20240923

I stood on the shore of a wintry sea



I stood on the shore of a wintry sea, with a wintry sun just a few feet above its horizon-edge. It was bare, and waste, and gray. Hundreds of hopeless waves rushed constantly shorewards, falling exhausted upon a beach of great loose stones, that seemed to stretch miles and miles in both directions. There was nothing for the eye but mingling shades of gray; nothing for the ear but the rush of the coming, the roar of the breaking, and the moan of the retreating wave. No rock lifted up a sheltering severity above the dreariness around; even that from which I had myself emerged rose scarcely a foot above the opening by which I had reached the dismal day, more dismal even than the tomb I had left. A cold, death-like wind swept across the shore, seeming to issue from a pale mouth of cloud upon the horizon. Sign of life was nowhere visible. I wandered over the stones, up and down the beach, a human imbodiment of the nature around me. The wind increased; its keen waves flowed through my soul; the foam rushed higher up the stones; a few dead stars began to gleam in the east; the sound of the waves grew louder and yet more despairing. A dark curtain of cloud was lifted up, and a pale blue rent shone between its foot and the edge of the sea, out from which rushed an icy storm of frozen wind, that tore the waters into spray as it passed, and flung the billows in raving heaps upon the desolate shore. I could bear it no longer.

"I will not be tortured to death," I cried; "I will meet it half-way. The life within me is yet enough to bear me up to the face of Death, and then I die unconquered."

20240921

2024 Foray #6: Woodenbridge loop and PSA

This was going to be taking advantage of maybe the last fine weather this year, an overnight cycle exploring the Grand Canal. But I was uneasy for various reasons, one being the uncertainty of how much of the canal towpath was suitable for a road bike. This web page is the most up to date and comprehensive summary of work to upgrade the path to greenway standard. Maybe I'll get to do this exploration next year? But who knows what next year will hold for me?

Instead (and encouraged by A to make good use of the weather) I settled for a one day ride around the Wicklow Mountains, taking me over the Wicklow Gap, through Rathdum, the beautiful Vale of Avoca, Woodenbridge, Augrim, Tinahely, Hacketstown, Kiltegan, Baltinglass and home. Oh, and I tried for the coast but turned back through lack of time: that's the little appendage at far right of my track.

My track: 124.7km, elevation gain 1254m, average 16.3km/h

No photos. No thoughts of great inspiration, lots of hard slog, lots of magnesium supplement to ward off inevitable leg cramps. I also tried adding electrolytes to my drink: I'm not sure whether this helped. But all in all, I did it, I completed the course I had roughly planned the night before. My insides were a mess on returning home but I slept, oh how I slept (always punctuated by loo-breaks nowadays).

Loo breaks. Leg cramps. In a routine doctor appointment some six months ago the blood test indicated a higher than normal PSA level. This is a marker for possible prostate problems. That together with more frequent loo breaks recently. In spite of a second and a third blood test showing normal PSA level my GP sent me to a specialist at St. James, the specialist did an internal examination and sent me for an MRI scan and I now have an appointment on Tuesday next to hear the worst. Am I worried? Am I bothered? It one sense no, what will be will be. But worry isn't that easy to dismiss or control. Of course I am worried. I thought my body was doing passably ok for my age. Sometimes I look at my arms. Younger readers of this blog might think me simply phoney if I told you how I feel about my own arms. I know they've no muscle and are pretty mouldy, but I am so glad to see them. Why should that dreaded word "cancer" invade my thoughts? What right has it over my body? And so I cycled away yesterday with a big challenge before me to blow the cobwebs out of my machinating mind. Of course I am not worried: what good would that do?


20240908

Happy Birthday Anton

Anton Bruckner was born in Ansfelden (then a village, now almost a suburb of Linz) on 4 September 1824, that's 200 years ago. I feel somewhat obliged to mention that given the name of this blog.

20240906

2024 Foray #5: Royal Canal Greenway

 

My track: 186km over two days, elevation gain 440m

The Royal Canal Greenway at 130km is the longest greenway in Ireland. As an off-road greenway it does cheat a bit in embracing existing roads and tracks alongside the canal that give access to farms and cottages, but none-the-less it is navigable by walkers and bikes for the whole length, and work is in progress to extend it to Dublin. Some of the surface is paved (asphalt) and some is compacted fine gravel, either is good for road bikes even with thin tyres like mine. 

My goal was to ride the complete greenway from Maynooth to Cloondara where the canal meets the mighty Shannon river. You ask - why did I make this trip? Partly because the greenway exists, partly as a challenge, partly because that's what I do. Sure, I was in two minds up until the very last moment, what with very changeable weather forecast.

I started off from home and made my way via Naas, Sallins and Straffan to Maynooth which is the current trailhead. There Lidl supplied me with orange juice (with bits and not from concentrate) and fruit scone hard-tack to supplement my home brew cheese and pickle sandwich. Enough fuel for the first day. The weather forecast suggested the slight possibility of rain but in the event it rained several times enough to soak my rain coat and shorts on both days. Despite this I exceeded my expectations by getting to Mullingar where I found a suitable out of the way site to camp. I recognised the place from last year's Old Rail Trail post.

There I slept fitfully (it was cold and my tent was on a slope so I kept sliding down) where I figured I could complete the task in two days rather than the three I had planned. And I did. I re-booked my return train for later the next day, and got to Longford station about 20 minutes before the scheduled departure. In the event the train was about 15 minutes late.

The train took me to Drumcondra where the heavens opened whilst waiting for the next commuter service to Hazelhatch via the Phoenix Park tunnel. The station has nowhere to shelter. The train was packed: a soggy conglomerate of way too many bikes and way too many people standing in the lobby, but no one seemed to mind. From Hazelhatch I rode along the recently opened segment of the Grand Canal Greenway to Sallins (it continued to rain the whole way) where I was mercifully rescued by my wife.

Oh, and let me tell you about the angel at Halfords. The previous week I had noticed my chain had almost broken, and this probably accounted for the gear slipping and sometimes the chain coming off that I had recently experienced. So I took my bike to Halfords in Naas where a guy fitted a new chain. On returning home I took a test ride to the Wicklow Gap and back - lots of gradients. I found the chain was slipping on the highest gear, and some other gear ratios were not happening as they should. So I took the bike back to Halfords. This time a younger guy with bleached hair served me - possibly he was my angel. He identified excessive wear on the cassette which the other guy really ought to have alerted me to. He replaced the cassette and found the chain was too short, so replaced the chain (again) and did not charge me for the chain or any of his time. And he accompanied me to the door in order to watch as I did a quick test ride. He was courteous, technically astute, and generous. An angel indeed!

And all this the day before the excursion which is the subject of this post.  The bike behaved itself witness to my angel's good work.

Nearing my destination the heaven's opened - at the next lock I spied a sign "Mac's Shack 800m" in Keenagh. It seemed more like 800 miles but I made it, sodden, and asked for sustenance. The waitress was suitably impressed by my endeavours and served me a very late and second well-earned breakfast (the first was two scones somewhat earlier). And when I was done the rain had stopped (for a while). 

A foray needs a focal point, a goal. In this case it was to see where the canal entered the Shannon river.


In this aerial view of the Royal Canal terminus, the red square is where I stood to photograph the Shannon, the blue arrow is the Royal Canal and the red arrow is my path to Longford town via the N5. 


Someone else has documented the greenway much better than I, here.

20240905

2024 Foray #4: Carrauntoohil revisited

This time it was a family affair, six of us. We left home at 5am, drove to the official carpark, climbed via Brother O'Shea's gully as before. It rained on and off, as before. We had hoped to do the Bones, Lough Cummeenoughter, Beenkeragh, descending via the Hag's Tooth but aborted because of the weather, as before.  

The only difference was this time was we went past the Devil's Ladder and on to Cnoc na Toinne to descend via the "Zig Zag". Oh, and we passed a group some of whom were swimming in Cummeenoughter, the highest lake in Ireland!

My pictures are here.



20240729

2024 Foray #3: An Coinigéar and An Abhainn Mhór

I have a Free Travel pass. There is no additional charge for a bicycle on Iarnród Éireann, but it is necessary to book a bicycle as space is limited. So I booked this trip a few days in advance choosing two days that Met Éireann assured me would be fine. But this is Ireland: on my departure day the forecast had changed to rain most of the second day.

My route was inspired by discovering the An Coinigéar or the Cunnigar, a sand spit which, we are told, has  formed as a result of deposition by longshore drift, the movement of sand along the coast by the waves and the estuary emerging at the north of the bay slowing it down. As time progressed, the deposited material has formed a spit, which is 2.6 km long and which almost closes Dungarvan harbour at its northern end

Check out these drone shots which suggest that there is much more to Cunnigar under the surface that appears to the naked eye. A bit like an ice berg.

Waking ahead of my 05:00 alarm I breakfasted hastily and mounted my trusty steed for the 2+ hour ride to Heuston, Dublin where I caught the 08:00 service for Cork. Alighting at Limerick Junction I took the so called "inter city" to Waterford which pootles through the beautiful Suir valley at a leisurely 60 to 80km/hr. Arriving at last I cycled the 46km of Waterford Greenway to Dungarvan.

Whistlestop Café, Kilmeadan Station

My plan was to luncheon at the Whistlestop Café but in the event their most excellent tea and scone (served warmed with butter and: would you like strawberry, raspberry or blackcurrant jam?) did the trick. 

Arriving in Dungarvan ahead of schedule, my first port of call was Lidl where I purchased hardtack and orange juice (not wishing for Scurvy), then hung around until the F&C shop opened. Suitably fuelled I then set off for the Cunnigar.

On turning off the N25 a sign announces you are entering the Gaeltacht after which all road signs are in Gaelic only. In English An Coinigéar means "rabbit warren". This rabbit warren business: last year's Forays to Coney Island and Omey Island were also nominally overrun with rabbits. On this occasion I saw none but, instead, there were cattle freely roaming the whole peninsula - more of that later.


the Cunnigar peninsula, car park at far right

 Here is a beautiful video of the Cunnigar by @fardinger:


And here are a few of my photos, or click here to view the album.

Dungarvan town from the tip of the Cunnigar


The beach on the sea side is so shallow

I was not able to ascertain whether the Cunnigar is privately or public land. There is a small public car park which bodes well, but cattle are roaming freely on the peninsular itself, which might not bode well for camping. I stumbled on a group with their tent already erected - they had tried to request permission but the locals didn't seem to know who to ask. So we didn't ask. I positioned my tent where it would not be seen from the only house visible and hoped for the best. I then walked / ran to the end of the peninsula and back (about 6km) and by then was ready for bed. I slept soundly until I woke in the dark and could here noises without: I cautiously looked out with my head-light - the cattle were investigating this new intrusion into their territory. Worried that one might stand on and buckle my bike or push the tent over, I waited watchfully but after a while they moved to pastures greener. I slept but was woken again, now dawn and a little before my alarm, by the pitter-patter of rain. There is nothing quite so charming and quintessential of camping as lying snug in one's sleeping bag whilst on the other side of the canvas the elements are raging. Of course I knew rain was coming but still I had to decide where to strike camp or wait till the weather turned. But I knew I had to go - hadn't I promised by daughter I'd be back soon after 3pm?

My planned route to Mallow: 95.9 km

I took no pictures on my return journey to Mallow because was raining most of the time. All I wanted was to complete the journey. It was long and wet and tedious and gruelling. But challenging. Had it been sunny the countryside would have been glorious, no doubt.

My route initially followed the tiny river Brickey, but "route" turned out to be a euphemism: it was in fact an badly overgrown and rather narrow farm track that my GPS had led me to. I persevered but the undergrowth wound itself around my derailleur cassette so that I could not from then on access the higher gears. Thankfully no punctures or tics.  And so I arrived at Cappoquin where my route joined An Abhainn Mhór which translates to The Great River otherwise known as the Blackwater river. There are numerous Blackwater rivers in Ireland - this one is the Munster Blackwater.

I breakfasted on hardtack on the Avonmore bridge as it crosses the Blackwater, and where the river abruptly turns to the right and southwards. I would have taken a photo of the bridge but it was raining and my cell phone was wrapped in a poly-bag and I hadn't the enthusiasm to extricate it. So you'll have to be content with a stock photo.

Avonmore bridge Cappoquin, stock photo

The bridge has some history. It was a Potato Famine relief project of the Keane family and was opened in 1851 but the original name, ‘Victoria Bridge’ was later chiselled out by nationalists. The bridge was a target of attack during the Troubles of the 1920s. There is a place where an explosion required extensive repairs to be done. For all that, it was my planned route, rather than follow the probably easier going but boring N72. But all places tend towards boring in the rain.

The plan was to cross the river again at Lismore and then follow the R666 which would hug the river all the way to Fermoy, but it didn't happen. The rain.

Historic photo of Cappoquin railway bridge

Proposed Greenway


But I did notice the old railway bridge at Cappoquin and, later, numerous land-owner signs condemning the proposed Mallow to Dungarvan Greenway which would follow the old railway and, you can see, would take a similar route to my own. Greenways are now The Thing, doubtless fuelled by Covid and the Green Party. Do I approve? Largely yes because I love cycling, but only after due consultation with local land owners and, anyway, where is the money coming from? I must say that the Waterford Greenway has been a major success judging by how many folk are using it. 

Using Google maps aerial view the route of much of the original railway can be traced, but so much has been lost, and it was only on 25 March 1967 that the last train ran. Very recent history: well within my lifetime.

The final stretch from Fermoy to Mallow was hard work. Even though it looked relatively flat on the map, in fact it was a continuous long up hills and ridiculously steep and bendy downhills. But I made it, and with about 20 minutes to spare before the service to Sallins/Naas via Portlaoise. Lunch on board: a squashed sandwich from home, and hardtack washed down with Irish Rail tea.

Proof of arrival at Mallow train station.

Oh - and regarding having to book a bicycle space - on the Mallow Portlaoise segment all three bicycle hooks were in use, plus a couple more bikes randomly distributed, and that before I added mine! So somebody wasn't booking, and nobody seemed to care.
 


 






20240708

Myth or Reality



I have sometimes remarked how the shape of my Christian faith might have been very different had it not been from the works of C. S. Lewis. He in turn spoke of George Macdonald as his master saying that he fancied he had never written a book in which he did not quote from him. 

My father introduced me to Narnia. He was so enthused with the books that he wrote Bible cross references in the margins. I’ve not seen anyone else go to such lengths. But I can vividly remember the day he told me that Lewis had died. Lewis was someone who spoke a language I could understand.

It was after I left home for college that I chanced upon a copy of Till We Have Faces subtitled A Myth Retold in an Oxford bookshop. I hadn't known of its existence before so it was an Oh Joy! moment. 

Lewis called it "far and away my best book" and I agree. Because I identify with the protagonist Orual in all her struggles and I want to share her final redemption. In this blog I have already made several references to it: I make no apology for making another.

The myth in question is of Cupid and Psyche as told in Book 4 of the Metamorphoses of Apuleius (aka The Golden Ass) being the only ancient Roman novel in Latin to survive in its entirety.

To jump in half way through the myth, Aphrodite (aka Venus) gives Psyche barrels of grains, barley, wheat, beans, and poppy seeds mixed together, and orders her to have them sorted by evening. Psyche breaks down in despair, but an ant takes pity, instructing her colony to help sort the grain. Aphrodite, surprised and enraged to see that the task had been completed, gives Psyche a new task: to approach a pack of rams known for being violent and shear their golden fleece to bring back to the goddess. Rather than be killed by these rams, Psyche plans on drowning herself in the river, but again she is saved. Aphrodite then sets a third impossible task: gather the black waters from the River Styx in a crystal cup the goddess had given her. But again she is saved. For her fourth and final task, Psyche is given a golden box and ordered to travel to the Underworld to retrieve a bit of beauty possessed by Persephone, goddess of spring, and queen of the Underworld. Psyche again decides to take her own life, but at the last moment she is once again saved. Finally the marriage between Psyche and Eros takes place and the rest, as they say, is history.

Tolkien argued that ancient myths were the best way of conveying truths which would otherwise be inexpressible. The same could be said of fairy stories, which is why stories like the Narnia chronicles or the Curdie books by MacDonald are so effective. Musicians claim similarly that music can express unspeakable emotions.

I read on a forum on Reddit: I think what it [the book Till we have Faces] means is that what we say we believe is just a thin, distorted, and in some cases even completely wrong picture of what we really believe in our hearts. Instead, what we actually believe drives us and changes us, so that life itself draws it from our hearts to the surface, and it's only after our lives - after we have stopped both talking and doing - that we can stand before God and truthfully proclaim who we are. 

What people see when they look at us is often at odds with what we actually are or believe, as epitomised in Lewis Carroll’s parody:

"You are old, Father William," the young man said,
    "And your hair has become very white;
And yet you incessantly stand on your head—
    Do you think, at your age, it is right?"

"In my youth," Father William replied to his son,
    "I feared it might injure the brain;
But now that I'm perfectly sure I have none,
    Why, I do it again and again."

In Till we have Faces Orual says: Lightly men talk of saying what they mean. Often when the Fox was teaching me to write in Greek he would say, "Child, to say the very thing you really mean, the whole of it, nothing more or less or other than what you really mean; that's the whole art and joy of words." A glib saying. When the time comes to you at which you will be forced at last to utter the speech which has lain at the centre of your soul for years, which you have, all that time, idiot-like, been saying over and over, you'll not talk about joy of words. I saw well why the gods do not speak to us openly, nor let us answer. Till that word can be dug out of us, why should they hear the babble that we think we mean? How can they meet us face to face till we have faces? 

What do you see when you look at your comrade? Will you invest the energy and time required to tease reality out of him or her? And if you did, would you be horrified or would you fall in love? For the basis for true phileo love (friendship) can often be a "What? You too?"

Trauma (e.g. in war-time or disease), or even plain camaraderie over a long enough period, can become the catalyst to break open our hearts. Perhaps that is why God allows suffering to be so much a part of our human experience - because it shapes our innermost being.

When the time comes to you at which you will be forced at last to utter the speech which has lain at the centre of your soul for years, which you have, all that time, idiot-like, been saying over and over, you'll not talk about joy of words. I saw well why the gods do not speak to us openly, nor let us answer. Till that word can be dug out of us, why should they hear the babble that we think we mean? How can they meet us face to face till we have faces? 


20240707

2024 Foray #2 Rosslare to Kilmore Quay


Sunrise over Lady's Island lake

Last year my forays were limited to a one night layover, so this year I figured I should make better use of the tent JMB gave me, so herewith is an account of my first two night stint. The raison d'être for my route was partly to assuage my desire to walk the entire coast of Ireland, partly because of the lure of that cliff-top walk from Rosslare harbour and partly the peculiarity of Lady's Island lake q.v. 

The general area - bottom right of Ireland


My track - 35km. Click on the image to enlarge

The route

  • 07:00 Bus 65 from the bottom of our road into Dublin
  • Dublin Connelly station for 09:33 train to Rosslare Euro-port
  • On arrival, a brief detour to Super Value for munitions
  • Cliff walk south from Rosslare then along the beach to The Cut q.v. where I overnighted
  • Next day following the coast to Kilmore Quay (KQ), thence to a suitable pitch in the dunes
  • Next day back to KQ to catch the 07:35 bus to Wexford town
  • Several hours chilling in Wexford before the 13:20 train to Wicklow town
  • Bus 183 over Wicklow Gap stopping at the end of our road

En route

Connolly rail station

The Dublin Rosslare railway must count as one of Ireland's most scenic routes running alongside the coast from south Dublin to Wicklow town and thereafter hugging the Slaney estuary. The Deeps Bridge is a bascule bridge (i.e. it has a lifting section) crossing the estuary.

Deeps Bridge over the Slaney, through the train window

The food

Squashed sandwiches from home and 1.5 litre of water, supplemented by a chicken sandwich from said Super Value (not good) and six fruit scones which reappeared at intervals as a sort of "hard tack" and a litre of apple juice. That kept me going until KQ as there were no shops anywhere along my route. Everything had to be carried on my back. Then tea and pastries at KQ and, later on, fish and chips.  

Carnsore point

This is where the coast turns a corner. Those wind turbines are truly awesome up close. A few were out of commission as some sort of maintenance was being carried out. As I rounded the corner I got my first view of the Saltee islands.

First view of Saltee islands


Wind farm at Carnsore point

Lady's Island lake, beside which I enjoyed my first sleep-over, is legendary. The "island", now a peninsula, is the oldest Marian shrine in Ireland. Its known history predates the Christian era. I hadn't the energy or will to detour to explore it, so was satisfied with gazing over the lake and watching two wind-surfers enjoying the wind.


Our Lady gazing across the lake (copied with thanks from here)

Having consumed my customary fruit scone rations, next morning I set off at about 06:00 for KQ fighting a head-wind all the way. The shore here is mostly small pebble, but with some stretches of fine sand, beside sand dunes all the way. After leaving Lady's Island lake the next landmark was Tacumshin Lake. These inshore lakes are troublesome. They tend to fill up and overflow onto private land and that is why, every Spring, bulldozers arrive to excavate The Cut to let surplus water out. I would have thought it would seep through the loose gravel by itself in the course of a year but, apparently, no.

The Cut ready for next Spring

Tacumshin Lake is similarly affected but is better behaved because, in this case, an overflow tunnel has been built under the dunes to obviate the need for an explicit cut.


Tacumshin Lake and the Tunnel entrance

As one approaches KQ, human activity becomes more and more obvious: houses or private land making the coastal hiker's job more difficult so, now picking my way across larger boulders, I pass St Patrick's Bridge. This is neither a bridge nor was the worthy saint ever seen in these parts. This site says it is a natural glacial moraine of stone and gravel which forms a natural causeway that once connected Little Saltee with Kilmore Quay at low tide. It would have been fun to explore it but I had this urge to speed up and possibly catch the Wexford bus a day earlier than planned. In the event I missed the bus by about an hour but by then the thought of retracing my steps was simply past my ken. I was tired.

St Patrick's Bridge

And so to KQ, arriving at around 10:30am, I had the rest of the day to "chill", part exploring the dunes to find a suitable pitch, part reading, or part listening to Gunter Ward's interpretation of Bruckner's eight (I have a copy of his later symphonies on my cell phone for such a time as this), and finally back-tracking to KQ for my promised fish and chips, and the rest, as they say, is history.

When, the next day, I finally got to Wexford, I had several hours more spare time to wander aimlessly around the streets of Wexford town or read a book on my cell phone whilst waiting for the 13:20 train service to Wicklow town where I would catch the 183 bus over the Wicklow Gap and home again back to the end of our road.

Wexford town from Ferrybank

Here is a link to more photos from this trip.

20240615

2024 Foray #1 the Suir Blueway

As I remarked to my granddaughter, at her age the world lies at her feet, but at my age I'm thinking "can I even do this?" or " this may be the last time I get to..." But in good faith that the body the Good Lord gave me won't let me down yet, I set off for what must count as the first of my 2024 forays. The particular destination was the Suir Blueway bicycle path following the river Suir from Clonmel to Carrick on Suir and the railway linking Limerick Junction with Waterford.

Outward journey 

The foray started with a 5:15am departure by bike for Heuston station, Dublin,  where I boarded the 08:00 Cork service, changing at Limerick Junction to the branch line to Cahir.

Segment (1) to Heuston 42.4km


Changing trains at Limerick Junction

From Cahir I followed the wide, paved path along the river, past Swiss Cottage, until it ended abruptly. Here there is a short footpath to the nearby road, but very overgrown and full of stinging nettles. I survived.

beside the Suir, looking north towards Cahir

looking south towards Swiss Cottage

The blue-way

Forced to leave the river I fought my way to the road and biked to Clonmel (land of cider) where I joined the blue-way, so called because the river is navigable for canoes and suchlike, though I did not see any. But I did pass many walkers and cyclists on the nicely paved path. And folk fishing out in their waders - but the fishing in these parts is all private, some clubs having well appointed fishing shelters.

From Cahir to Clonmel

From Clonmel to Carrick along the blue-way, totalling 51.5km


Beautiful bridges

Orchards to feed the cider works

The paved blue-way

The tower

I had several hours to kill before my train, the only train, would return me to Limerick Junction, so after checking the whereabouts of the station (and finding it all locked up) I entered part (b) of my foray, destination De Le Poer Tower. This involved a steep climb of about 150m elevation gain over 1.5km out of the Suir valley and then another battle with undergrowth before emerging onto a forestry track beside the tower. The wonders of GPS!

16.6km there and back

Having emerged from the undergrowth...

Towards the Comeragh mountains

The top is obviously unfinished

Towards Waterford




The plaque is visible but not the inscription

There is a steel door, but it was open

Much of the following is quoted from various internet sites

The De Le Poer Tower has a sad back story. It was built in 1785 by the second Earl of Tyrone, George de la Poer Beresford, in memory of his eldest son Marcus. We are told that the plaque above its door states that the monument was dedicated 'To his beloved Son, his niece and his friend'.  His son Marcus died aged 12 in a horse riding accident at Curraghmore. The 'friend' refers to his tutor Marcus, Charles Poliere de Botens, who died at shortly after the boy's death. It touched me that his tutor was also his friend.
Curraghmore is the estate and its big house is just visible in one of my photos. More sadness followed: the tower was planned to be 120ft high but was left unfinished at 70ft. Why? Maybe as a poignant statement of grief. Its unfinished look makes it even more special, like a symbol of a life that ended too soon; a powerful reminder of how precious life is and how memories last forever. Surprisingly in this age of safety first, the entrance is laid open and I climbed up the 92 steps to the top where the spiral staircase ends abruptly. There is no parapet or rail, nothing to stop the more adventurous from standing on the edge and falling. Indeed, at the base there is a recently erected wooden cross where, I suppose, someone lost their life that way. All very heart wrenching. But I had no time to commiserate: I had to get back to catch the one and only train. Hurrying down to the road, the undergrowth inflicting many bramble scratches on my legs, a further testament to the sorry story.


Curraghmore is the seat of the Marquess of Waterford. The estate was part of the grant of land made to Sir Roger le Puher by Henry II in 1167. One wonders on what basis Henry II could grant Irish land. Today it is the home of Curraghmore Whiskey, a 100% authentic, Single Estate Pot Still Whiskey, crafted from barley and oats grown on the estate.

My original intention was to go on to explore the estate's nearby church which I could see from the tower, and Mother Brown, a curiosity that you can do your own research on. Driven by an irrational fear of missing the train I let those historic items be and hurried back.

The tea shop

Mostly downhill, it took less time than planned to return to the railway station, indeed I discovered an error in my calculations: I actually still had over an hour spare. So I roamed the streets of Carrick in search of tea and found the unlikely named Sunnyside Café. Propping my bike against the neighbouring derelict property (Carrick is a bit run down) I was accosted by the proprietor who kindly coerced me into ordering a pot of tea and scone with butter and jam, for which I was eternally thankful. Who wouldn't be after peddling up that hill?

The railway

Then back to the station. It was still locked up, after all it serves only two trains in each direction every day. But eventually the signal man cum porter cum station master unlocked the gate and led me to a waiting room complete with electric heater.  I still had half and hour or so to wait so I familiarised myself with things railway.

Carrick on Suir station towards Waterford

Section signal protecting the level crossing

Signal boxes are still in use on this line

The level crossing gates are opened manually

home signal 'off' shows our train is on the way  

Gates closed to traffic and section signal 'off' 

Our train arrives at last!

One of our stops is this iconic placename

Having I suppose ascertained that the train is running on time and that the section ahead is clear, just before the due time of arrival the signal man descends from his box and drives his car the 200m or so to the level crossing. He manually closes the gate to traffic, then drives back to his box where he lowers the section signal to indicate to the arriving train that it is safe to proceed. He then climbs down from his box again, carrying the block signalling token to give to the train driver. By this time I am in the train, but doubtless the signal man communicates with the next box that the train has entered the section, sets the signal 'on' (stop), drives down to the crossing gates and opens them, then closes up shop and takes a well earned rest. Which melodrama all seems a bit OTT given that there is likely only one train set that trundles from end to end of the route.

On the return journey I noticed that there are a number of similarly manually operated level crossing on this line, complete with signal boxes, although I noticed that one crossing was automated with lifting barriers and colour-light signals protecting it. I suppose it warranted this special treatment because it was a busier road. 

Based on the appearance of the track (concrete sleepers, welded rail, clean ballast), Iarnród Éireann has obviously spent a small fortune on bringing the line up to standard so one wonders why so few trains each day and so few folk using those trains. I was surprised to find semaphore signalling, indeed the signals look brand new so I suppose they also were upgraded. And why the 80km/hr speed limit? I do hope the line stays open because I like branch lines. I went to school on one. But at present it surely cannot be economical. One blogger sums it up with "It is like spending a fortune upgrading a hotel but only opening on a Wednesday during the depths of winter".

Once again I managed to convey my bike from train to train at Limerick Junction and then again at Portlaoise catching the slow train that would stop at Sallins. Here I exited to cycle the last segment of my trip back home. A total of 131.9 km biking.

21.4km from Sallins to home

Wow, how I slept well that night!