We needed a place to stop for a couple of days between Cork and Dublin close to the M8. Inland campsites are few and far between in Ireland but Gill found a place in a town called Cashel beside the motorway. The weather forecast remained poor, we assumed Cashel would be dour and workaday like most of the other country towns we had driven through. In the event we were pleasantly surprised twice, firstly the weather improved slightly from wet to merely dreary - in other words a fine day by Irish standards; secondly, Cashel exceeded our expectations, architecturally more interesting and historically significant than we had anticipated.
The campsite was situated in the grounds of a guest house in an attractive location overlooking the Rock of Cashel. The outcrop has an important 12th century ecclesiastical monument on the summit. However the importance of the site goes back much further, Cashel means fortified place, the location of the prehistoric palace of the ancient kings of Munster. The monument made a big splash into the 'written' past' - not as some footnote in an obscure early mediaeval chronicle, the Rock of Cashel is thought to be the place where St. Patrick converted King Aengus of Munster to Christianity in 540 C.E., as such it makes it one of the most historically significant sites in Ireland
The 12th century abbey on The Rock is one of the earliest Romanesque churches in Ireland, unique due to its Germanic influenced architecture and rare frescoes. There are still more ecclesiastical remains in the town itself.
Beyond them Cashel's centre is prettier than most, a wide high street lined with Georgian town houses; nearby, in extensive grounds, the former Archbishop's palace built in the early seventeenth century, is now incorporated into a 5 star spa hotel complex.
However, edifices alone are never going to make somewhere historically significant in Ireland, something terrible has to have occurred to confer truly iconic status to a place. In this instance, notoriety was supplied by the Protestant Parliamentarian army commanded by the Earl of Inchiquin, who in 1647 set fire to the abbey church on the rock where most of the townsfolk had taken shelter. Almost a thousand people died in the assault.
Today Cashel is one of the more thriving country towns we have come across in Ireland. A market town with a functioning cattle market - rare these days! A local farmer's cheese business is also flourishing, 'Cashel Blue' can be found on the deli counter of most Irish supermarkets.
On the edge of town there is a big pharmaceutical factory. Compared with places like Tipperary it feels more prosperous. If you are looking for a 'vibrancy indicator' on the high street then an artisan gelateria is a promising sign. Our travels in Italy have turned us both into ice cream snobs.
Ok, Grogan's ice cream parlour is not going to compare with somewhere by Lake Garda or the Tuscan archipelago, but it serves delicious enough ice cream to get locals queueing-up on a Sunday afternoon just like they would in Italy.
Nevertheless, the town's main industry is heritage. Aside from the significant religious monuments on The Rock and within the town itself, other visitor attractions include Brú Ború Irish Cultural Centre (traditional music and dance), The Cashel Folk Village (War of Independence, Famine, Workhouse) and a big store specialising in Irish knitware.
It struck me that my plan to escape the historical Disneyfication of the Queen's platinum jubilee by running away to Ireland failed to factor-in that I was simply swapping one delusional view of the past for another. I had not reckoned on the ubiquitous presence of Oirish heritage.
The only place I know that is more shameless in promoting a ludicrous version of its own history in order to pick the pockets of unsuspecting visitors is Scotland. Is there anything on planet Earth quite as ghastly as the vision of a Scotsman in full highland regalia playing Scotland the Brave on the bagpipes? Maybe a row of anorexic looking Irish girls doing that weird Riverdance thingy has to be a close second.
I am interested in history but I find heritage creepy. History is a method, heritage a commodity; the former is about investigation and debate, the latter seeks to affirm, inviting affiliation; it amounts to a contemporary tribal ritual, ancestor worship updated. Maybe travelling for five months a year has reduced my interest in the past. What is happening now seems equally fascinating, and the recent past as interesting as what occurred centuries ago. I think visiting Benidorm seafront was at least as interesting and as culturally significant as the Alhambra.
This point of view proved useful as we headed back towards Dublin. Struggling to find a place to park for lunch we ended up in the coach park of Kinsale Designer Village. With hours to fill before our evening ferry we decided to take a look. For me this was not an alluring prospect as I hate shopping. However, it proved more entertaining that I anticipated.
The place is run by the same company as the Bicester Designer Village in Oxfordshire. Their pitch is a bit more up-market than the rival company that runs Cheshire Oaks in Ellesmere Port, but proposition of both places is essentially the same - high street goods at discount prices in a faux village setting exuding all the authenticity of Disneyland's Main Street.
All human cultures have aspects that are profoundly strange - the Mexican day of the dead, the ritualised violence of the Roman Colosseum or Spanish bull-ring, the shamanistic trance, the hajj in Mecca, Valentine's Day in Las Vegas, we are a weird species. I guess by comparison retail therapy is quite innocuous. Nevertheless, while Gill browsed around 'Sweaty Betty's' I found myself musing about who exactly would consider the jazzy patterned 'bum sculpting' leggings reduced from €134 to €84 a must have bargain, and why? I suppose Malvolio provides an august precedent for this particular example of human folly.
Onwards, after a brief visit to a Lidl on the outskirts of Dublin where most people seemed to be speaking Polish, we arrived at the ferry port two hours early. After a while the sight of big gantry cranes robotically stacking and restacking the wall of containers in front of us became strangely fascinating. Eventually all good things must come to an end, later that evening we found ourselves queueing up for dinner in the ferry cafeteria. The evening sailing offers a reduced choice, fish and chips, burritos or a chicken curry. Sadly two thirds of the three items were unavailable, so fish and chips it was going to be. They were terrible.
We arrived in Holyhead at midnight, parked on the roadside by the yacht club, at night the area is quiet so we slept well. As we drove past Snowdonia the following morning I felt pleased to be back in Wales. Usually we drive off a cross Channel ferry and end up in a service area on the M1 fulminating about some aspect or other of British culture. So it felt odd to be feeling positive about being back. I am not sure why this was the case. Generally Ireland had been interesting rather than enjoyable, hardly one of our more epic trips. Perhaps arriving in Wales made all the difference. I think you could make a good case for the Principality being the least fucked-up of the five nations that make up the British Isles. Maybe visitWales.com should adopt this as their stap line -
Cymru! Llai fucked-up na'r gweddill...
It's striking you have to admit.
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