The legends of the borderlands
A version of this article was used by Tourism Ireland in their promotional material in 2014. It was also published by the Australian magazine Primo Life
King John's Castle, Carlingford — once the very model of impregnability at the edge of the Pale
IT'S beyond the Pale. Quite literally. King John’s Castle, at the foot of the Cooley Mountains, glowers across Carlingford Lough towards Ulster and the Mountains of Mourne. The castle, the very model of impregnability, was once the last redoubt of the English hereabouts. The Pale, as it was called, stretched from Dublin as far as north as this almost impossibly picturesque neck of the woods.
Not that scenery was a big consideration back then. In their 15th and 16th century English opinion this was where pure savagery began, just beyond the Pale. It was why their Carlingford castle had a murder hole – still intact — just above the welcome mat. If it turned out you weren't that welcome, boiling water, tar, arrows and rocks would rain down on your head.
The visceral nature of Irish politics over the centuries has left the mediaeval town of Carlingford with two castles, a Dominican friary, a mint, muscular looking harbour, and a handful of fine (well-protected) Georgian buildings — which isn’t bad going for a village with only a few hundred souls. Two people meeting on a pavement here can cause a traffic jam.
This area has a history for which the word chequered barely does justice — Danes, Normans, English, Scottish, Cromwellians, WiIliamites, the IRA and the British Army have all dug in hereabouts; all, to a greater or lesser extent, have left their mark.
Before them, it was the turn of giants, Wee Folk, banshees and assorted spirits. They lived in the mountains, getting up to all sorts. And that’s not just fey paddywhackeray. The early Celts developed a cauldron of supernatural beliefs and mythology that has lasted until today — you’ll not be surprised to learn that Halloween and Dracula are both Irish inventions.
The mountainous areas of Ireland have inspired legend, mythology and folklore, with figures as disparate as CS Lewis and Edward Lear drawing inspiration from them
The Cooley Mountains — wild and semi-wild horses call it home
The central epic from the ancient Ulster sagas, the Táin Bó Cuailgne, or The Cattle Raid of Cooley, is set in the hills above Carlingford. Iceland’s Nobel prize winner Halldéor Laxness — no stranger, I’m sure to readers — says, “The Irish brought to Iceland their literature and their learning – of which the Scandinavians had nothing. The sagas are our cultural foundation. Without them we would just be another Danish island.”
The story of the Cattle Raid — which dates back to the 4th century (more or less last weekend in these parts) focuses on Queen Maeve’s battles with the Men of Ulster. The epic tale was undoubtedly inspired by views that could support an entire postcard industry, never mind a saga or two. From any of the summits (Slieve Foy, Barnavave, Paddy's Top) you get a sweeping view across Carlingford Lough, the Irish Sea and Dundalk Bay.
Even the dog Bodie has to be reassured that he'll remain unmolested by Terrible Things in the Cooleys
The Cooleys aren't big mountains — none over 700 metres — but are excellently stage-managed. Any walk here will take you past 4000-year-old dolmens, ancient pagan healing stones and Druidic sacred wells. Ancient Christian mass-stones are well-hidden so that the Catholic faithful could celebrate mass, banned during the penal times, in relative peace.
Reaching the mountains is simple. You simply walk up from Carlingford harbour (just like everybody before you, from from Vikings to Victorians) past a Georgian mansion, now the Ghan House hotel, and through a mediaeval arched tholsel — once the gate tower, and later the town gaol.
You’ll find it difficult to leave the premises of PJ O’Hare’s behind, where the best oysters and Guinness on the east coast are served. But we must press on, and are now in the centre of the old mediaeval village. At the end of the main street (about three hundred yards long) the mountain path begins. It’s as simple as that.
Climbing Slieve Gullion
When Ireland's share of molten lava was cooling down 60 million years ago a little bit plopped up - just like boiling custard – and stayed like that. South Armagh was left with a central mountain, Slieve Gullion, surrounded by a ring of smaller mountains. This ‘ring dyke system’ is now required viewing for geologists from around Europe — it's one of the prime examples of the form.
Before the geologists arrived, Slieve Gullion had already played host to witches, Ulster heroes and fleeing saints. This is the land of Tain Bó Cuailgne, Fionn MacCumhaill and the old hag Calliagh Berra.
The route rises quickly from Slieve Gullion Courtyard Centre through deciduous woodland and out onto open heathland. A well worn turf path rises steeply towards a straightforward hill-walk to the height of Slieve Gullion at 573 metres with little scrambling involved. A stone cairn built during the Victorian era marks the summit, atop a huge burial chamber constructed by Neolithic Armagh locals. Both great cairn builders, the Victorians and the Neolithics, separated by some 3000 years.
This vantage point gives you the geologist’s view of the rest of the Ring, and the poet’s view of the Mourne Mountains sweeping down to the Sea.
Of course if it’s a fine soft day bucketing down - with the only view being your hand in front of your face - you could content yourself with searching for the slowest growing things on Planet Earth, lichens. The most common, looking like white splodges on the granite boulders, are Dog’s Tooth lichens. But look carefully and you might see specimens from the genus Haematomma – the Blood Drop lichens. Pale green with blood red drops, these grow about a tenth of an inch in a hundred years.
The summit ridge leads down to Calliagh Berra’s Lough. Needless to say several legends attach to this lake. The warrior Fionn MacCumhail was lured into the pool, emerging as a wizened, white-haired old man. His friends dug into the cairn on Slieve Gullion to find Calliagh Berra, the witch who caused the enchantment. She restored Fionn, but his former head of red hair remained white.
No wonder CS Lewis wandered these mountains looking for inspiration. This may well be "the garden and magic tree which lie to the west of Narnia, at the end of the blue lake."
[The above piece was published in the Irish Times]
From the Cooleys to County Down
Walking in the Cooley Mountains it’s easy enough to trip over an international land border. The Cooleys are in the Republic of Ireland, while the continuation of its range, Slieve Gullion, is in Northern Ireland. Mountain cordilleras, of course, don’t recognise lines on maps, so you’ll find it difficult to tell when you've stepped from one country to the next. To be fair, even on the main roads it’s difficult enough. The only thing indicating you’ve crossed the border into British territory is a sign announcing, “Speeds in Miles Per Hour”. And that’s it. How Michael Collins, assassinated for his trouble in helping draw up this line on the map, would have laughed. Or not.
So, taking good care to remember that you’re not driving in kilometres anymore, you can hum along with a Frank Sinatra CD: “It might have been in County Down, / Or in New York, in Gay Paree, / Or even London Town.”
The song was probably the first time those four locations have occurred in the same sentence. And the cultural references don’t end with Frank. Just as you approach Banbridge — where the man who wrote What A Friend We Have in Jesus was born — the Mountains of Mourne heave into view. But first, you pass a sign that announces “Brontë Country”. And you thought they were Yorkshire girls. Partly right. But that’s not the complete story, not the full Brontë.
The lovely rolling drumlin landscape south of Banbridge was the home of the father, uncles and aunts of the novelists Charlotte, Emily and Anne. Their father Patrick Brontë, born and brought up here, was steeped in the folklore of Ulster, something he passed on to his daughters.
The hilltop parish church and school at Drumballyroney where Patrick taught before going to England is now the nucleus of the tiny Brontë Interpretative Centre.
Down Cathedral with the grave of St Patrick in the foreground
Patrick Brontë was born in 1777, on March 17 — a date which might ring a bell. It’s St Patrick’s Day, and the man after whom the Brontë patriarch was named is buried some ten miles or so up the road in Downpatrick.
His grave in the grounds of Down Cathedral is a model of restraint.
St Patrick’s Day in Downpatrick is quite a sober affair, with the emphasis on religious reflection rather that leprechauns and Guinness.
It seems unlikely that Patrick ever wore one of those 'pint o' Guinness hats', or ever uttered the words, "Did anybody remember the bottle opener?"
From the graveyard there’s a notable view across the Co. Down countryside, the ruins of Inch Abbey, an old Cistercian monastery on the banks of the Quoile, and towards the Mountains of Mourne.
The Shimna eventually meets the Spinkwee River at the Meeting of the Waters, and soon dramatic views of the Pot of Legawherry in the Mournes can be glimpsed. You can’t help feeling that the sheer poetry of local names hereabouts might have inspired Lewis. It’s not too far a step from the likes the Castles of Comedagh or the Pot of Pulgarve, to the Fords of Beruna, or Cair Paravel, the royal castle of Narnia
Beyond the Horn Bridge stood the oak grove which supplied wood for the main staircase of the Titanic. This will have resonated with CS — he would later pay tribute to the city’s shipbuilding heritage in the poem Of Ships, writing of his return to Belfast by boat and hearing the familiar noise of the Harland and Wolff shipyard.
But soon the open mountain appears. The view is simply one of the best in these islands.
As CS Lewis said of the area in his essay On Stories:
“I yearn to see County Down in the snow, one almost expects to see a march of dwarfs dashing past. How I long to break into a world where such things were true.”