By Tom Wood
Who would ever have thought that we had cowboys and Indians on the Rock, on that ancient site, royal and saintly Cashel? Well, we had and I was one of them, a cowboy, masked in pretence of course.
It was the mid-1960s. I lived in Ard Mhuire, a 1950s cul de sac of some 18 council-built homes, lived contentedly with dad and mam and my two younger brothers. Sure, with doors seldom closed we were all brought up together, playing on the street or in the safety of our back gardens. When we did occasionally venture outside our street boundary it was to play cowboys and Indians with the neighbouring lads from Cathal Brugha Street.
For some unknown reason we were always the cowboys setting off secretly and speedily down the hill, ducking to avoid a mock arrow as we fled past the entrance to Cathal Brugha Street and only stopping temporarily on the sheltered corner of Agar’s Lane or at the rear of Feehan’s Hardware premises to fire imaginary shots, shots only fired from the knees down, at the oncoming Indians. What must the corner boys, then chatting and observing passers-by from outside the City Bar or Dargan’s, have thought?
Before venturing into our castle, the glassy mountain on the Rock cliffs was a focal point for imaginary fights. Then as the heavy hitters scaled the steep wall beneath Scully’s Cross those of us lacking in boldness quietly sneaked past the caretaker as he related the monuments’ glorious history to a few enthralled tourists at the coronation stone.
Oh, the magic of it all. Yes, being inside those narrow passages, only a glimmer of light seeping through their narrow, splayed windows; climbing that steep spiral staircase to the battlement; once again firing those fictional shots through the spaced squared openings at some Indian on a level below or simply taking refuge in that pitch dark black hole was bewitching, beautiful and dreamy. Finally, having succumbed to exhaustion, unified and with heads down, we politely walked by the caretaker in the then ruinous Vicar’s Choral Hall, certain in the knowledge that only a short time would lapse before sneaking past him again and into our castle.
Ah sure for a young lad of the 1960s the Rock and its sloping surrounds was like a magnet. That strong attraction pulled us in to climb, roll and run, while avoiding the sheep’s poo or nettles of course. Eventually we might feel a bit dizzy but did it matter? We loved it.
A recent stroll up the Bishop’s Walk, a steep incline dug from the Rock in 1735 by Archbishop Bolton making the way easier from his home in the Palace to the church, eventually landed me amongst the multitudes on the ancient site. Some stood admiring the green and luscious Golden Vale, the legendary Devil’s Bit or the slopes of the Galtees. Others admired the Gothic and Romanesque architecture, stood in awe under the tall resistant round tower or simply read the artful inscriptions on the graveyard headstones.
While guides captivated many with the site’s long and colourful political and religious history; Patrick baptising Aengus, the significance of the shamrock, Miler Magrath (that scoundrel of Cashel), the massacre of 1647 and lots more, cameras, ipads and mobile phones captured that moment in time. And there wasn’t a cowboy or Indian in sight.