By Eleanor Dwyer
Transcript
There is always a first time. Who can know where that first time may lead. Little did I know how significant this particular first time would become for me.
Mid-fifties on a bright summer day. The smell of leather in our recently purchased Vauxhall Wyvern. ZW 1784, its number forever etched on my mind. Three over-excited small children, and a baby in my mother’s arms. Did we sing ‘How much is that Doggy in the Window’? Probably many times. Not unusually, the older two were squabbling. Over the bickering came our father’s voice – ‘close your eyes’. ‘Why?’, came both voices in unison – ‘just do’ was the response. Obediently, eyes tight shut, we waited. ‘Now open them’ – ‘Look, there it is’. As we rounded the bend, we saw it, a fairy-tale castle to my child’s eyes. ‘That is the famous Rock of Cashel’.
Coming from the flat plains of Kildare the scene was magical. Large open countryside, surrounded by hills, bathed in sunshine. ‘There is the Golden Vale’, pointed Mam . ‘Is there gold there my sister asked. ‘No’, Mam answered, ‘it is not like a ring or bracelet but called that because is has rich, fertile soil, a land of plenty, the type of good land that many have fought over, the scenes of fierce battles’ in olden times.
We listen as Dad drives on, to his stories of monks and monasteries, too young to really understand. ‘The Rock itself was the home of the Kings of Munster’. His tale of the Devil’s Bit was fearsome -the devil a very real presence to us, the stuff of nightmares. Our young minds more frightened than ever by the size of a mouth capable of biting such a great lump of rock. Fortunately, the Rock imagined as a fairy-tale castle in our bedtime stories, made the greater impression.
These earliest memories and foretaste of my future in this striking place were followed for many years by the ritual of ‘first to see the Rock’ on our annual trip to Cork, the birthplace of our parents. Its appearance, whether in glorious sunshine or brooding cloud marked a precious time – the real gateway on our journey southwards, with its anticipation of the warmth of welcome from the Uncles, Aunts and most especially for us, the cousins.
Marriage in the mid-seventies led to a home in rural Cashel and into a family rooted here, whose ancestors can be traced back for several hundred years. Therefore, I was not ‘a blow in’. I was ‘invited in’. The rocks and stones, the foundation of this seat of power and Learning is in the essence of my children and grandchildren.
The early trips and stories on our holiday journeys have given way to greater knowledge of its heritage, its uniqueness and my sense of place. All life has been lived around this rocky fortress, bloody, caring, healing, educating, using nature’s abundance, travel back and forth to local and distance places, even to the great monastery of Regensburg, a repository of illustrated manuscripts from here. What were their journeys like – unlike ours with our fast and easy forms of transport? Richer certainly, absorbing the sounds, tastes, smells and marvels as they travelled.
Today, I bring the visiting grandchildren to the Rock. We look out and see nearby Hore Abbey, Synone Castle, the Devil’s Bit. I ‘wonder’ a lot, trying to open young minds to the skills of craftsmen, the work of monks, nuns, Kings and Bishops, the everyday life of people. But in vain. They see a vast forest inhabited by bears, wolves, foxes, even dragons. ‘The enemies are coming’. Quickly they crouch, imaginary arrows at the ready. With enemies on the run, the slopes become the focus, places to roll, run, race to the perimeter wall, and I hoping to get them back in one piece to their parents. Their noisy enjoyment is palpable. Visitors from many lands smile, or frown, but some young-at- heart grandads wistfully wish they too could join them.
Only bribery cajoles them to leave. Down the steep path of the dead, and into town, with a short stop to look at the murals on the mart wall, and finally, our destination. Where but Grogans’ for an ice-cream? What will their memories be?