There’s no better beach in Ireland, he said, than the white sands of Derrynane.
It was a wet day; that damp wet that is so singularly Irish. It wasn’t really raining, not enough for an umbrella, if we’d had an umbrella. Instead, it was an all-encompassing mist that infused the damp into your bones.
We headed towards the far end of the beach, towards Abbey Island and the ruins of Ahamore Abbey. I wanted to see the cemetery, accessible only when the tide is out. Many a coffin has had to be shouldered across the sands.
Before we got there, I turned to look back. It was stunning.
For a wet, grey April day, the colours were popping. Mossy-backed rocks, wet sands, and seaweed all contributed to the palette.
On a dry winter’s day, the place would be as close to heaven as you might get in this part of the world. I’d think this particular thought many times in the coming days – they don’t call Kerry the Kingdom for nothing.
Derrynane’s main claim to fame in the annals of Irish history is that it’s where The Liberator, Daniel O’Connell (1775-1847), spent a lot of his time. A native of Cahirsiveen, he inherited Derrynane House from his uncle and came here to get away from righting Ireland’s political wrongs.
I was reminded of O’Connell when US President Obama campaigned a good few years ago. The media suggested he was particularly innovative by targeting small donors and funding his campaign with small money. This is something O’Connell did when he was funding his campaign for Catholic Emancipation in 1823. He set up the Catholic Association where members paid a monthly subscription of 1 penny.
Later, with his monster meetings, O’Connell set the stage for today’s political rallies and fundraising dinners:
Holding a mammoth repeal gathering involved more than merely bringing a crowd of people to a large field where O’Connell and others regaled them with stirring oratory. Almost every meeting commenced with a grand parade, usually a few miles in length and composed of brass bands, floats, and carts, trade and fraternal bodies and thousands of local residents on foot or horseback. These processions marched out from a city or town en masse to greet O’Connell and escort him back through gaily decorated streets to a convenient open area for the second part of the proceedings which centred upon the speeches. Finally came an evening banquet for O’Connell and a few hundred paying guests in a local hall or specially-built pavilion.
The house itself isn’t particularly imposing; there’s a modesty to it that was striking. Although each piece of furniture was intricate, the overall effect was almost sedate.
The chair and footstool were carved from the same oak tree, with the motto Ciall agus Neart (Wisdom and Strength) carved into the back. It’s a beautiful piece of work.
The Loo table takes centre place in the drawing room. It’s a card table for a historic card game, which originated in France and was popular from the 1600s to the 1800s. The legs are carved from a single piece of oak, the detail exquisite. I might try my hand at this, the next time we have card-playing visitors.
My favourite spot was the church.
I love the idea of houses with large households having private chapels. I’m in the process of converting an old shed into my own kapolna. It won’t be anywhere as big or nearly as grand but it will be special nonetheless.
Probably the most striking piece on display is the Triumphal Chariot, presented to O’Connell by the people of Dublin on his release from Richmond Prison in 1844. Three years later, it would headline his funeral procession to Glasnevin Cemetery.
The talking point, though, was his deathbed. It looks nothing like the many depictions of O’Connell as he lay on the brink of passing over in the Italian city of Genoa. I had completely forgotten that he died in Italy and am kicking myself that I didn’t do more to check that out when I was in the city in 2023. What a lovely gesture – to return to bed to Derrynane.
O’Connell loved the place. In his words:
This is the wildest and most stupendous scenery of nature – and I enjoy residence here with the most exquisite relish… I am in truth fascinated by this spot: and did not my duty call me elsewhere, I should bury myself alive here.
Were I to win the lottery, this is where I’d choose to live (in the off-season). I’d choose somewhere within sight of the beach at Derrynane. As a neighbour, I’d be able to wander the gardens of Derrynane House. I could happily spend my days in the cemetery, on a bench I’ve already picked out, overlooking the Wild Atlantic Way, beside a headstone with the family name, Dwyer. How appropriate.
If you’re interested, the Irish Road Trip has more on Irish beaches. And there’s always the online tour of Derrynane House.
For me, next time I’m down that way, I want to take a seaweed discovery walk and tasting with Atlantic Irish Seaweed. If ever I needed a reason to go back, this is it.
Heading back towards Kenmare, we stopped in Caherdaniel, at the highly recommended Blind Piper pub. Just inside the door, I spotted a copy of a painting by Joseph Haverty of another blind piper, Patrick O’Brien, from Co. Kildare. Himself brought a lithograph of it with him when he moved over and has it hanging in his office.
I asked the bartender if the pub was named after O’Brien but it isn’t. It’s named after uilleann piper Mici Cumba O’Sullivan, who became partially blind while living in the States.
As he checked to see how our seafood chowder was going down, he mentioned that many blind people became musicians back in the day.
In the 17th Century, employment opportunities for blind people were far more limited than they are even today. In Ireland, a novel solution was developed which was enabled by the very nature of Irish folk music. Music was considered one of the few viable professions for a blind Irish person. This was possible because Ireland’s is primarily an oral music tradition. Irish folk music is passed down, not by sheet music, but by practical one-to-one oral learning. Eventually, sheet music became a tool for preserving the bare skeleton form of Irish folk music, yet still, the majority of those who learn the music do so by ear. Indeed, that is the only way to fully grasp the hidden complexity of a music that cannot be truly expressed in notation, like Western classical music is.
It’s sad to think that in the 1960s, only a handful of people in Ireland knew how to make the uilleann pipes. A group of dedicated saviours reversed this trend and the sound lives on. As Donal Nolan, writing for the Irish Independent, describes it, it’s a sound buried deep in the Irish heart.
I wonder if they’re difficult to learn…
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