Day 6: The Face of Leap Castle

We left the pockmarked coastline of Cork to travel north, up through the fertile midlands to Ireland's hidden gem: the Slieve Bloom Mountains, a gently rising range densely clad in fir forests and crowned with heather and blanket bog. Nathan and I intended to spend the next two days hiking to our heart's content through the sanctified serenity of Slieve Bloom. Unfortunately, the weather had other ideas.

On our sixth morning, Nate and I crossed ourselves, armed ourselves with whatever psychic regalia we had and headed a few miles up a country road to Leap Castle, one of Ireland's most haunted sites. Now, you may have already heard of Leap Castle, maybe even seen it on television. The castle's bloody history and reputation for the paranormal have landed it many a headlining role on various 'haunted' shows, the best known of which would be Ghost Hunters, Scifi channel's docu-series following TAPS, The Atlantic Paranormal Society, and their all-night vigils trying to capture evidence of the other side in some of the world's most haunted places. Don't worry though, Nathan and I have experience at this as survivors of the Myrtles Plantation and Salem, Massachusetts.

When we pulled into the circular drive, we began to think we'd arrived at the wrong place. Leap's crumbling facade was partially boarded with plywood. An aging motor-home sat to one side and a heap of rubble along with several ladders sat to the other. A sheep dog with some kind of skin condition greeted us reservedly (is that mange?). Surely this was not the ghost ridden hot spot of legend, praised and filmed on American t.v.? It was.

Sean Ryan, Leap castle's current owner met us at the giant studded, wooden door after I clacked the knocker a few times. I was instantly charmed. Mr. Ryan looks a bit like Ireland's version of Jerry Garcia: husky, hairy and happy. He led us to his fireplace where a crackling flame perfumed the air with a mingle of peat turf and incense and bid us sit down in one of the well worn chairs gathered round. For the next couple of hours, we sat spellbound, listening with rapt attention as he laid out the history, both normal and paranormal, of the place he now called home. Like any landmark that has survived a good many years, Leap Castle has seen its fair share of tragedy. It only follows then that at least a few of those who'd lived and died there might want to stick around. Listening to Mr. Ryan spin his tale I felt certain the television shows were both right and wrong. Leap Castle is haunted, but a hotbed of demonic activity, it's not.

Whatever spirits linger there, they were wholly eclipsed that morning by the castle's living resident. As he played us a tune on the Irish whistle I realized, Leap Castle hosts something rare indeed and it's not just the ghosts. Sean Ryan is a modern day bard, part storyteller, part musician, part historian. As he weaves his enchantment over you, you walk away entertained and enlightened. A couple of hours as his audience is worth however many euros he'd like to charge, though he only asks for six. It is no small leap (pun intended) of the imagination to see how in their day, bard's were a very hot commodity amidst the ancient Celtic societies where they lived and loved.

My story should end here, but it doesn't. Before driving away, we snapped off a couple of pictures of Leap Castle. I didn't ask to take any inside, feeling it disrespectful to the privacy of our host. After all, the castle is now a warm and loving home, not just a tourist trap. After we returned to the States and I plopped down the $50 it took to develop over 350 memories on film, I noticed something unusual in one of the Leap Castle photos. In a window to the left, where the castle is still decrepit and unlivable, is the pale silhouette of a person. Zooming in, I expected the form to dissipate in a play of shadow and light, looking less human upon close inspection. Instead, it looks more human. Using zoom on the computer, a face begins to emerge, with two shadowy eye hollows and a distinct forehead, cheekbones and shoulders. It appears to be leaning around the edge of the window, watching us drive away. It looks young and feminine. Not unlike how I imagined the face of twelve year old Charlotte Darby as she fell from one of the castle's watchtowers to her death centuries ago.

Before that picture caught my eye, I thought I'd just met the real face of Leap Castle. Now I wonder, is the ghostly image in the window a trick, a pattern played by the leaves and vines slowly pulling the castle's wing back into the earth? Or is it the real face of Leap Castle, watching silently from the shadows as another unsuspecting car of visitors pulls innocently away? You decide for yourself...

Day 3: Is This Island Rocking or Is It Just Me?

Apparently, it's just me...

With a fond farewell to our friendly Wicklow hostess and a stolen moment to repair my shaky alliance with a number of the county's more irritable, invisible residents, Nathan and I hit the road in search of Kilkenny City, in county Kilkenny. I chose to stop at Kilkenny City for three main reasons: Kilkenny Castle, Kilkenny Craft Center and Kyteler's Inn Pub. I would only return for one of those, the pub.

Kilkenny City is a good 2.5 hour drive from the village of Laragh, where we stayed in Wicklow county; longer, if you're still adjusting to driving on the right-hand side of the car on the left-hand side of the road. Particularly if that "road" is a foot wide half-paved rollercoaster romp through the hills of Ireland, buffeted on either side by a densely overgrown wall of hedge, or even better, a twenty story drop to one's eternal glory. We were beginning to understand why we kept getting the familiar response from the locals, "You didn't drive, did ya?"

I'd say about an hour into that drive I was struck with the sudden sensation that not only was the car moving, but the ground beneath it was as well and not in the same direction. A good half hour after that Nathan found himself waiting patiently by the side of the road while I attempted to keep down my black pudding. With a few more breaks to stop the world from spinning, we finally found ourselves in Kilkenny City. I mistakenly thought that once out of the car, all would be well again. Apparently vertigo doesn't care whether you're walking, riding, sitting or sleeping, it keeps on rockin' just the same. The walk from our hotel to Kilkenny Castle was like a three block long fun house.

The castle was lovely, though I would have liked it more if it would have sat still. Note to self: winding 700 year old stone staircases constructed for Irish midgets are not conducive to alleviating vertigo. The craft center was fabulous, if we were about 2,000 euros wealthier. I discovered later that there is a store in Dublin named "Kilkenny" which is essentially a larger, better stocked version of the Kilkenny Craft Center, making our shopping detour superfluous. The only truly redeeming quality about the city, I decided, was its selection of fine Irish pubs.

I came to Kilkenny for one pub, the medieval and purportedly haunted Kyteler's Inn, former establishment of Dame Kyteler who was found guilty of witchcraft after being married four times and allegedly poisoning her husbands. She was sentenced to burn at the stake but seems to have escaped her fate and fled the country. As one Kilkenny barman put it, "She was what we call 'cute'." I believe 'cute' is Irish for 'sneaky'. The pub now boats a kitschy, witchy themed atmosphere, replete with a black-clad, many-moled mannequin stoking her cauldron fire. It was wonderful! Trust me, nowhere does the medieval witch trial victim angle work better than in a stone constructed pub established in 1324. It was very convincing.

Kyteler's Inn would have alone made our Kilkenny detour worth it, but we also bumped into a good two to three more cozy centers for good ole Irish craic, stout and traditional music. One was named Paris, Texas and was modeled after the movie which the owner apparently fell in love with sometime in the early eighties. Having had the unfortunate experience of passing through Paris, Texas, it is hard for me to imagine anyone naming anything after it, least of all anything of value. But who was I to burst this poor, deluded Irishman's bubble?

While Irish roads and Irish castles do not a cure for vertigo make, Irish beer is another story. Here's the secret. You have to have enough. It seems, and I can say this based on my wholly scientific impromptu experiment carried out all in the name of selfless medical research, that a pint or two may not stop the world from spinning, but six will take that island by its hills and nail it firmly to the earth where it belongs. So this is my advice to any and all who find themselves trying to hold on to their Irish breakfast after a nine hour plane ride and three day excursion through the country's back roads, find yourself a good pub, sidle up to the bar and down a steady six pints of Guinness, doctor's orders. That'll knock things straight again.

Day 2: The Haunting of County Wicklow

On our second morning in Ireland, we were happy to leave the madness of Dublin behind and head south of the city into the mountains of county Wicklow. County Wicklow bills itself as "The Garden of Ireland" which, from what we could see, is quite accurate; if by 'garden' you mean 'hauntingly beautiful mountainous terrain thickly blanketed by enchanted forest'. When Americans think 'garden', we usually think of the tortured, wilting tomato and herb specimens we fruitlessly try to nurture into viable flora again and again via our not-so-green thumbs (some of us learning the lesson sooner than others). Apparently, the Irish have a completely different view of the word 'garden', one that more often than not includes sheep, but we'll get to that in a later blog.

Yes, the Wicklow mountains are a serene, inspiring backdrop for much of Ireland's tumultuous history. They are home to various movie sets, including Reign of Fire starring Matthew McConaughey, several firing ranges utilized by the Irish Army (thus the tanker that nearly pushed us off the road), scattered herds of wild, feral goats, various fantastical and/or mythological beings and countless ghosts. You may not find those last two on discoverireland.com. You'll just have to take my word for it.

Like many visitors to Ireland, we decided to tour the ancient monastic site of St. Kevin at Glendalough, one of three glacial valleys in county Wicklow. The initial ruins include a church, a monk's house, a round tower and a cemetery. Now, I've visited many a historic cemetery before. In fact, I like to think of myself somewhat as a connoisseur of final resting places. That said, no graveyard has ever made me feel the way this one did. As we walked among the tilting tombstones and Celtic crosses, I, for no apparent reason, began to cry. Nathan rolled his eyes and pulled out a Kleenex, "What's your problem now?" All I could say was that this place felt very sad, very tragic and the weight of all that sadness was sitting on me like a bacon press. As we moved towards the back of the cemetery, the weight lifted and I felt better. Coming again through the front to exit, I could feel it returning. Here's where I made my fatal mistake.

One of our family members -and you know who you are- requested I bring back a rock from Ireland for their souvenir. I'd intended to get one while in Wicklow, but I knew as I perused the sorrowful site at Glendalough, that taking a rock from that ground would be wrong, very, very wrong. Instead, I plucked one from between the deteriorating stones inside the church, just above the still visible font for holy water. I'm not sure what I was thinking, except perhaps that A.) the rock didn't technically come from the ground, B.) the church should be a happy place by contrast to the mournful cemetery, or C.) a rock is just a rock, right? Wrong.

That night, after we'd retired to our room in the Wicklow Way Lodge, where Mr. McConaughey stayed during his bald Reign of Fire days, I awoke sometime around 3:00 a.m. from a terrible nightmare. All I could remember upon waking was that in the nightmare I was cornered in a castle or dungeon of some kind, being confronted by the cumulative spirits of Wicklow for having offended them beyond all hope of reconciliation. In the dream, I was quite ignorant of whatever it was I'd done, if indeed I'd done it all, but that was of no significance to them. Something was coming for me. Something dreadful. Something being sent to punish me for my crime. I awoke so terrified that I contemplated packing up right then and driving, or rather having Nate drive, straight into the next county. In one evening, I'd gone from viewing the Wicklow mountains as the most enchanting, breathtaking natural wonder on the planet, to a recoiling place of torment sodden with the spirits of Ireland past.

As it turned out, Nathan was not keen on a midnight getaway and promptly rolled over, writing off my fears as yet another one of my ridiculous, however imaginative, delusions. With no other recourse, all I could do was pray and ask to be shown how to appease whatever disgruntled ghosts I'd awakened. The answer seemed obvious, and I promised to follow through at first light. I was rewarded with a much happier dream to follow, which implied I could leave Wicklow county acquitted of all charges. Long story short, the lovely owner of Wicklow Way Lodge now has an inconspicuous little addition to her driveway rock collection, courtesy of St. Kevin's church. The moral: leave sacred ground where it lies, don't collect rocks, tell well-meaning relatives with unusual souvenir requests to get stuffed.