Month: March 2026

The Rock of Cashel & Kilkenny

The Rock of Cashel & Kilkenny

One thing that an American visitor quickly learns on a trip around Europe is that there are simply some parts of the landscape that cry out to be the site of a castle. At a time when every town was its own kingdom, a time before police forces or standing armies, a time of great scarcity and instability, it was only the presence of a castle that could guarantee the safety of the local ruling family. And the safest place for a castle is usually on the highest available ground—where enemies can be spotted from afar, and where attackers must struggle uphill. The outcropping of limestone that rises dramatically over the fertile, level land known as the “Golden Vale” is just such a place—a natural pedestal. You might even say that it was destined to be the site of a great edifice.

The Rock of Cashel has been important in Irish history for a very long time. Indeed, it is difficult to say precisely how long. There are legends about its formation—about St. Patrick confronting Satan, who then hurled this great rock from a nearby mountain—and there are stories about the early Christian leaders, Patrick and Declán, meeting here all the way back in the 5th century. What we can say with more certainty is that this was the seat of the kings of Munster, who ruled this corner of Ireland from the Iron Age all the way to the Middle Ages. For this rocky outcropping, in other words, geology became history.

By the time we drove up and parked in the shadow of this old pile of rock, it was the middle of a hot, sunny day. We walked up the hill to the entrance and signed up for the next available tour, which luckily was about to start. Our guide was—like so many Irish—eloquent, witty, and engaging, leavening her historic spiel with the right amount of humor. Still, during my visit, I found it difficult to pay attention. The ruins were so vast and so evocative that I felt swallowed up, overwhelmed by their scale and splendor.

But time alone is not solely responsible for the building’s ruined state. Although the Rock of Cashel was a fortified castle for centuries, religion eventually overtook politics as the dominant local force, and a large Catholic cathedral was instead built in its place. Yet such a prominent symbol of Catholic power was an obvious point of resistance during the Irish Rebellion of 1641; and it was an obvious site of English reprisals in the following defeat.

The invading troops massacred the Catholic clergy and looted the church. Among the dead was Theobald Stapleton, one of the fathers of Irish orthography. Henceforth, the cathedral came to be used by the Anglicans. The English clergy were, however, little disposed to invest in the upkeep of the cathedral, which fell into disrepair. Finally, Arthur Price, the local archbishop, overruled plans to repair the roof—considered a jewel of Irish architecture—and had it dismantled, thus leaving the ruin we see today.

But some parts of the original structure remain standing—most notably, Cormac’s Chapel. Completed in 1134, this is a Romanesque chapel, one of the finest in Europe. Unlike the flashy Gothic architecture of the high Middle Ages, this chapel strikes the modern viewer as elegant, meditative, and soulful. Unfortunately, the builders of this chapel used sandstone—which has an attractive hue, but which soaks up water over time. This severely damaged the wonderful ceiling frescoes, as well as weakened the structure. Nowadays, the interior is climate-controlled, and visitors can only enter in small groups, for a limited amount of time.

The other notable structure on the site is the round tower. This is a distinctly Irish design, consisting of a free-standing stone tower with a pointed roof. The one here is nearly 30 meters (100 feet) tall, and was built before the cathedral was even started. The purpose of these towers is somewhat mysterious: they would not make good bell towers (there isn’t room or a sizable window), and they were not used for storing grain. Because they had such a small foundation, it was structurally necessary to put the entry door well over the ground, accessible only by a ladder. Our guide explained that this made the towers ideal places for the monks to hide during attacks, as the ladder could be withdrawn into the tower and the door tightly shut.

Our tour ended on the northern side of the site. In the far distance, the low, lush fields of the Golden Vale spread endlessly outwards. After the cathedral’s destruction, the hill was still used as a cemetery for many years. Many graves thus adorn this side of the hill, giving a somber mood to an already haunting place. As usual in Ireland, many centuries seemed to be compressed beneath our feet.

Learning history is tiring work, so we next headed to a nearby restaurant for some hearty Irish fare. And this gives me an opportunity to talk about Irish cuisine in general. Most people, I would reckon, do not visit Ireland for the food, and it is not especially well-known outside the country. Nevertheless, I found it to be consistently comforting and enjoyable. Both literal and figurative meat and potatoes, it is honest, hardworking food that will keep you fit and fed all day. Yes, it is somewhat bland; and yes, it sits a bit heavy in the stomach. But it does exactly what it promises to do. Besides, if you get tired of it, Ireland is well-supplied with cuisines of other varieties. During our time there, we had good Italian, Indian, and Mexican food.

Our next stop was the nearby town of Kilkenny, just an hour’s drive away. We were behind schedule. It was already afternoon, and we had only allowed for a single day to see the city. After finding a place to park, we rushed to the town’s main attraction, Kilkenny Castle—only to be informed that it would close in an hour. Our visit was thus abbreviated.

If some castles seem to emerge from the landscape, others are imposed on them in order to exert control. This is precisely the origin of this fortification, which was built along the River Nore—a natural choke point for commerce and travel. Kilkenny Castle does not have the same antiquity as the Rock of Cashel. Instead, this building came about during the Norman invasion of the 12th century. The Normans, remember, invaded Britain in 1066, and came bearing a new language (French) and continental ideas of architecture. If the Rock of Cashel is a symbol of Irish identity, then, Kilkenny Castle is a symbol of foreign occupation.

Ironically, however, this castle was also used as a headquarters of the aforementioned Irish Rebellion of 1641. Indeed, it was even used by the provisional Irish parliament. But Oliver Cromwell put an end to that. His troops besieged the town and, in the process, damaged the castle—brutally suppressing the rebellion and instituting laws that would severely reduce the rights of Catholics.

The castle is now a museum, thanks to the 6th Marquess and 24th Earl of Ormonde, who donated it to the Irish government in 1967 for the symbolic sum of 50 pounds—long after his ancient family had run out of the necessary funds for its upkeep. In his words: “We determined that it should not be allowed to fall into ruins. There are already too many ruins in Ireland.” Of course, after decades of neglect, the castle was already quite dilapidated. It took many more years to restore it to its present glory. 

What the visitor encounters now is not so much a fortification as an aristocratic home. There is elegant furniture, richly woven tapestries, and lovely floral wallpaper. The showstopper is the picture gallery—an enormous room with wooden vaulted ceilings, every inch elaborately decorated. Even the fireplace is intricately carved. Yet despite the many attractive paintings adorning the walls, I found the ceiling to be the most impressive. Every single board was shaped and painted.

Soon our tour was over, and we were deposited in the sweeping lawn of the castle grounds. It was a delicious evening—warm, cloudless, and still quite bright—and this great lawn, which now serves as a city park, was full of people. We sat on a bench and took it in. A group of high school boys caught my attention. Their backpacks on the ground (it was a school day), they were tossing a ball back and forth with wooden sticks. This is hurling—the quintessential Irish sport, which requires great dexterity to manipulate a small ball with a kind flat wooden club. There, in the shadow of a fortress built by invaders, the Irish culture blithely soldiered on.

It was our misfortune not to have had more time for Kilkenny. One of the most charming and best-preserved cities in Ireland, it is worth a longer visit than we allotted. Still, we enjoyed strolling the streets and walking alongside the placid waters of the River Nore. Indeed, as we searched for a restaurant, we observed a group of school-age girls taking turns jumping into the river. With nobody else around, it felt like a strangely intimate moment in a small town, rather than something I expected to see in a center of medieval Norman power.

As the 6th Marquess and 24th Earl of Ormonde observed, Ireland is indeed quite full of ruins. And yet among them, above them, and between them, it is also a living place.

The Cliffs of Moher & the Burren

The Cliffs of Moher & the Burren

“Make sure to apply plenty of sun cream,” the radio advised, “and take it easy on the beer. One or two is fine, but any more and you might get dehydrated.”

This was the voice of an expert on public health, speaking on Ireland’s national radio station, RTE. Ireland, you see, was experiencing a heat wave. The skies were clear and sunny, and the temperature was reaching highs of… around 25°C (75°F). In other words, the weather was absolutely perfect. But on this rainy island, such scorching temperatures were worthy of serious news coverage.

Meanwhile, we rode down country roads, windows down, soaking in the effervescent green of the Irish countryside. We were on our way to one of Ireland’s most famous natural wonders: the Cliffs of Moher.

Now, here I want to add a note about RTE. Despite the official name being in the Irish language (Raidió Teilifís Éireann), RTE primarily broadcasts in English. This makes it an absolutely delightful resource for any American travelers to the Emerald Isle. Just by turning on any car radio, you are given an immersive window into the realities of Irish culture. During our trip, we listened every time we were in the car, hearing programs about budget negotiations, interviews with cookbook authors, and discussions of rising energy prices. This may not sound especially engrossing, but it made our visit feel that much more intimate.

The health expert elaborated on the dangers of sunburn and dehydration as our destination came into view: the visitor centre. You know you have arrived when you see the huge parking lot across the road, which on any given day will be full of tour buses and private cars. The cliffs are free, but the parking is not.

The visitor centre is worth stepping into before you see the cliffs. Opened in 2007, it was built into a hillside to better preserve the natural environment. Aside from serving snacks and having public toilets, the centre also has small exhibits on the geology, history, and wildlife to be found on the cliffs. But the detail that most sticks out in my memory are the women working at the gift shop, who were visibly red and covered with sweat due to the heat wave—despite my feeling entirely comfortable. I suppose it matters what you’re used to.

It is a short walk from the visitor centre to the edge of the cliffs. The first view is breathtaking—as is every view after that. Though it is cliche to say it, the photos simply do not do justice to the cliffs. Their scale is unlike anything I have ever seen. Standing at over 100 meters (or around 330 feet) above the sea, and stretching for miles in both directions, the cliffs are an overwhelming spectacle—one of the few tourist attractions that stand up both to the hype and to the inevitable hordes of tourists. 

We like to say that Rome was not built in a day, but geological time operates on a scale that dwarfs even our longest empires. These cliffs are a case in point. What we see today is the process of hundreds of thousands of years of water erosion. The process is simple: the waves crashing into the rock eventually cause a notch in the area touching the sea. As this gets deeper, it eventually cannot support the weight of the rock above it, and the whole side of the shore comes crashing down. This is how we get these sheer rock faces.

Due to this erosion, a huge layer of rock is exposed to the eye. This is what geologists dream of. It is the history of the earth, exposed to public view. The rock here is sedimentary, meaning that it was deposited by ancient rivers, and compacted into layers of hard shale and sandstone over time. As you might expect, the oldest rocks are at the bottom; these date back over 300 million years, before the time of the dinosaurs. The fossils preserved in the rock are the traces left by tiny burrowing creatures who lived in the ancient riverbed.

Yet viewing the cliffs does not put most visitors in the mood for scientific inquiry. Instead, they invite a sense of gaping wonder at the scale and majesty of nature, even amid the famously docile landscape of Ireland. My brother and I wandered up and down the path, taking photos of the cliffs from different angles, none of which was wholly satisfactory. Seabirds glided in the strong currents of air that formed from the ocean wind hitting the rock face—and which sent the sharp scent of salt water up to the viewing platforms.

But enjoying a spectacle is hard work; so, feeling hungry, we wandered off to find a vegetarian hamburger truck that we had heard about (it was very good). Our mom, who wasn’t very hungry, stayed behind at the visitor center. By the time we got back, she was enjoying a performance of a marching band that had set up in the large seating area outside. It was an odd contrast—this austere icon of Ireland, and music that would not have been out of place at an American football game. But, strangely, it only added to the pleasant atmosphere of the unseasonably warm day.

The rest of our day was yet unplanned. We figured that we would be able to find something interesting in the vicinity of the Cliffs of Moher, and we were right. With our trusted Rick Steves guidebook in hand, we opened to one of the many maps, and found that we were near an area called “the Burren.” The name alone sounded strangely promising.

As we drove into the area, the landscape began to change. The hills of grass that characterize the country become relatively flat, and covered in rock. Indeed, from a distance you could see how the landscape abruptly changes, the trees and greenery giving way to swirls of gray stone. Getting closer, we could see that the ground was blanketed with a natural pavement—a series of flat stones forming a solid surface, between which grass and flowers grew. It produced an immediate impression—a landscape of stark and ancient beauty.

This impression was magnified at our first stop: the Poulnabrone Dolmen. This is an ancient megalith, well over 5,000 years old. As it stands now, the structure consists of three upright stones supporting a slab roof. But this is only the “skeleton” of the original construction. In its time, it would have been covered in soil and topped with a “cairn,” or a tower of rocks. Even so, it is an impressive sight. The arrangement of stones looks fragile, as if it can topple over at any moment. The visitor cannot help but wonder how it survived for so long. It is also impossible not to wonder how the stones were moved into this arrangement without the help of modern technology. The roof stone is so large that I don’t think even several dozen people could safely lift it.

The short walk from the parking lot to the dolmen was unusually difficult, owing to the curious topography of the Burren. You have to be aware of where you are putting your foot, or you may step from the high platform of rocks into one of the crevices between them—thus risking a twisted ankle. Yet this extra awareness gives the Poulnabrone Dolmen an added spiritual element, as the visitor is forced to focus on their surroundings. This, added to the peculiar beauty of the landscape—quiet, empty of birdsong, isolated and exposed, as if you were on the top of a high mountain—lends this lonely monument a mystical atmosphere, as if it really were the portal to another world. 

Our next stop in the Burren was the eponymous visitor centre. Located in the exceedingly small village of Kilfenora, this institution does not look like much from the outside. But it is well worth a visit. A small fee will get you into the museum, which has all the information you could want to learn about the Burren—flora and fauna, geology, history, and even music. I found the information about the flora to be especially interesting. Puzzlingly, this rocky and barren landscape is home to over 70% of the country’s native plant species, many of them wildflowers. Even more puzzlingly, alpine and mediterranean flowers bloom together here. The deep groves in the limestone apparently provide an ideal micro-environment.

Another highlight of the visitor centre is the Kilfenora Cathedral, which today lies mostly in ruins. This attractive church building is now used to exhibit a collection of High Crosses, which are large stone crucifixes. These monuments, dating mostly from the early middle ages, are often decorated with elaborate images—illustrating Biblical stories at a time when most people were illiterate. The finest of these can rival the great gothic tympanums (the area over a doorway).

My mom and brother, admiring the ruined church

Yet during my visit, another parallel came to mind. In Galicia, the northwest of Spain, the landscape is also dotted with tall stone crucifixes, called cruceiros. This parallel struck me as odd, as Galicia is also home to many prehistoric dolmens—some that are remarkably similar to the one I had just seen here. Perhaps this should not be too surprising, however: both Galicia and Ireland were once populated by Celtic peoples. Indeed, there was once a time in human history—over 10,000 years ago, during the last great Ice Age—when it was possible to walk from Spain all the way to Ireland. This may seem like a very long time, but it is just a moment in the history of the earth.

Perhaps I am thinking in these terms because the Cliffs of Moher and the Burren both evoke the deep, geological past of Ireland, and remind us that the land beneath our feet is far more than just a country.

Galway & Inishmore

Galway & Inishmore

“Dublin is fine, I guess. But you gotta see Galway. It’s incredible.”

My friend Durso had told me this on my first trip to Ireland, launching into a long glowing description of the coastal city. Now, six years later, it was my chance to finally see this mythical place. How would it measure up?

By the time we arrived—after a long day of driving—it was already evening. We headed into the center of town without a plan or even knowing what to expect. All I knew was that Galway was supposed to be nice. 

Galway, a medium-sized city, is situated on the western coast, almost directly across from Dublin. The city was once an important port for commerce and fishing. Nowadays, its economy has two new pillars: tourism and education. The latter is especially important. Of the roughly 85,000 residents of the city, nearly a quarter are students at the University of Galway. For a place with so much history, it has a very young population.

This was immediately apparent to us. As it happened, the day we arrived was Freshers’ Day, when all of the first-year students are welcomed to campus. A parade of young people marched down High Street, all of them looking lost and amazed—overwhelmed by their new-found independence. And, crucially, unlike in my own country, freshmen in Ireland are of drinking age. It was bound to be a wild few nights.

This youthful presence—combined with the plentiful tourists—gave the center of Galway a raucous energy. Every bar was packed, every restaurant was full, and we had to dodge between crowds and street performers. I had imagined a picturesque old fishing village, and this was a nightlife district.

But the city is well-adapted to hungry and thirsty crowds, and we soon managed to satisfy our bodily desires. After dinner, we searched for a bar that wasn’t overwhelmed by students. Eventually, we decided on Tig Cóilí, a tranquil place with classy wooden furnishings. This is one of the many whiskey bars in the city. After asking the barman for some advice, I had a glass of Micil Invernin, a single-malt whiskey with a pronounced smokey and peaty flavor—reminding me very much of Laphroaig Scotch. This was followed by a delicious Irish coffee, whose mixture of alcohol and caffeine produced a strange wakeful drowsiness.

The rest of our stay in Galway consisted mainly of mornings and evenings, as we had several day trips planned. This meant that our impression of the city was inevitably skewed. Nevertheless, it is fair to say that Galway is not a city of many attractions. Though historic, only fragments of the city’s medieval past remain.

Notable among these is the so-called Spanish arch, an extension of the city walls (now mostly gone) down to the docks. There is nothing particularly Spanish about this arch. It got its name because of the many Spaniards, usually merchants, who used to visit Galway, mooring their ships near this arch.

It is hard to get very excited about the Spanish arches.

Indeed, Christopher Columbus himself (who DNA studies reveal to have had a Spanish origin) visited Galway as a young man, and spoke of seeing “Cathays” (the antique word for Chinese people) who had arrived on logs. These people were almost certainly not Chinese, but may have been Inuits who were blown across the Atlantic in a canoe. Nevertheless, it reinforced his belief that a voyage to Asia was possible by sailing west.

All of this history was unfathomable, however, as we wove our way through the young crowds. Galway is certainly not a city oriented towards the past. Indeed, for a place with such a romantic setting—the stormy Atlantic brooding in the gray distance—and with the soothing sound of water continuously nearby, Galway is a surprisingly energetic place. Perhaps it is no wonder that my friend, who visited during his drinking years, loved it so much.

I do want to single out Il Vicolo, an Italian restaurant we visited. Now, I am normally opposed to eating Italian food out unless I am traveling in Italy. It seems like a wasted opportunity to eat something available everywhere, rather than trying the local food. But in this case, the decision turned out to be a good one. The restaurant—in a historic building overlooking the river—was attractive, and the food a welcome relief from the heavy Irish fare.

Lost amid the crowds and the nightlife, I did not appreciate the impressiveness of Galway’s natural setting until it was time to leave it. On our first morning there, we boarded a bus that took us from Galway to Rossaveel. We soon left the city and were being swept along a fairly suburban area overlooking Galway Bay. The morning was gray and overcast, and the landscape had none of the usual sweetness that one associates with Ireland. Instead, it was rocky and desolate, almost reminding me of Iceland. The North Atlantic is a harsh and dramatic environment. 

We were there to catch a ferry to the Aran Islands. These are a group of three islands that lie at the westernmost point of Ireland. Inishmore is the largest and most popular of these, and this was our destination. The trip lasted about an hour and deposited us in Kilronan, or Cill Rónáin (in the official Irish spelling), the only place on the island approaching a proper village. With a population of less than 300, it is home to over a third of the island’s inhabitants—which gives you some idea of its remoteness.

If Galway struck me as a place with too many people and not enough history, Inishmore was exactly the opposite. Despite the boat loads of tourists (we among them), and despite the island’s relatively small size (about half as big as Manhattan), the island creates a powerful sense of isolation in time and space. The landscape is windswept and bleak—deforested after centuries of human habitation, and littered with ruins, both old and new.

We immediately set about procuring ourselves a tour. Now, there are many options for visitors to the island. You can rent bikes and explore on your own, or even just take off walking. The most popular option, however, is to sign up for a minibus tour. There is no need to book in advance. As soon as you leave the ferry, a host of tour operators confront you, all of them offering pretty much the same tour at the same price. We signed up for one without any research or planning, and it ended up being fantastic.

Our guide soon whisked us into the rocky center of this island. Speaking rapid-fire into a microphone, he gave us a running commentary on everything we were driving past. And he had a lot to say. Aside from being a tour guide with ample experience, he was also a native of the island, and could frequently add a personal touch to his narrative. Now, I admit that I have forgotten the vast majority of what he said—he spoke fast, and in a thick accent—but I do remember the sense of wonder I had, as he effectively pulled us into what it was like to grow up in such a place.

I can attempt to write a description of the island here—its rugged hills of pale green, ringed by rocky shores and covered in gray ruins—but I think it would be better just to instruct any curious readers to watch the film The Banshees of Inisherin. This film—properly tragic-comic, as are so many Irish stories—was filmed here, and does a wonderful job in capturing the combination of desolate beauty and provincial isolation.

One valuable part of the experience was simply overhearing the guides speak Irish. You see, Inishmore is a Gaeltacht, which is a section officially designated as having Irish as the first language. Language has a political element here, as it does in so many other parts of the world; and adoption of Irish (also called Gaelic) as a co-official language with English was seen as an important step in the assertion of Irish identity. Nevertheless, the overwhelming majority of the population still speak English, and learn only minimal Irish in school. Inishmore is one of the few exceptions to this rule.

The high-point of the visit, literally and metaphorically, was Dún Aonghasa. This is an ancient fortress, situated high on a cliff overlooking the Atlantic. Even the approach is dramatic. Stumbling over a rough cobblestone walkway, ringed by stone fences, the visitor gets a small taste of how secure this place must have been in its time. The surrounding fields are strewn with spiky stones that would have disrupted any approaching army.

Nearer, the visitor passes through a series of four concentric walls. Even today, after years of neglect and decay, they stand far taller than a person, and are thick enough to withstand serious force. (Admittedly, major sections of the walls have been restored.) Clearly, the people who built this fortress did not want to take any chances. But who were they? Archaeologists are not entirely sure. The fortress seems to have been built sometime around 500 BCE by the Celtic inhabitants. Its name may refer to a god from Irish mythology. That is about as much as we know.

Today, it is impressive more for its setting than for anything it can tell us about prehistoric Ireland. Hanging precipitously from a cliffside, the fortress suggests a people who were surrounded by enemies, who lived with their backs to the wall. The day we visited was fairly mild. Even so, the Atlantic looked brooding and dangerous in the distance, an angry infinity waiting to swallow up this floating bit of rock. It must have been an exceptionally hard life.

The other major historical site on the island are the Seven Churches. This is a somewhat misleading name, as there are only two churches at the site, and they are both in ruins. Our guide told us that they were “early Christian” structures, though he couldn’t offer much in the way of specifics, aside from mentioning that they used to be important destinations for pilgrims. The dilapidated and unused churches are surrounded by a still-active graveyard, which gives the place a rather spooky air.

The last attraction on our tour was a small group of seals. Wildlife abounds in West Ireland—its waters home to whales and dolphins, its skies full of sea birds, and its land covered with red deer—and Inishmore is no exception to this rule. A small seal colony shares the island with its human inhabitants, and provides a whimsical sight for the tourists.

Notice the seals.

After around three hours, our guide deposited us back at Cill Rónáin, where we had some good Irish food and a few cold beers. Then, it was time for the ferry ride back to the mainland. That night in Galway, surrounded once again by the hordes of freshers, the island of Inishmore had a sort of dreamlike quality to it—a place trapped in time, preserving a piece of old Ireland so that these young people could one day, too, come to enjoy it. Now that my friend Durso is somewhat older, I’m sure that he would love it even more than he loved Galway.