And on the battle lines they fell,
fallen trees to rot, to ground,
against the others standing tall,
to follow soon enough,
the landscape of man’s fall.
Showing posts with label Piperstown. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Piperstown. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Monday, January 31, 2011
Walking/Photo Journal - The Naming of Piperstown
Folklore has it that Piperstown was originally part of a larger district called Montpelier, and that about 600 years ago, a famous Irish Piper named Cornon came to live here. On summer evenings, Cornan would sit and play his pipes on the large granite stone (which is visible in the top right of this picture) for the local dances. Hence The Pipers Stone. Cornan was very popular and he lived in a small village on the lower side of the road. As time went on, people often referred to this village as Piperstown, and Piperstown it still is.
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| Piperstown Bridge |
Folklore has it that Piperstown was originally part of a larger district called Montpelier, and that about 600 years ago, a famous Irish Piper named Cornon came to live here. On summer evenings, Cornan would sit and play his pipes on the large granite stone (which is visible in the top right of this picture) for the local dances. Hence The Pipers Stone. Cornan was very popular and he lived in a small village on the lower side of the road. As time went on, people often referred to this village as Piperstown, and Piperstown it still is.
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| The Piper's Stone |
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Walking Photo Journal - Maurice of the Mountain - 100th Post
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| Maurice Collins |
I was thinking about my 100th blog post, and to be honest, I couldn't decide what I would do for this momentous event! So with no idea in my head, I went on my daily walk, and then I found the most brilliant inspiration.
The man in the photograph is Maurice Collins, he is 94 and he walks the mountain everyday, sometimes 2-3 times. He is a great man and apart from a little difficulty of hearing at times, and arthritis in the knee, he is probably healthier than myself.
It is great to talk to Maurice, because like the mountains he has been around for a very long time. We spoke today about the bit of frost in the air, and the snow of 1947 when there were 40ft snowdrifts, we also spoke about the people, the new ones, those that have been here for only about 20 years!
Maurice got married at the age of 45. His mother he says was a very good woman, and it didn't seem right to bring another woman into the house. But when Maurice did get married, he was blessed with 5 children.
As we walked down the mountain together, every now and then, he would throw a eye to his son's cattle, or wave to the odd mountain driver.
I asked him what his secret was, was it healthy living? He lived a hard life, he told me, but usually had enough to get by. Times could be tough, but you just had to get on with it. He misses being able to drive his car, but he misses driving his horse and cart more, despite often getting soaked through, often 3 or 4 times a day, hence the arthritis.
Maurice remembers a time when Fridays was the day that folk, including his mother and father would travel into town, Camden Street, and sell eggs or buy seeds from Bolands. They would make a day of it, he told me.
The only time Maurice left Ireland, was when he went to London for his honeymoon. He has a sister in America, a member of the Sisters of Mercy I think. When he talks about London and America, you just know that he has no call to worry about either, his world is his life on the mountain, and there isn't an ounce of regret that this is the case.
I enjoy talking to Maurice, he has a good outlook on life, and a gentleman for sure. He loves everything about the mountain, and takes life as it comes with an appreciation that tomorrow is promised to no one.
We left each other at the corner of Piperstown Lane, both going our separate ways for a cup of tea to bring warmth back after the chill of the mountain air.
I am sure I will write about Maurice again, he is just one of those folk that always brings something new to the conversation, but for now, thanks Maurice for my 100th post!
Monday, January 24, 2011
Walking/Photo Journal - Waiting for Spring
Dull, cold day, Spring will hopefully be here soon.
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| Dry stone wall near bridge at Piperstown |
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Walking/Photo Journal - Derelict Cottage Piperstown
One of the first things that struck me about living in the Dublin Mountains was the sense that so much about these surroundings were here long before any of us were born, and will remain long after we are all gone. But there are elements that are not so safe, and one of those is the numerous derelict buildings that still remain from times past.
When we came upon our own piece of derelict structure eleven years ago, we felt a connection not just to the land, but to the house itself. It was in a very sorry state, most of our friends thought us mad, and indeed over the seven years that it took us to get approval for refurbishing the cottage, we did at times agree with them.
Anyhow like all good stories, it had a happy ending, but there were stories about the house, that went beyond the known historical tales attached to it, like the bold Robert Emmet and the Kearney's, both already written into country and local history. No there was another story to be told, one that we heard much later.
The first time I got a hint of it, we had steel scaffolding up through the belly of the cottage and the daughter of a neighbour, (she was probably about eleven at the time) told me how she used to look up at our house from her Granddad's (Maurice Collins) place, and dream about one day living here, fixing the house up, for it was indeed a house that when you looked up at it from the lower levels of the valley, looked like something out of a childhood fairytale. Later still, others too came and visited, and each recounted their own tales of the cottage, whether it was playing in it as a child, or revisiting it in later years, and each time they spoke, there was something special from memory in the house for each of them.
Maybe it was because of the history of the place that locals were drawn to it, they too sensing something that went beyond their own years on earth, but somehow our little cottage became part of what this beautiful part of Dublin represents, not just the landscape, but the people and the houses that they once called 'home'.
When I am out walking and I look at the derelict cottages, I think of the people that used to live in them, the ones that are no longer here, and the ones living, that remember these old buildings as part of their family history, for they are as important an element of this place as the hedgerow and the forests, and if we are not careful, we could lose them and their stories for good.
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| Derelict Cottage - Piperstown |
One of the first things that struck me about living in the Dublin Mountains was the sense that so much about these surroundings were here long before any of us were born, and will remain long after we are all gone. But there are elements that are not so safe, and one of those is the numerous derelict buildings that still remain from times past.
When we came upon our own piece of derelict structure eleven years ago, we felt a connection not just to the land, but to the house itself. It was in a very sorry state, most of our friends thought us mad, and indeed over the seven years that it took us to get approval for refurbishing the cottage, we did at times agree with them.
Anyhow like all good stories, it had a happy ending, but there were stories about the house, that went beyond the known historical tales attached to it, like the bold Robert Emmet and the Kearney's, both already written into country and local history. No there was another story to be told, one that we heard much later.
The first time I got a hint of it, we had steel scaffolding up through the belly of the cottage and the daughter of a neighbour, (she was probably about eleven at the time) told me how she used to look up at our house from her Granddad's (Maurice Collins) place, and dream about one day living here, fixing the house up, for it was indeed a house that when you looked up at it from the lower levels of the valley, looked like something out of a childhood fairytale. Later still, others too came and visited, and each recounted their own tales of the cottage, whether it was playing in it as a child, or revisiting it in later years, and each time they spoke, there was something special from memory in the house for each of them.
Maybe it was because of the history of the place that locals were drawn to it, they too sensing something that went beyond their own years on earth, but somehow our little cottage became part of what this beautiful part of Dublin represents, not just the landscape, but the people and the houses that they once called 'home'.
When I am out walking and I look at the derelict cottages, I think of the people that used to live in them, the ones that are no longer here, and the ones living, that remember these old buildings as part of their family history, for they are as important an element of this place as the hedgerow and the forests, and if we are not careful, we could lose them and their stories for good.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Walking/Photo Journal - Tips of forest on Mountpelier Hill
From the top of the hill, the forest peeks up to the blue sky at the Piperstown Gap.
Friday, January 21, 2011
Walking/Photo Journal - Icicles Mountain Stream
I love the look and sound of water, there is something tremendously energising about it.
But it was a cold walk this morning, as the icicles below on this mountain stream can testify.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Walking/Photo Journal - Bohernabreena Road - The Real Story
The Bohernabreena Road or as it was originally known 'Bóthar na Bruineas' or it's english translation 'the road to the hostel', is believed to be the road to one of the most famous houses of hospitality, the site of Da Dearga's hostel. The destruction of Da Deargas hostel has become one of the local myths.
During the reign of Conaire, peace and prosperity reigned: however, that was soon to come to an end. His fostersons, the sons of Donn Deasa, formed a robber band that stole pigs and cattle. They did this to see what harm they could do the king and what punishment he would mete out to them. They then got Conaire's sons to join them. All of them were captured and brought before Conaire who banished them, and they were forced to leave Ireland.
While in exile they met Ingsel the One-eyed, who was also in exile. Ingcel Caech was the son of the Britons. Ingcel listened with great interest to the foster brothers of Conaire Mor when they talked of Ireland: and he saw in that land a great prize of riches.
He asked the brothers help in raiding Ireland. They gathered together an army and landed on the Dublin coast near Howth.
At the same time Conaire had gone to the south of Ireland to settle a dispute. On his way back to Tara he decided to rest for the night. He visited his old friend, Da Dearga, at his hostel in Glenasmole: Da Dearga received him with great festivities.
The hostel lay so that the Dodder flowed through it. There were several doorways in it but only one door. This was placed in whichever doorway the wind blew upon Da Dearga.
Ingcel and his followers kept watch on the hostel. They realised that Conaire was inside. The Hostel was full of warriors, musicians playing and jugglers doing wonderful feats; and Da Dearga with his servants giving out food and wine. Ingcel then marched to the attack and surrounded the hostel.
The great struggle began. The Hostel was set on fire, but the fire was put out. Conaire and his men sallied forth - hundreds were killed. Once again the enemy attacked, the Hostel was once again set alight. Three times the Hostel was set on fire and three times the flames were put out using the waters of the Dodder and all the wine in the house.
Ingcel asked one of his Druids to cast a spell on Conaire. The druid makes Conaire very thirsty. Conaire has done a lot of fighting but he can fight no more till he gets a drink. He begged for water, but it is all gone putting out the fire.
One of his servants, Mac Cecht, leaves to seek out water for his king. Mac Cecht travelled all over Ireland looking for water, while the battle raged on, and Conaire was still dying of thirst. At last Mac Cecht finds a lake, Loch Gara in Roscommon, where he fills the King's golden cup.
When he returned to the hostel, he found the defenders all dead or fled, and two of the attackers cutting of Conaire's head. He killed them and poured water into Conaire's headless neck.
The severed head thanked him for his good deed and then died. The hostel was destroyed.
(Gives dying for a drink a whole new meaning!)
BUT THE ROAD IS STILL THERE AND THE OFTEN HEADLESS 120 SOCKS GOT UP AND DOWN IT TODAY!!
The Hostel Under Attack
(Extract from Myths and Legends of South County Dublin)
During the reign of Conaire, peace and prosperity reigned: however, that was soon to come to an end. His fostersons, the sons of Donn Deasa, formed a robber band that stole pigs and cattle. They did this to see what harm they could do the king and what punishment he would mete out to them. They then got Conaire's sons to join them. All of them were captured and brought before Conaire who banished them, and they were forced to leave Ireland.
While in exile they met Ingsel the One-eyed, who was also in exile. Ingcel Caech was the son of the Britons. Ingcel listened with great interest to the foster brothers of Conaire Mor when they talked of Ireland: and he saw in that land a great prize of riches.
He asked the brothers help in raiding Ireland. They gathered together an army and landed on the Dublin coast near Howth.
At the same time Conaire had gone to the south of Ireland to settle a dispute. On his way back to Tara he decided to rest for the night. He visited his old friend, Da Dearga, at his hostel in Glenasmole: Da Dearga received him with great festivities.
The hostel lay so that the Dodder flowed through it. There were several doorways in it but only one door. This was placed in whichever doorway the wind blew upon Da Dearga.
Ingcel and his followers kept watch on the hostel. They realised that Conaire was inside. The Hostel was full of warriors, musicians playing and jugglers doing wonderful feats; and Da Dearga with his servants giving out food and wine. Ingcel then marched to the attack and surrounded the hostel.
The great struggle began. The Hostel was set on fire, but the fire was put out. Conaire and his men sallied forth - hundreds were killed. Once again the enemy attacked, the Hostel was once again set alight. Three times the Hostel was set on fire and three times the flames were put out using the waters of the Dodder and all the wine in the house.
Ingcel asked one of his Druids to cast a spell on Conaire. The druid makes Conaire very thirsty. Conaire has done a lot of fighting but he can fight no more till he gets a drink. He begged for water, but it is all gone putting out the fire.
One of his servants, Mac Cecht, leaves to seek out water for his king. Mac Cecht travelled all over Ireland looking for water, while the battle raged on, and Conaire was still dying of thirst. At last Mac Cecht finds a lake, Loch Gara in Roscommon, where he fills the King's golden cup.
When he returned to the hostel, he found the defenders all dead or fled, and two of the attackers cutting of Conaire's head. He killed them and poured water into Conaire's headless neck.
The severed head thanked him for his good deed and then died. The hostel was destroyed.
(Gives dying for a drink a whole new meaning!)
BUT THE ROAD IS STILL THERE AND THE OFTEN HEADLESS 120 SOCKS GOT UP AND DOWN IT TODAY!!
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Walking/Photo Journal - Early Morning Frost Piperstown
Early morning frost Piperstown. Who can control the impulse to write at times?
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| Frost Piperstown |
Early morning frost underfoot,
you can smell the land,
ground twists of turf and moss-coated rock,
pulsating from this jagged place.
Like a seasoned seductress,
leisurely undressing by the light of day,
and always the bird song,
falling like drops of rain.
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