I don't believe in them, but they are there!

Ireland is a land of Celtic twilights, half truths and things part-seen. For all the march of progress there are still men who say "I don't believe in them but they are there." Yes. Ireland's ghosts are there, some tape-recordings of the past, others not so easily explained. I believe that some events in history generate such a high charge of emotion into the atmosphere that this leaves a permanent impression on the immediate surroundings. Under certain conditions and to certain 'receivers' the recorded events then get replayed, and the unfortunate witness is convinced he has seen a returned spirit. Such is probably the explanation for what happened at Ballyheigh Castle.

In June 1962, a Capt. O'Donnell from England was photographing the remains of the castle, a picturesque ruin dominating a remote and beautiful bay in Co. Kerry. When the film was developed, the unmistakeable form of an 18th century swordsman appeared in the print. This naturally prompted Capt. O'Donnell to investigate the history of the castle and the story he turned up would have provided the plot for an Errol Flynn movie. It seems that in 1730 the chatelaine of the castle, Lady Margaret Crosbie became involved in the local ploy of 'Wrecking' - luring ships to their doom by means of bobbing lights on the shore. A Danish vessel, the 'Golden Lyon' became their victim. After rescuing her crew and their chests of silver, the local populace then raided the castle, where they had taken refuge with a supposedly sympathetic Lady Crosbie. The crew led by their master, Capt. Heitman, died in defence of their treasure. It was upon the anniversary of this raid that Capt. O'Donnell took his extraordinary photograph.

Ghosts are not confined to isolated castles. In Molesowrth Street in Dublin there is a terrace of Georgian houses, many now used as antique shops. Late one night my husband and I were returning to our car, when our eyes were simultaneously caught by a figure standing at the long window of a first floor room over a shop. She was a young woman wearing a dark dress with a fichu and mob cap. Her arms rested on a crossbar of the window. We both stood and watched her for several minutes. She dropped her head onto one arm and her body appeared to shake with sobs. It slowly dawned on my husband that we were experiencing something most unusual and he insisted on us driving away at once. I returned next morning. No - the antique shop owner could not explain it. His shop and store rooms above had been locked up all night - Another video tape recording?

The supernatural has always fascinated Man and the sprigs of the 18th century Irish Aristocracy were no exception. Several young men from prominent Anglo-Irish families joined to build the notorious Hell-fire Club, the ruins of which still stand upon the hill overlooking the Dublin suburb of Rathfarnham. Only the initiated knew what went on within these walls, but it was generally believed to be some form of Satanism, in imitation of the Hell-fire Club in England. It took a special Act of Parliament to close the club after a particularly fiendish orgy which culminated in a footman being set alight and dying in agony as he fled the scene. There is a marvellous painting in the National Gallery in Dublin of the founders of the club drinking a toast from a human skull.

Death warnings and banshees have long been a part of Irish lore. The strangest story of all concerns the Viscounts Gormanston. A long time ago, the current Lord Gormanston was said to have saved a vixen and her cubs from the hounds. Ever since, upon the death of the head of the family, real flesh-and-blood foxes congregate at the Castle in Co. Meath. They sit for several days around the building, ignoring the domestic livestock. Once the funeral is over they take their departure.

There have been countless claims for the appearance of departing souls to those they love at the moment of death. A famous story has been passed down in Ireland about Lord Tyrone and Nichola Sophia Hamilton who married Sir Tristan Beresford of Gill Hall in Co. Down. Both orphaned in the 18th century, Lord Tyrone was lady Beresford's foster brother and they were raised as Deists by their guardian. When young they made a pact that whosoever died first would return to the other as proof of life after death. Years went by and then one night Lady Beresford awoke beside her sleeping husband to find her foster brother standing at her bedside. He told her he had just died and forecast many events in her life including the year of her death. As proof that she was not dreaming he touched her wrist which immediately shrivelled, making it necessary for her to wear a black velvet ribbon over it for the rest of her life. Everything he forecast came to pass and she died on her birthday in the year he said.

Unfortunately there are many families with a tale to tell who dare not tell it for fear of local gossip. Somehow though, the neighbours always seem to know. It is hard to keep a secret in Ireland. However it is rare indeed for anyone to be harmed by a 'ghost;' in fact some ghosts are even most helpful. A cottage I knew in Newcastle, Co. Down, had a most kindly spirit who would visit the baby when he cried. On several occasions his mother saw a figure disappear into his room and the crying always stopped.

However we choose to view the subject, scientifically or with a belief in earthbound spirits, the fact remains that there are far too many well documented cases of hauntings and similar phenomena for them all to be brushed aside as figments of the imagination. If we are truly honest with ourselves we too must say 'I don't believe in them but they are there.'
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The Burren

The Burren is a place you might drive through, seeing nothing but distant glimpses of the sea and stone upon grey stone. An inhospitable place for the incurious. But stop. Take time to loiter here, for this place demands patience to find its beauty and the richness of its history. Your eyes must learn to focus in a new way. To pick out stone from stone. In the natural terraces are secreted minute things of beauty. A thorn tree perhaps, growing dwarfed and tortuous along a fissure in the rock. A group of gentians spearing upwards through a cushion of mossed grass. Even dolmens and gallery graves can remain hidden in the natural stone. It takes time for the eyes to detect the shape of man-made structures from their background of rock.

It is fragile, limestone country. Plants grow tentatively in cracks, or on the thin layers of soil. The rocks themselves look impermanent, laid out in broken pavements and higher on the hills in a sharply defined series of cliffs and terraces. Some of those rocks look still on the move, as though just hesitating for a hundred years or so. Possibly the most captured, the most static rocks are those that have been used by man. Dolmens and gallery graves have a more indestructible air, and air of immutability. There were assiduous builders in Clare. Apart from the dolmens and gallery graves which were so doggedly erected four or five thousand years ago to mark the buried dead, there are the stone forts. Circular forts with sometimes two, sometimes three enclosing walls. There would have been a dwelling house within the walls. Beyond the walls, the predators...Later, much later, Christians came and used the stone to build their churches and abbeys. Some, like the Cistercian abbey at Corcomroe, stand prominent against a hillside. Others like the nearby Oughtmama churches lie low, concealed in a valley. There were secular interests too. A building of double architectural interest is Lemaneagh Castle with its mediaeval five-storey tower, and its later, four-storey 17th century dwelling...

In so short a space I can only whet your appetite. Visit the Burren Display Centre at Kilfenora, http://www.theburrencentre.ie/ where you will be given a sensitive, visual introduction to the area. Buy a lovely map entitled "The Burren, a map of the uplands of North-West Clare." With this you could explore every last stone of the Burren.

The Burren is a place of distinct layers, with hills rising from wide valleys in steps of stone. Once the hills were wooded, and soil covered the high plateaux, but since the arrival of those first farmers at the end of the stone age, the soil has slipped down the hillsides, eroded by tillage and over-grazing, leaving behind the uncovered limestones. Sometimes the soil has been caught in the valleys. At other times it has disappeared into the sea. Driving from Ballyvaughan to Blackhead, you will emerge from a narrow valley to find yourself on the side of a mountain which falls barrenly below you to the sea, and which climbs above you to its stone-delineated sky-line. It is good in such places to walk across the broken pavement, just to reassure yourself that life still exists, and to discover the tenacity of plants which will insist on growing in each split pavement where soil has been trapped in its downward passage by the fissures.

The Burren is famous for its flowers. You'll scarcely see a tree, and you'll scarcely find fresh water up in the high Burren. But the water is there. On the West coast of Ireland it could hardly be denied that it rains. Rainfall is high. But the rain doesn't stay on the surface. Instead it trickles down through fissures, through swallow-holes and pot-holes, to join the network of rivers and lakes which run below the surface of the ground.

They call this landscape Karst, and combined with the warm, wet climate, it makes territory for a unique variety of flowers. In this small area grow alpine, arctic and mediterranean species in harmony. In spring and early summer you will find the best profusion of rare and beautiful flowers, but at any time of the summer, a walk in the hills will be rewarded by the sight of flowers in unusual places.

The Burren is a beautiful place. Please remember how delicate and tenuous its structure is and treat it with care. http://www.insideireland.com/

Donegal

Its lilting musical ring has ensured its inclusion in an endless number of ballads and songs. The place name itself is taken from the Gaelic meaning 'the fortress of the stranger,' and perhaps ensures that nobody is allowed to feel like a stranger in the County. The excessive friendliness of the people is occasionally mistaken for prying curiosity, which indeed it sometimes is! A series of questions, not necessarily impersonal, leveled at the average tourist or stranger by proprietor, clientele or both in any of the many little pubs scattered throughout the county is the locally accepted mode of befriending the outsider. Upon answering, a reciprocal revelation of facts from the interrogator will distinguish him from prying inquisitor and a friend will have been acquired. In the case of the bashful native icebreaking greeting may be required from the stranger to introduce to him someone it would appear later had been his friend for life. The natives are zealously loyal to their county and are loath to leave it for another land or even another county!

Although geographically Donegal is very much a part of Northern Ireland, politically it belongs to the Republic of Southern Ireland. Consequently its insular position has resulted in certain deprivations; in poor roads and communications, both of which are being subjected to an intensive overhaul at the moment. But then the narrow twisted winding roads almost complement the landscape. It is a land of extremities; it boasts deep valleys and high rugged mountains, jagged surf-sprayed cliffs and golden flat wave-washed beaches, heathery boglands and grassy fertile lands, often on the same small farm ensuring the farmer total self sufficiency, growing his own food and cutting his own turf. A heaven for the hippy of yesteryear!

Emigration was once the scourge of Donegal as indeed it was of the whole west coast. Ruins of uneconomic farmsheds remain as reminders of the twin pestilence of famine and emigration of the past century. But the ebbing tide has been stemmed, and the latest census shows an increase in the population of the county for the first time since the early 19th Century.

For the Archaeologically minded, Donegal boasts two of the most impressive stone forts in the Country. Aileach na Ri, home of the Kings of Ulster in the north of the county, and Doon Fort near Portnoo which is accessible by rowing boats which are available for hire. Dolmens abound, one of the best examples being found in Kilcooney. Of the castles, Doe Castle, home of the MacSweeneys and Donegal Castle once of the greatest castles in the province and fortress of the renowned O'Donnells, merit visits though they are now only shadows of their former splendour.

Glencolumbcille is a favourite Mecca with Archaeologists offering examples of a great number of Antiquities and a meticulously erected folk village demonstrating the various modes of living in Donegal over the past two centuries. Slieve League offers to the visitor a superb combination of thrusting sea, precipitous cliff and lofty mountain. Errigal presents a challenging climb to those endowed with an adventurous spirit and the stamina to pursue it.

The coastline is dotted with cute little villages which become the hub of activity in the Summer and virtually hibernate for the rest of the year. Coastal islands of all sizes abound. Aranmore being the largest and most accessible, only 20 minutes from Burtonport. Its population is bilingual as indeed is the population of most of the coastal region where the lapping waves lend an orchestral backing to the lilting Irish nuances.

There are eight words I love to hear in Ireland. "Do you know where you are at all?" They mean that I have lost my way and a self-appointed guide will try to put me on the right road. Or he will offer to come along part way on my journey to be sure I won't get lost again. You don't have to go looking for these offers of help. Sometimes I think old men lie in wait. Then as if by magic they appear. Mostly on serene and remote country roads. But if you're lucky they can also be found in Dublin, Cork or Limerick cities too. Once you have a conversation with an Irish volunteer road finder, you will never be quite the same again. These men have the pregnant wisdom of a philosopher, and the exquisite touch of the poet. Combine these with wit, spontaneous friendliness, poetic word turnabouts, sprinkled with non-sequiturs and malapropisms, the ability to see as vividly and truthfully as through the eyes of a child, and you have memories storing up for fantastic return trips to Ireland. Once I was looking for Ariel House, a Dublin guesthouse. All of the fine old elegant red brick buildings in the Ballsbridge area began to look alike and I had lost the address on Lansdowne Road. Coming towards me was a tall old man with an orange cocker spaniel was by his side. "Excuse me," I said, "I'm looking for Ariel House. Do you know it?" Removing his beret he bowed and said "I do indeed. We will soon have you there. We are out for our afternoon constitutional and would enjoy company along the way now that the day is fine." I asked him his dog's name explaining that I had a cocker at home in San Francisco. "This is Yeats the seventh - Yeatsie for short. God forgive me for diminishing that fine name. Patrick Kavanagh the fifth is at the flat. He's not walking that well these days. Are you wondering about the names? I've named all the dogs I have had after Irish poets. What is your dog's name?" "Shooey" I said. "Well he said, "They can't all be named after poets, can they? It's a nice sounding name but I'd find it hard on a dog. Would you like to hear a story? It's about dogs and boys and poets. We will have time for it anyway before you are at your guesthouse. I was headmaster at a boys' school in the country and also taught Irish poetry. I always had at least four dogs. Spaniels and Jack Russells mostly. Each one was called after favorite poets of mine. Thirty years there you can understand there were a few repeats. Near our school was a village with a sweet shop. The best treat a young lad could have was a trip to that store. I had a fine scheme and there was a method in my madness as you will see. To go to the shop a lad could choose whichever dog he wished as his companion - on a lead of course. The boy was honor bound to recite the verses of the poet for whom the dog was named, back and forth on the journey. I can close my eyes now and see three or four dogs and the lads going down the road shoulder to shoulder singing out their verses. Yeats' 'The Wind is old and still at play, While I must hurry on my way, For I am running to Paradise.' That was a great favorite of theirs - wouldn't it be where they were heading?" He stopped, took out a white handkerchief and wiped his eyes. "A bit of soot," he said. "Many a night now in front of the fire, I can see one of the lads, grown into a fine strapping man walking down a street here or abroad and he spies a small dog of certain breed and color. Without being able to help himself he begins to spout at the top of his voice: 'For I am running to Paradise.' It's a lovely thought, isn't it?" We turned into Lansdowne Road. The brass plate of Ariel House shone in the sun. My companion bowed and said "It was fortunate to have met you. It broke the day for us. We will be on our way now. God bless. Come on Yeatsie. I'll give you a verse or two for the journey home."