By Maggie O’Malley-Brown
Transcript
Cashel was the town where I first learnt to play truant! For a quiet teenager, the beautiful rocky outcrop beneath the famous Rock of Cashel represented a special place, a place where you felt you were on top of the world. Looking down from the rocky crags on its solid stalwart sides, we met weekly with school friends underneath the Rock – a hidden secret place. We had come in from the countryside for the Sunday Mass – into “civilisation”, for a visit to our local town. Interest in town pubs, sundry sweet shops, keeping up with the Miss Joneses fashion parade – all evaded me. This up here was my place of Sunday worship.
I’m back today in the modern-day town of “Caiseal Mumhain”. Perched high, just underneath that magnificent wall, sitting quietly on a friendly rock, the view is breathtaking. Memories come fast and clear. I marvel at the view from this old familiar lookout post – just underneath the Seat of the Munster Kings. Sounds of people calling, sheep bleating, crows flapping wings on high, not much has changed. Scents of horse chestnut, and new-mown grass fill the air. Carefully picking my way down the hillside I enter the Walk of the Dead. Back just a century or so, funeral processions would have stumbled under their heavy burden, mourners sobbing, or chanting…making their way up to the Holy graveyard inside the Castle Wall.
Shying away from their mood, I move quickly now down the hill and cut across to Dominic Street, and further on to Chapel Lane. The Abbey still retains that sacred air where monks in days past would have sung their Vespers. Now, jackdaws have claimed the holy ruin as their sacred nesting place.
Heading out to the Main Street, I picture horses and carts, snorting thirstily, queueing to drink – in times past the Town well, now “Back of the Pipes” Crossing to the top of John Street, the stately Church of Ireland stands protectively in its own yard, ancient graves – a good visit for a Halloween night! – flanked on many sides by stone effigies in the old town wall – add to the ghostly atmosphere. Shady old yews and oaks offer respite now from a glaring midday sun. I am home in my town, Cashel of the Kings.
Up Agars Lane, tunnel-like walls of stone; using this little passage to cross over to Friar Street – teenage truant fled down here to escape the parents – I swing right and pick up the pace.
Soon, I arrive at a covert garden flanked by outstanding wood-carved figures, monks of olde. They herald a newly discovered trove of sylvan tranquility. Fuchsia, wild rose, elderberries, a haven right beside the busy thoroughfare. But, for some, in times past, the tranquil Gote pond was used to duck errant females of questionable morals. Alas, blight of sadness on this magic place! A camouflage of cress and waterweeds adorn it. Times have changed and, it occurs to me, now we could duck the philandering men!
Returning now down the street of Friars, the Castle – old friend and ally, ever present in my childhood past – towers high above the awakening City of Kings.