October 23, 1998

Near Ballyferriter
Dingle Peninsula

The clouds part and we drive to towards the Minard Castle.   A beehive directs us towards a beehive hut.   A clochan is a dry-stone (no mortar) beehive-shaped structure from the early Christian period. A rail-thin and boisterous cat invites himself to join us. The huts are clustered like barnacles on mounds of earth overlooking the sea.  They are mostly roofless. 

Driving down the Slea Head Road is busy and treacherous. Every passing car is surely a tourist because the driver attempts to pass in the middle of the road.   Then there is a sign that is larger than the Beehive sign: PREHISTORIC FORT. 500BC.   The brakes slam and as we cross the road there is a little hut with a small woman sitting in it and a sign that reads: FORT 1 POUND. The Fort Lady says, "isn’t it a beautiful day" and Rich says, "when the sun comes out, we leave our cottage" and we launch into a conversation about Clogher and the weather. It’s Autumn. The Fort Lady says, "It’s quieting down now, we can walk on the road again".

The Dunbeg Fort is serenaded by a babbling brook and the mastication of grass. It stands on a cliffedge and half of it has fallen into Dingle Bay already. In the centre is a large Beehive with a round outside and a rectangular inside. One of the doorways is supported by a wooden armature.  These forts were used as refuges and sometimes as living quarters.  Layers of inhabitants are unearthed by archeologists.  A fire pit, animal bones, drainage, tunnels.

The road to the Minard Castle s turns into a bumpy sheep infested mudslick. But the road is worth it. Drive down the road and you come to a little hill. Straight ahead of you is a roofless five story, 15^th century stone castle towering on a cliffside with a crashing beach below. The sky opens. The castle is bathed in a glaring light. What makes it most dramatic is that it is just about to topple over. It has been in dangerous condition since it’s destruction by Cromwellian forces in the 17^th century. It’s foundation narrows with erosion and its sky-high walls are hanging on by a thread of wires tied around it like a turkey.

We park beside a little red hatchback but can see no other castle lookey-loos. Then there is a yelping scream and down on the beach is a woman in an old-fashioned undergarment, splashing waste-high in the crashing surf. She is laughing with invigoration. Standing  ankle-deep is her fully naked partner.

We trod up the muddy slope towards the Crumbling Presence. We have a brief discussion about the naked lunatics and then spot a sign posted directly on the side of the castle: DANGER. UNSAFE STRUCTURE. STAY AWAY. With the clouds moving and the wind blowing and the surf crashing it looks as though our days are up and the unsafe structure is falling towards us. Rich moseys up the hill a bit and finds a gate at the back of the slope. On the gate there is a new sign.

DANGER: IF YOU PASS THIS GATE YOU ARE ON SOMEONE’S PREMISES AND IN ACCORDANCE WITH THE PREMISES CODE THE OWNER OF THIS PREMISES IS NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR ANY DANGER.

There is a spraypainted flock of sheep munching in the shadow of the great crumbling Danger. Rich walks through the gate and says, "if it didn’t blow down in the last two days with all of that wind it won’t blow down today". (The gate is open). We follow a well-worn path not too encrusted with sheep excrement and walk to the edge of the cliff. It provides an excellent view of the surrounding patchwork fields, the roaring beach and the nudists who are now hopping into their pants.

We are referring to a guide Rich has picked up in an all-Irish subject-matter bookshop in Dingle. The book is called The Motorists Guide to the Dingle Peninsula (Archeological Sites and Monuments). The book tells us to continue up the road a bit and we will come to Saint John’s Well, a headache and toothache remedy. The Saint John’s Well path has been groomed and graveled for the pilgrims. There are cups at the well for drinking and a neatly manicured U of turf surrounding the pool of water. there is an  annual pilgrimage is on the 29^th of August, but  the numbers attending continue to decline.

We are on the road to the end of our ordinance map. We weave the winding road and there is a pack of sheep in the middle of it. We know how the farmer herds his sheep. He gets his dog to walk along the road with the sheep and drives his car behind them. The sheep don’t like the car and he can chase them at 20 km/hour down the road as far as he likes. There are a few laybys where the sheep can get off the road and we can pass. But the sheep won’t get off the road. They just keep trotting, with anxious expressions. When Rich revs the engine they speed up, but do not move from the centre of the road. Rich has a plan. "I’ll pull over and you get out and heard them into the layby and then I will pass them." I think this is a fine idea but the sheep anxiety is getting to me. I say, "what’s the rush? Just let them settle down a bit". Then Rich gets anxious and says we will drive the sheep all the way to Anascaul and then we will have to sell them and I say that every farmer at the market will know that those blue and pink spraypainted sheep are not our sheep. Rich is tired of the sheep parade. I am having a fit of anxiety worrying about sheep carcasses under Alfi. Suddenly one of the sheep stops and turns in the opposite direction. He is tired of the sheep parade. His friends follow and soon our path is sheep free and they are back to their chewing on the side of the road. "We have probably done the farmer a favour and brought them half-way home".

Anascaul is the end of our ordinance map.   We take the main road back through Dingle and pass the Alfi repair garage on the way. I think that Torry and the fellow who fixed Alfi must be happy to see Alfi pass the garage with all five gears.

Saraphina Mosey - Inspiration for exploring life.
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