As I am not long returned from a visit to Ireland, in particular to my home town of Portrush, I though that I would share this snippet with you. It is taken from a tourist information board on the Bushmills Road, about half way between Portrush and the ruined castle of Dunluce. When reading it, I was looking out to sea, and the panel, from which it was taken, is headed, "Macracross, The Culture &. History":
"Prehistoric and Stone Age and Iron Age settlers, kingdom-building warriors and raiding clans, exiled holy men and seafaring saints, ruthless slave traders and plundering Vikings, and conquering Normans and fleeing Spaniards, whisky smugglers and countless fishermen, busy coasters and warships, and an endless stream of Scottish and Irish emigrants..."
What the writer was doing with flair, in this short passage, (and especially with tourists in mind), was mugging their consciousness with a sizable dollop of history, for though they might be walking in clear air, with the sea to their left, and rolling countryside beyond and to the right, this small corner of the north Antrim coast, is awash with events both geological, social, and political, that are worthy of the best histories. But, as I was not there as a tourist, rather, as someone returning to his roots, I sought to capture my mood in these few lines:
Celebrity and freeman of the town
I am hell bent on rest and relaxation
of body and mind, while the blood
thickens, and the jaw freezes over.
Weighty minds lie still. And the
steady measure, that is progress,
is ignored - while I detox.
A peninsula town, Portrush, at this time of year, is a sleepy place. But one should not be fooled, for it is frequently inhabited by iced winds and rain. But curiously, what had the greatest impact on this visit, was not what I saw, (though at times, that was disturbing), but rather the discovery of how little I knew when a boy. Not that I should have known, because all boys know that their first duty is to play.
It was the discovery that the nondescript shoreline on which I played: running and jumping over rocks, gazing into pools of green slime, and hiding behind huge boulders of rock, is now revered as the "Portrush National Nature Reserve." A magnificent playground, on which my body and mind were synchronised, and that was first laid down as a bed of fossil rich clay 180 million years ago. 115 million years after that, it was compacted into solid rock: the consequence of a volcanic lava flow. In the early days, the end result from this process, left geologists scratching their heads, and wondering, how such contrasting strata of rock came to be fused in this place; a consideration that brings us, to the white cliffs at Dover.
In terms of England, and Englishness, "The White Cliffs Of Dover" are iconic, and they have been immortalised in the wartime song of the same name, as sung by by Vera Lynn. It was her voice, strong and confident, that more than any other, pulled at the patriotic heartstrings in the dark days of The Second World War.
"There'll be blue birds over,
The white cliffs of Dover,
Just you wait and see."
Be that as it may, the white cliffs of Dover, have nothing on their Irish cousins. Popularly known as "The Whiterocks", both were formed in the same geological period, Cretaceous, (142 - 65 million years ago), "when Ireland was covered in a shallow sub-tropical sea". And what distinguishes The Whiterocks, from the white cliffs of Dover, is, that they are harder and unique in their fossil content, for, as was the case with my boyhood playground, these too were compacted by that same volcanic lava flow that formed The Giant's Causeway. For most of us, the whiterocks today are known for their caves, arches, and stacks, but what gives them, and the shoreline beyond, official status, as an area of Special Scientific Interest, is of course, how they came to be, and the consequences.
Now atop this natural phenomena, and in an isolated spot, sits Dunluce Castle. And what makes Dunluce Castle spectacular, is not its ruined state, but the setting, for though dishevelled, it still sits brooding on the edge of a precipice. And far from having nothing to say, it speaks to us powerfully, of two conflicting forces that are apposite to the human condition: the spirit of defiance, and the process of decay.
Well wondering how I could convey to you something of the social and political importance of this place, I had an idea. Imagine that you are at the theatre, waiting for the play to begin, and having a quick glance through the programme. Here it is:
THE ROAD TO RUIN
A Play - In Countless Episodes
Period: 15th - 17th c.
Setting: A Castle on the Edge of a Precipice
and set in the broad context of the clans
MacQuillan, MacDonnel and O'Neill
Starring:
Colla MacDonnel (Husband) to Eveleen) as himself
Eveleen MacQuillan (Wife) to Colla as herself
Sorley Boy MacDonnel (Lord of the Manor at Dunluce) as himself
Mary O'Neill (Wife to Sorley Boy MacDonnel as herself
Shane O'Neill (Brother-in-law to Sorley Boy MacDonnel) as himself
Sir John Perrot (Lord Deputy of Ireland) as himself
Elizabeth I (Queen and patron of Sorley Boy MacDonnel) as herself
James McDonnell (Knight, and son and heir of Sorley Boy...) as himself
Sir John Chichester (Governor of Carrickfergus) as himself
James VI of Scotland (King, and patron of James MacDonnel) as himself
and as James I of England (King, and patron of Randal MacDonnel)
Randal MacDonnel (Son and heir of James MacDonnel
Created Earl of Antrim by James I) as himself
Randal MacDonnel (Son of the first Earl of Antrim) as himself
Catherine Manners (Widow of the Duke of Buckingham
and wife of Randal MacDonnel) as herself
General Munroe (Governor of Carrickfergus) as himself
Supporting cast:
Some Vikings, Normans, Spaniards, and a few of Cromwell's men
__________
Now apart from this illustrious cast, of those who were directly involved in the affairs of Dunluce Castle, what is significant about it, from the point of view of this blog, is the extent to which it has changed in my lifetime.
As a boy I could wander there at will, but today, based on my recent experience, it costs £2 to get in; unless of course, like me, "you have an honest face", in which case, the charge is £1.50. And forewarned, is forearmed. For when I called in some years ago, and discovered that I had to pay, I refused, and much to the consternation of the woman on duty, I ignored her protestations and carried on. But this time I had no such qualms, and no regrets, for the transformation in Dunluce Castle, under the auspices of The Northern Ireland Environment Agency, are remarkable. Without taking anything away from what it represents, they have transformed it into a pleasing and safe place to visit.
And something else, more personal, that I noticed on my travels. Having spent most of my adult life in England, and retained an Irish accent, I was surprised at how it thickened, and how quickly I lapsed back into the lingo; except when a long standing family friend said: "Someone was found dead in the town today that you might know." At that, I had the immediate image of someone found dead in the street. But, not so, for it was simply Albert's quaint way of saying, - someone that you may have known, died today -.
From Portrush, I twice made the long walk to Portstewart and back, for I was born there, and more dramatically, rescued from my cot by the maid, as a fire burned around it and razed our house, and that of our neighbour to the ground.
When I arrived on the sea front, it was raining and blowing a gale. And as it was not long after nine, I had little hope of finding a place at which to rest my feet, and rejuvenate the rest of me before setting out on the walk back to Portrush. But I had underrated the people of Portstewart, who, are every bit as competitive as the weather, when it comes to business. So I was able to enjoy a cafe-late, and watch a raging sea, from the safety of a plate glass window.
The Harbour Portstewart, With The Castle, Now A Secondary School
In The Background
From Portrush, I twice made the long walk to Portstewart and back, for I was born there, and more dramatically, rescued from my cot by the maid, as a fire burned around it and razed our house, and that of our neighbour to the ground.
When I arrived on the sea front, it was raining and blowing a gale. And as it was not long after nine, I had little hope of finding a place at which to rest my feet, and rejuvenate the rest of me before setting out on the walk back to Portrush. But I had underrated the people of Portstewart, who, are every bit as competitive as the weather, when it comes to business. So I was able to enjoy a cafe-late, and watch a raging sea, from the safety of a plate glass window.
Myself, With Arthur And Elizabeth Campbell On Ramore Head Portrush
See my poem "Friendship"
See my poem "Friendship"
Well, in Portrush, I did all the things that I promised myself I would do, and more. Reflecting on how in my youth, holidaymakers arriving on a Saturday, would be amazed to find that there was nothing to do on a Sunday, but paddle in the sea and sit on the beach, I recalled the lengths that the town's elders went to, to keep the Sabbath holy, and irrespective as to whether or not you were religious. Recalling how children's swings were padlocked late on a Saturday, so that they could not be used on Sunday, I was moved, (in the spirit of those times), to write these line on The Devil's Washtub:
From the balcony I can look across
to The Devil's Washtub.
I cannot though, fathom its depth, nor hear
the head banging in its caverns.
But the pathways climbing to its summit
are clearly marked.
And though I can't see or hear it,
I know, that the throat is convulsed.
_______________
And I was intrigued by the local papers that were carrying a story about a "mentalist". I hadn't seen the word before and wondered how I could have missed it. As the story went, it was about David Mead, a university lecturer by day, who, at weekends, (and possibly weekday evenings as well), confounds his audience with his ability to read minds. And what was causing the hullabaloo, was that the first of four programmes featuring his skills, was about to be shown on local television.
Well as someone who has always attached a high importance to the intellect, in every-day living, for a moment, I was impressed, that is until I recalled the difficulty that most of us have, in knowing our own minds, never mind those of others; in my own case, dare I say, in knowing who I am, and what I am actually thinking at any given time. At that I lost interest, and turned my attention instead to how the story was told. And the kindest thought I had, (apart from the fact that it was delusional), was, that it was unmistakeably provincial. In the telling the reader was advised that "he, [David Mead] counts Uri Geller as a fan"; a case, I thought, if ever there was one, of "the world turned upside down". after which it was claimed that he had "stunned audiences from Bambridge to Boston with his performances." Well, taking a deep breath and allowing for the poetic tendency of the writer, it occurred to me that as the crow flies, there really isn't a great deal between Bambridge and Boston on the East Coast of America. But with the writer, "a Staff Reporter", still under the spell of Uri Geller, things could only get worse: "Now he is unleashing his talents on the Northern Irish public in a series of mind bending experiments..."
Now you can't visit Portrush and not call in at the lifeboat house, a source of pride for everyone who lives there. But I can't imagine that the existence of the lifeboat today, has the same dramatic effect on the minds of the young, as when I was a boy; for when the booms sounded above the town, everyone knew that someone, somewhere, was in trouble. and that the men, (for it was men only in those days), had left their workstations, or their beds, and were on their way. Regrettably the booms have been silenced, and the crew are now summoned electronically.
And I wrote this poem:
Only the fabric of the once warring faiths
stands unscathed.
They say that "time marches on", but not here
in these bedraggled streets.
The Crescent is toothless, the life
having gone from its mouth
And the gulls, silent, sway, and muse
on the varicosed promenades.
There are people about, but their existence
seems hum drum
So we must wait, and hope for an eruption
while the dead are clinging to life.
_________
Well ever mindful of Thomas Hardy's novel, "The Woodlanders," a title that held little promise, but where in truth a great deal was going on. I have quite deliberately chosen to use the word "seems" with reference to the people of Portrush, for I am conveying an impression, of how it seemed to me, mindful, that in all probability it has no basis in fact. But what particularly disturbed me, and prompted this overview, was the state of Lansdowne Crescent.
Our family home stood there, mid way along, what was a splendid row of Georgian terraced houses, that bristled with colour and life. But today, as can be see here, they are the epitome of neglect.
The Manse: once home to the young families
of Church of Ireland ministers.
of Church of Ireland ministers.
As I went along I photographed the worst cases, houses closed up, houses boarded up, and the house next door to our own, where, through a top floor window, (as is apparent here), you could see through to the sky.
And I took a picture of a huge gap that has existed for the best part of a decade, since one of the larger hotel's, the Skerry Bhan, was destroyed by fire. Yes, there are signs of life on Lansdowne Crescent: a residential home, into which, (thankfully), ours has been incorporated, and several other houses adjacent to one another, that are undergoing extensive renovation and structural change, so as to accommodate the special needs of ex-servicemen. But thinking about things overall, I found myself expressing a view that I never imagined that I would express: that the whole thing should be bulldozed to the ground, so that they can start again.
Derry's Walls
Well you couldn't do any such thing with Derry's Walls, that have to be among the best preserved city walls, anywhere. In the 19th century, some businessmen, anxious to ease the congestion in the city, triad and failed to have them demolished. So there they stand, a constant reminder of Ireland's turbulent past. And who, in their wildest imaginings in the 17c could have foreseen this, ornamental cannon balls as street architecture.
If you have read my poems Foyle St (1), and Foyle St. (2), you will know that, for me, Derry is a place of fond memories, so I took time out from my stay in Portrush, to go there, to say goodbye, and take some pictures for the family archive. But as nothing ever stays the same, I have to tell you that Foyle Street today, bears no resemblance, whatever, to what it was fifty years ago. To begin with, my paternal grandmother's house is gone, replaced by a multi-storey car park. And gone too is the railway station, the filling station, the four story mill that stood opposite grandma's house, the warehouses along the quay, the shirt factory, the hotel, the twenty one pubs, and Bigger's Abattoir. So no one, will ever again experience Foyle Street, as I experienced it, when a boy standing on my grandmother's doorstep:
Sinister it was, with its windows black and barred
gawping at me from across the street.
Relentless as it consumed its prey
protesting, as it slithered into the arched mouth.
Intense the mingling and numerous the shapes
that passed in that narrow confine.
Where man and beast, outsider and insider
jostled for their rightful place.
Cars, and The Red Hand of Ulster.
Hooves, in dry laboured clatter.
Pigs pleading, hay akimbo,
and the wide eyes of Cantrell & Cochrane.
And the sleek electric bread van.
Barrels, refined shapes layer on layer passing.
People. And the skittish horse,
its cartwheels twisting like windmills.
Space, - Silence, - Fear, -
And
Defiance.
_______________
As I watched the goings on in the street, what I feared, began with silence, only to be followed moments later by the distant cracking of whips, and moments after that, cattle, with their necks craned, streaming past grandma's door, and my fear: that one of them might do an about turn in to the porch.
And gone too are the decaying houses in Bridge Street, where the "poorest of the poor" lived, houses that were quite literally falling down. And gone too are almost all of the red bricked house that I used to pass, as I made my way through The Fountain, to Mass at the Long Tower. Not only are most of these terraced houses gone, but the few that remain look shabby compared to how I remembered them. What I recalled, apart from the murals on gable walls, proclaiming a protestant ascendancy, (that I had hoped to photograph on this visit), was the pristine condition in which the doors, and doorsteps to these mean houses, were kept.
So in the circumstances, I did what I could. I photographed the school where my aunt Maura spent her working life, and the small grotto behind the Long Tower Church, understanding that she had donated the statue of St. Bernadette. And quite by chance when I was photographing it, I met John Doherty, aged 87.
I saw him standing back while I was taking the pictures, and when I thanked him, and explained my interest in the grotto, it was only to discover that my aunt Maura had taught him. And as we made our way in to the Long Tower Chapel, he turned to me and said: "And her teaching! She gave me a great understanding of the faith!" And I walked Derry's walls, and as was the case with Dunluce Castle, was delighted to see the care with which the ramparts have been restored, so as to make them a safe place to visit, and to be enjoyed. And while I photographed some comparatively recent Loyalist murals, that seemed to me to speak of paralysed minds, I avoided Free Derry Corner. Not out of any lack of respect for the population at large who live there, and who have suffered grievously, but because I recognised within myself, in the context of my understanding of what it is to be "free", deep feelings of hostility towards the IRA.
If you have read my poems Foyle St (1), and Foyle St. (2), you will know that, for me, Derry is a place of fond memories, so I took time out from my stay in Portrush, to go there, to say goodbye, and take some pictures for the family archive. But as nothing ever stays the same, I have to tell you that Foyle Street today, bears no resemblance, whatever, to what it was fifty years ago. To begin with, my paternal grandmother's house is gone, replaced by a multi-storey car park. And gone too is the railway station, the filling station, the four story mill that stood opposite grandma's house, the warehouses along the quay, the shirt factory, the hotel, the twenty one pubs, and Bigger's Abattoir. So no one, will ever again experience Foyle Street, as I experienced it, when a boy standing on my grandmother's doorstep:
Sinister it was, with its windows black and barred
gawping at me from across the street.
Relentless as it consumed its prey
protesting, as it slithered into the arched mouth.
Intense the mingling and numerous the shapes
that passed in that narrow confine.
Where man and beast, outsider and insider
jostled for their rightful place.
Cars, and The Red Hand of Ulster.
Hooves, in dry laboured clatter.
Pigs pleading, hay akimbo,
and the wide eyes of Cantrell & Cochrane.
And the sleek electric bread van.
Barrels, refined shapes layer on layer passing.
People. And the skittish horse,
its cartwheels twisting like windmills.
Space, - Silence, - Fear, -
And
Defiance.
_______________
As I watched the goings on in the street, what I feared, began with silence, only to be followed moments later by the distant cracking of whips, and moments after that, cattle, with their necks craned, streaming past grandma's door, and my fear: that one of them might do an about turn in to the porch.
And gone too are the decaying houses in Bridge Street, where the "poorest of the poor" lived, houses that were quite literally falling down. And gone too are almost all of the red bricked house that I used to pass, as I made my way through The Fountain, to Mass at the Long Tower. Not only are most of these terraced houses gone, but the few that remain look shabby compared to how I remembered them. What I recalled, apart from the murals on gable walls, proclaiming a protestant ascendancy, (that I had hoped to photograph on this visit), was the pristine condition in which the doors, and doorsteps to these mean houses, were kept.
So in the circumstances, I did what I could. I photographed the school where my aunt Maura spent her working life, and the small grotto behind the Long Tower Church, understanding that she had donated the statue of St. Bernadette. And quite by chance when I was photographing it, I met John Doherty, aged 87.
I saw him standing back while I was taking the pictures, and when I thanked him, and explained my interest in the grotto, it was only to discover that my aunt Maura had taught him. And as we made our way in to the Long Tower Chapel, he turned to me and said: "And her teaching! She gave me a great understanding of the faith!" And I walked Derry's walls, and as was the case with Dunluce Castle, was delighted to see the care with which the ramparts have been restored, so as to make them a safe place to visit, and to be enjoyed. And while I photographed some comparatively recent Loyalist murals, that seemed to me to speak of paralysed minds, I avoided Free Derry Corner. Not out of any lack of respect for the population at large who live there, and who have suffered grievously, but because I recognised within myself, in the context of my understanding of what it is to be "free", deep feelings of hostility towards the IRA.
Now in saying that I went there "to say goodbye," I was not sending a subliminal message. I was simply recognising, that the time will come when it will be goodbye to everything; a thought prompted by the fact that this was my first visit to Ireland in four years. And what was especially pleasing about it was, that it gave me the opportunity to get an up to date perspective on peoples lives, in particular those of my great niece and nephew, Victoria and Nicholas, and Michael, who is newly arrived, by which I mean, that I was meeting him for the first time, though he is 2. 1/2. So my sister Deirdre, who lives on a farm, is now, "Granny Moo!" And when I first met Michael he was resolute in having nothing to do with me. Each suggestion that we get acquainted, met with a resounding "No!" But it was obvious even in these moments, that he was bubbling with life, and a bit of a showman. So when he appeared again the following day, I wasn't at all surprised that he had changed his mind:
"Shall I draw a picture of Jim?" I asked.
"Yes!"
"Will I give him a hat?"
"Yes!!"
"Shall I draw a mouth and give him some teeth?"
© Cormac McCloskey
Note: All the historical and other data used in this blog, has been taken from the information provided for visitors/tourists either by Coleraine Borough Council, or Derry City Council
The photographs used were taken by me, with the exception of that on Ramore Head, which was taken by my sister Bronagh Hoyle, and that of Dunluce Castle, some time ago, by my brother Kieran.
The unique rock formation at the Giants Causeway, that is a UNESCO World Heritage site, is the result of volcanic activity 65-7 million years ago.
On reflection, there is some uncertainty about the grotto at the Long Tower Church. As it was built in 1909, my aunt Maura couldn't possibly have donated the statue of St. Bernadette; if she did, (that I understood to be the case from her), then at some point, years later, either the grotto was rebuilt or the statue, or statues replaced. But there is no evidence at the grotto, that this happened.
THE WHITE CLIFFS OF DOVER - here
"The Giant's Causeway: Part Geology - Part Mythology" - right here
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