Ramblings
I’m writing this from a quiet, just waking up, village of Glengarriff. There’s a lovely simple pleasure to being somewhere touristy, on a prime tourist day - a Sunday in July - early in the morning before things have got busy. There’s just myself and a few other bleary-eyed coffee seekers and a hiker or two geared up for a day on the trails. Does anybody really enjoy being amongst a throng of tourists? I visited the Pena Palace in Sintra last Autumn, but there was nothing fairytale about the crowds and the gardens didn’t relieve the dissappointment - the hot sun of Portugal, six months of drought and the late season all added to a faded-out neglected look.
But back to this village of Maureen O’Hara fame. Just down the road one of Ireland’s oldest hotels, Eccles, that was once frequented by Thackeray, Shaw, P.T Barnum and various members of the British Royal family stands looking out over the bay. But more thrilling to me, a fan of Sergio Leone and Ennio Morricone was to learn that Claudia Cardinale herself stayed there and a photo of her adorns the wall. Sergio in his films worked in dreams and myth and he carved out cinematic images so striking that you felt they were entirely ones own. Claudia Cardinale stepping from the train in Once Upon a Time in the West is one such moment.
This morning I have something less glamorous than an Italian beauty on my mind - sheep. for Glengarriff loves its wool. They are laying out the bright white sheepskins outside Quills, and across the road Weavers of Ireland has just opened its doors. Apart from beef and milk we don’t produce a whole lot in Ireland, so it’s a cause for celebration for any truly indigenous industry we have. We can be proud of our race horses, our, well, Rugby team and certainly our wool textile industry. Weavers of Ireland is not just a shop, they recognise the educational neccessity of their business. So across one wall is a display in high-definition photos of woolen mills and workshops spread about the country and a there is an educational film on loop telling that story.
Traditionally, wool production in Ireland was a cottage industry. Families would raise sheep, shear the wool, and process it by hand, spinning it into yarn and weaving it into cloth. Today it is a significant source of rural employment. Several traditional mills still operate in Ireland, producing a range of woolen products - the Aran sweater being one of the most famous. But there are also many smaller artisan producers who focus on handcrafted woolen goods. The wool industry is deeply connected to Irish heritage and craftsmanship. If the ships bringing in all the clothes from around the world cease to arrive we’ll all be kitting ourselves in wool in no time.
Yesterday I drove to the village of Sneem on the Ring of Kerry. I took the road south from Fossa outside Killarney, passing straight through the penninsula, into the interior I went, along a bog demented road and over the Ballaghbeama Gap. There’s space for one car and anyone not comfortable with their reversing skills should avoid it all. The scenery is obscenely impressive, with expansive views across rolling heath and the dappled light over mountains. It’s all very Kerry, very the Kingdom, if Ireland was a wedding Kerry would be the bride, it’s flamboyant and it commands your attention (just don’t tell a Kerryman). Anyway, I arrived to Sneem and the village in it’s own little proud way was hosting its Summer Festival. A local man controlling traffic was holding a can of cider in his hands and looking bored, the amusement park was pounding out pop music and on the village green the Longhorn Shearers were conducting a heated sheep shearing competition - the adjudicator was also holding a can of beer in his hands.
The tourists were delighted. Imagine it, arriving to the Ring of Kerry and chancing upon such a gathering. The shearers wore faded red t-shirts their faces bright red from early afternoon drinking, the sheep looking as non-plussed as they do in the mountains. From two rusted iron stands hung the big electric shavers and so began the sheep man-handling. There’s a knack to it, a sheep will coil and whip around like an angry pike. But the lads are in control. They rear them up on their bums, pin the front right leg behind their own right leg and get them in a head lock. After that the sheep submits and relaxes and gets on with enjoying his short back and sides. And the tourists coraled around, flicking photos with glee and sending them back home and so perpetuating the belief that this is a standard Irish afternoon - if they move on to Killorglin they might get a photo of a wild goat hoisted up in a cage above the street.
I left the sheep-shearing competition before the winner was announced and drove the coastal road into Kenmare, another gorgeous high end Kerry tourist town -like Killarneys younger brother. Over the Caha Pass I went till the sign for County Cork appeared and off in the distance the grey pool of Barley Lake, sitting nestled in her mountain home, was visible as I winded down into this early morning Glengarriff.
But I’m afraid my coffee is finished now, a whispy rain is travelling sideways into my face and the tourists are pooling into the carpark. May they all buy a sweater, take a photo of a sheep in the mountains and chance upon a local pub to watch the All-Ireland with the locals today. If they do they’ll go home with a thorough fondness and memory of Ireland.