Ireland: Day 6 – Blarney, Cork, and Cashel

I began the day writing my blog in bed while waiting for the opening times of the places I wanted to visit. At nine, I arrived by Blarney Castle; or rather, I arrived at a nearby street and parked the car on the side because I completely missed the giant parking lot in front of the castle. Due to this little mishap, I walked into the grounds a few minutes past nine, a negligible difference in all other circumstances, but not at Blarney.

As early as nine, there was already a queue for tickets, and once I entered, I saw many tourists rushing towards the castle. I tend to walk quite quickly, but even so I took my time to look around, read information boards, and take pictures. I realised my error as soon as I approached the entrance to the castle. A long queue had already formed, winding its way from the very roof of the castle down the spiral staircase and past multiple rooms and halls to the castle’s front door. Of course, I did not know how long the queue was when I joined it, and by the time I came to regret my decision, I was already too deep in.

From what I could tell, almost everyone in the queue was from the US and hyper-informed about Blarney Castle. They knew not only that they had to make a mad dash for the castle as soon as the gates opened, but also how many stairs lead up to the Blarney Stone and what the exact procedure for kissing it is. To my surprise (and clearly to no one else’s), I found out that the stone is not just some big rock sitting in the garden. In fact, it is embedded in the walls of the castle so seamlessly that it can barely be distinguished from the stonework around it.

It was bizarre, amusing, and unsettling at once to see the procession of visitors approach the Blarney Stone one by one. They were mechanically received by two museum workers, one of whom helped the visitors get on their backs while the other pushed a button to make the shutter go off on the fixed camera. Holding on to metal bars on both sides, the tourists would kiss the stone from underneath, that is, lying upside down, after which they would unceremoniously clamber up, their grunting proportional to their excess body weight. Every now and then, one of the workers would spray a little disinfectant on a towel and wipe down the rock of all the slobber.

The spectacle was a little too much for me, and when my time came up, I excused myself from the whole exercise and skipped out. I might have said that the wait was a waste of time, but I think waiting in line for the Blarney Stone and not kissing it is a far more unique experience than anyone else had that day. Besides, I don’t really believe it is the pillow of Job or Jacob, and the Hill of Tara has an equally compelling claim to owning the Stone of Destiny.

Feeling a little pressed for time, I did not dilly-dally in the castle grounds. I took a brief look at the somewhat unimpressive Poison Garden and the eccentric Blarney Castle House, after which I walked through the grounds trying to find the exit. I reflected on the simultaneous brilliance and nefariousness of Blarney’s marketing strategy: part of what generates its broad appeal is its blurring of lines between fact and fiction, not just around the legend of the Blarney Stone, but also regarding even more questionable artefacts like the “Sacrificial Altar” and the “Druid’s Circle.” Not without reason did one of the American tourists call Blarney an Irish Disneyland – though perhaps this was meant as a compliment.

Blarney is just a few minutes outside Cork, and it was Cork that I planned to visit next. Coming in from the north, I found a place to park the car near Saint Anne’s Church. The building is practically a symbol of Cork for its iconic multi-tiered roof and its prominent clocks. Since I could not figure out whether my parking was legal or not, I did not stay long but continued to the city centre, where I was lucky enough to find an entire paid parking lot.

I found Cork to be a prettier city than I expected. The bridge I walked over had a particularly beautiful view of the Cathedral, which I visited just after buying some juice and stopping by Elizabeth Fort (I bought juice because I did not refill my water bottle; all the water in Cork tastes exceedingly strange). At the fort, I learned about the town’s truly global history. The fort was built during the reign of Elizabeth I to defend against a possible Spanish assault on the British Isles. Later, Cork served as a stopover for convicts on their way to Australia. It is estimated that around 10 per cent of Australia’s population has Irish ancestry.

After driving farther east, I ate lunch at the Blackrock Castle Observatory. I did not visit the interior, as the advertisements made it look like an experience intended for children. However, the towers looked quite nice from the outside and I spent a while taking pictures of them from different angles.

My final stop for the day, before arriving at my accommodation near Kilkenny, was Cashel. Or, to put it more accurately, my penultimate stop was at a gas station in Cashel and my final stop was at the parking lot under the Rock of Cashel. Once again, I had left refuelling to the very last minute and was more than relieved to find a gas station just before reaching the castle. Upon arriving at the ticket office, I was asked whether I wanted the general admission or a tour that would include the otherwise inaccessible Cormac’s Chapel. The name seemed to ring a bell, so I decided to opt in, paying a few extra euros for the service.

I was glad I joined the tour and not just because I got to see the inside of Cormac’s Chapel; the guide covered a lot of very interesting history. According to legend, the castle bore witness to some of Saint Patrick’s evangelical work. When the saint came to baptise the local ruler, he stuck his staff in the ground and accidentally drove it straight through the king’s foot. Believing this to be part of the ritual, the king said nothing, and was later reputed to be a man of great fortitude. Also interesting was the story of Cormac’s Chapel: the castle switched owners multiple times, and changed hands between the O’Briens and McCarthys more than once. In a spiteful move, the O’Briens decided to build the cathedral right next to Cormac’s Chapel built by the McCarthys, making it inaccessible from the main entrance and forcing visitors to enter through the less glamorous side door.

Somewhat less light-hearted was the story of Cashel’s sacking by Parliamentarian troops in 1647. The conquering Murrough O’Brien ordered his men to storm the cathedral, where the town’s population took refuge, and massacred almost everyone inside. The only people who escaped the carnage were women found free of any traces of gunpowder. The clergy and soldiers who had hidden on an upper floor were promised clemency but were executed as soon as they came down.