musical. I wasn’t disappointed!

The story tells of the legend of St Gobnait, who travels from the Aran Islands to Ballyvourney – she knows she will have reached the “site of her resurrection” when she sees nine white deer (below). Patron saint of smiths and beekeepers, stories abound and are kept alive with an annual pilgrimage. We have written about Gobnait several times. Here’s a link to a post from only last year, one of the last posts that Robert wrote, in fact.

But to really understand how St Gobnait journeyed to Ballyvourney, you must read Amanda’s 3 part post (Part 1 and Part 2 and Part 3) where she traces her peregrination from the Aran Islands to Ballyvourney, stopping along the way to lend her name to churches and holy wells. This is followed by a summary of her life and work in Ballyvourney.

The Musical – it’s an opera, really, told the story very dramatically and with great liveliness and enthusiasm from the cast. The singing was lovely and there was lots of interesting choreography and stage settings – the Sulán River, for example, was very effectively rendered by means of moving actors and a huge gauze sheet (below). The words were projected as sur-titles, so even though my Irish is not a strong as I would wish, I could follow along with no problem.

It seems like the whole village of Ballingeary was involved – from those directing us to parking to those at the desks and tea-counter, everyone from miles around was joining in the fun and the effort. The hall was packed, as it has been every night, and we delivered a standing ovation at the end of the evening – so well deserved.

And it’s coming to Cork – one night only at the Opera House, on March 8th. If you can, see it there.

I loved how Gobnait’s costume in the second half was based on Seamus Murphy’s famlous statue of her at her holy well in Ballyvourney.

Having gone home and slept, I got in the car again this morning for another trip to Múscraí – this time to Inchigeelagh and to one of my favourite West Cork churches. Before I tell you about the trip, here are two reasons I like this church. The first is this little gem of St Oliver Plunkett. It’s the work of Kevin Kelly, of the Abbey Studios – and my photograph of it features on the front cover of a book! I haven’t got my copy of the book yet – it’s on its way.

The second is this enormous and spectacular St Finbarr window – it’s an outstanding example of the Celtic Interlacing style that Watson of Youghal developed and perfected.

The purpose of my trip was to attend a mass in memory of Eileen Ryan. Eileen died in Zimbabwe, aged only 38, in 1983. and each year since, her husband Ken makes the journey from Dublin to attend the mass. Ken, a friend from the stained glass world (he’s the Chairman of Abbey Stained Glass Studios), had invited me to attend, since I live ‘nearby.’ I am so glad I did.

Y’know, you forget how life is lived and celebrated in rural Ireland – the ritual, followed by the release, the laughter, and food and the friendliness. As a total stranger, I was included in all of that – we were singing in a pub an hour after the mass ended, and eating delicious soup and brown bread and cake in a family member’s house an hour after that. I felt like I had made new friends – and have already promised to give a stained glass talk at their annual festival next year.

Marconi and Brow Head

WordPress, to my dismay, has now labelled all the content on this blog as ‘by Finola’. This is due to the necessity, for various reasons, of adjusting ‘ownership’ and management parameters. It’s a bit heartbreaking, though, as it’s no longer easily discernible which of the posts (approx half of the 1,132 posts so far) were written by Robert. So every now and then I thought it would be good to highlight one of his older posts. So here is his wonderful account, written originally in 2014, and titled In Search of Ghosts, of the spirits that haunt Brow Head.

ruin

 Lonely and wild – Brow Head is the most southerly point on the mainland of Ireland. There are ghosts here: ghosts of ancient people who created the stone monuments, perhaps 5000 years ago, that are now inundated by every tide in the bay at Ballynaule below this Irish ‘Lands End’; ghosts of early farmers who began to lay out field boundaries criss-crossing this windswept promontory; ghosts of the defenders of an empire who feared a French invasion that never happened; ghosts of the prospectors who sunk two shafts – now barely protected by rusting wire – during the nineteenth century copper mining era; and, lastly, ghosts of the pioneers of our own digital age, represented in the brooding ruins that crown the hilltop here above West Cork’s remotest village, Crookhaven.*

Brow Head - haunt of ghosts
Brow Head – haunt of ghosts
Charles Motte
Napoleon setting his sights on the British Empire 1804 (Charles Motte)
Facing up to Napoleon: Brow Head Signal Tower, built in 1804
Facing up to Napoleon: Brow Head Signal Tower, built in 1804 in anticipation of a French invasion

 We can be very specific about one ghost: Guglielmo Marconi – born at Bologna, Italy, on April 25, 1874 to Giuseppe Marconi, an Italian country gentleman, and Annie Jameson, daughter of Andrew Jameson of Daphne Castle, Enniscorthy, County Wexford, Ireland. The Jamesons were and are renowned distillers of Irish Whiskey. It’s reasonable to say that Marconi was an ‘Irish Italian’, and that heritage was reinforced when in 1905 he married Beatrice O’Brien, daughter of the 14th Baron Inchiquin. Marconi’s fame is that he pioneered the commercial application of electromagnetic waves – or Radio.

 

Marconi - wishful thinking!
Marconi – wishful thinking!

At the age of twenty one, Marconi was able to demonstrate to his father how, without any visible physical link (without wires), he could transmit dots and dashes through the rooms of their home in Pontecchio. “…When I started my first experiments with Hertzian waves…” he is quoted as saying, “…I could scarcely believe it is possible that their application to useful purposes could have escaped the notice of eminent scientists…” His parents used their influence to help him travel to England to meet the Engineer-in-Chief of the British Post Office with the result that in 1896 Marconi obtained the first ever patent in wireless telegraphy.

Signal Station at Poldhu, Cornwall, 1914
Signal Station at Poldhu, Cornwall, 1914

Marconi’s ambitions started in a room in Italy: by December 1901 he was able to send messages from Poldhu, Cornwall, to St John’s, Newfoundland, a distance of 2100 miles – an historic achievement. In his attempts to bridge the Atlantic with Radio waves he had explored the west coasts of Britain and Ireland for suitable telegraphic locations. One of his destinations was Crookhaven, which he visited many times – using the Flying Snail en route!

The Marconi Wireless Telegraph Station at Brow Head - exactly 100 years ago
The Marconi Wireless Telegraph Station at Brow Head – exactly 100 years ago

 Brow Head was one of a number of transmitting stations set up by Marconi and it got off to a flying start soon after opening in 1901 when, in the presence of Marconi himself, Morse signals were received from Poldhu, 225 miles away. The fact that the Atlantic gap was conquered only a few months after this shows the rapid pace of developments at that time.

Calling America...
Calling America…

 The village of Crookhaven had long been the first and last port of call for ships going between Northern European ports and America. Over the centuries ships stocked up here with provisions before tackling the open sea. Because of this, the major shipping lines had agents here. Reuters and Lloyds had flag-signalling and semaphore equipment on Brow Head to communicate with the maritime traffic, superseded by the telegraph station. At the end of the 19th Century it was said that “…you could cross the harbour on the decks of boats…” Up to 700 people are reputed to have lived in the area at that time: now, Crookhaven has a permanent population of no more than 40. An article written by one of the telegraph operators in 1911 summarises:

…As Crookhaven is the first station with which the homeward bound American liners communicate it is naturally a busy station. By the aid of wireless all arrangements are made for the arrival of the ships, the landing and entraining of the passengers and mails, whilst hundreds of private messages to and from passengers are dealt with. Messages are also received from the Fastnet Lighthouse, which is fitted with wireless, reporting the passing of sailing ships and steamers. These messages are sent by vessels not fitted with wireless by means of signals to the Fastnet, thence by wireless to Crookhaven, whence they are forwarded to Lloyds and to the owners of the vessels…

Engraving by Mary Francis Cusack, 1875
Engraving by Mary Francis Cusack, 1875

 We have some first hand accounts of the workings of the signal station in its heyday from the handwritten log books of Arthur Nottage – for many years landlord of the Welcome Inn at Crookhaven – who died aged 90 in 1974. In 1904 he arrived in West Cork (from England) to work on a shift basis with one other man as Marconi telegrapher at Brow Head. Until 1914 he operated the Morse code apparatus with a salary – generous for the time – of £1 per week.

Arthur Nottage of Crookhaven
Arthur Nottage of Crookhaven

 A hundred years ago telegraphy had advanced to such a stage that it was no longer necessary for stations to operate close to the shipping lanes, and small, isolated sites such as Brow Head were closed down. Legend has it that in 1922 the Irregulars destroyed the buildings during the Civil War.

Becoming Archaeology: the ruins on Brow Head today
Becoming archaeology: the ruins on Brow Head today

 Finola and I have both been inspired by the landscape and atmosphere of this Atlantic frontier. It’s a place we will return to. All West Cork landscapes are impressive, but this is a place apart. If you want to feel at the end of the world, walk here: you won’t meet many others, even in the height of the visitor season. Perhaps that’s because it’s haunted – but in the best possible way. Like so much of Ireland the world has come here – a mark has been made – memories have been left behind. Now, you hear the ghosts in the ever-present currents of wind and surf.

Base of Marconi's mast at Brow Head
Base of Marconi’s mast at Brow Head

 *I am grateful to Michael Sexton and the Mizen Journal (Number 3 1995) for many fascinating items on the Crookhaven Telegraph Station not recorded elsewhere.