Rock of ages – An Irishman’s Diary on being a tour guide

From Philadelphia, they came puffing up the hill – a portly, middle-aged group clad mostly in shorts, green sweaters and plastic jackets. After declaring himself “just beat from the climb”, their leader inquired why Ireland’s premier attraction was so inaccessible. “Visitor centres stateside are always designed with access in mind.” I ventured something about the advantages of a hilltop location when Vikings were lurking on the plains below, but he wasn’t listening and suggested a shuttle from the bus park would have been “just swell”.

Then we were off on my initial outing as a tour guide on the Rock of Cashel. I talked of Hiberno-Romanesque architecture, high Gothic cathedrals and stout medieval castles. They wanted to know why Irish children wore school uniforms, when the British were going to get out of Ireland and where the rock of Cashel itself was “actually showing”. When I struggled to provide coherent answers, I felt myself losing them. They listened politely to the tour but at the end I knew they were disappointed.

Promising

And it had all seemed so promising when I got a call offering me seasonal employment as tour guide. An image instantly came to mind of an indolent summer hanging out on Ireland’s most exalted visitor attraction. Masquerading as an expert on Irish history, I would meet all the college girls a young man could dream of, and at the end of the week get paid for having a good time. Maybe, deep down, I knew such fantasies were unrealistic, but my first tour wasn’t the departure point I’d expected either.

In time I got better. I came to realise that European visitors liked unblemished facts. “Yes, the round tower is very pretty, but you will explain exactly what it was for.” Actually, I wasn’t sure either, but gradually I became better at disguising such gaps in my knowledge.

For those from across the Atlantic, it wasn’t facts but stories that counted. My salvation on many an otherwise unprepossessing tour came in the unlikely form of one Archbishop Miler Magrath – a character who today would make a tabloid editor’s dream. A long-lived and pluralist Franciscan he managed to rule simultaneously over the Protestant diocese of Cashel and the Catholic diocese of Down.

The adroit Miler was probably not that excessive by the double-dealing standards of Tudor times, but somewhere along the way he earned the sobriquet “scoundrel of Cashel”. And so, as the convenient local fall guy, he proved an invaluable asset. Standing beside his tomb, it was easy to exploit his unconventional episcopal lifestyle, especially if awkward facts weren’t allowed interfere unduly with the narrative. Accounts of his legendary fecundity, embellished to feature 10 concubines and 20 offspring, were always guaranteed to raise a laugh on an otherwise rather solemn historical odyssey.

I recently revisited the Rock of Cashel. Immediately noticeable was how busy the place had become. In my time there, during the early 1980s, the place got about 80,000 annual visits – now the figure is over 300,000. Otherwise things hadn’t changed much. The reception area was the same and is now obviously far too restricted to accommodate the visitor numbers. Scaffolding shrouded Cormac’s Chapel, as it had over 30 years ago, while burials were clearly still taking place in this most unsuitable of cemeteries.

I decided to join in with a guided tour as they headed for Cormac’s Chapel. A wellspring of knowledge on this beautifully proportioned little chapel, our guide came up with several facts I had either never known or forgotten. Next was the great skeletal ruin of the Gothic cathedral, where he explained that its unusual proportions arose from the need for delicate shoehorning to fit a restricted, hilltop location. This was news to me and I guess would also be news to anyone who came on one of my tours over three decades ago.

One thing I did notice, however; the tour guides on the Rock of Cashel were now at a disadvantage. Scaffolding overflowing from Cormac’s Chapel completely filled the nave, denying access to the cathedral’s high altar and the tomb of Miler Magrath.

So, would the old scoundrel get a mention? Too compelling to ignore, the answer was a firm yes. Disappointingly, the concubines had disappeared from the archbishop’s colourful life story, although still remained by implication. Miler had obviously been busy since my 1980s sojourn on the Rock; the offspring count had expanded to 47 with “only nine of these being with his wife”.