Legendary tales and stunning scenery give this Co Louth village its unique appeal, writes EMMA SOMERS
WRAPPED IN a coat with the tog count of a summer quilt, shivering over a picnic of tuna sandwiches and Tayto, it was easy to understand the Long Woman’s disappointment. Legend has it the 7ft Spanish wife of Conn O Hanlon, ironically unaccustomed to tall tales as she was, died when she returned to Carlingford and realised her new husband had exaggerated his wealth.
“I own the land as far as you can see,” he boasted. Alas, he could see no more than a few yards from the hollow in the mountains at Aenagh. Poor Cauthleen dropped dead with disappointment and Conn flung himself off the nearest height, leaving the locals to bury his wife, using rocks to raise her burial cairn.
That was then. Today, the spot is marked with a neat wall and picnic tables made of rock and an informative plaque detailing the plight of the luckless lovers. There’s something about the modern approach to tourism (if you label it, they will come) that jars with the wonderful and preposterous legends of fadó fadó.
In my late grandfather-in-law’s day, legend has it he would on a sunny day round up the ladies of the office where he worked as a clerk and whisk them off to the Long Woman’s Grave. Back then it was a grassier, more ramshackle affair, and all the better for it no doubt.
Legends aside, the scenery beyond in the Cooley Mountains is stunning. As is so much of the landscape around Carlingford Lough. And you can enjoy it every which way. Arriving the night before, a Friday evening, the village of Carlingford is all bustle: road runners at various stages of distress and elation; cyclists flushed from a day in the saddle; water enthusiasts padding about in wetsuits; stags spruced up and thirsty for a pint.
At Ghan House, just yards away from all the action, there is quiet. Norah Jones strums a gentle welcome from the CD player in the corner of the bedroom; outside the window a felled tree beats an impressive path through the herb garden.
Back in the main house, the fire is lit and the Smithwicks is delicious. We have the bar to ourselves as we negotiate the dinner menu. In the delicately lit dining room upstairs, we pass the evening like two people who’d never seen food. “Jesus, what have they done with the tomatoes? How do they do that?”
The next morning, it’s off to Ravensdale Lodge for horse- trekking in the forests of the Cooley Mountains. Niall Connolly is a great man for the chat and fills us in on all we need to know before sending us off with our instructor, Jo from Cornwall.
“Imagine you’re driving a car,” says Jo. It’s the second time I’ve heard the analogy that morning and it doesn’t bode well for someone who, two days earlier, missed the (two-year) deadline for converting a theory test into a provisional licence. Sage, my valiant steed, proves at least as lazy as the beginner on his back and we have a sleepy enough jaunt around the forest, stopping now and again to take in the stunning views.
Sailing awaits us in the afternoon. At the marina, a man asks: "Are you looking for Michael Caine?" The question flummoxes us a moment; turns out – unlike the actor – it's his real name. And there's something of the cheeky chappy about this Michael Caine, too. He takes us out on the Beaufort Endeavourwhere he is midway through a five-day sailing course.
It’s windy on the lough and it makes for an eventful day’s sailing. The crew get plenty of hands-on experience and seem easy with one another after a few days on the water with Michael, who combines hands-on training with a steady stream of gags and interesting facts.
After Guinness and oysters in PJ O'Hare's, we go from sea legs to four legs that night at the dog track in Dundalk Stadium. A fine steak and chips in the upstairs restaurant sets us up nicely for an evening's racing. A win on Drumnabeys Ellieat the night's end pays for the taxi back to Carlingford.
Sunday quickly turns into a day of nostalgia: first stop, Crystal Antiques on Dundalk Street. On a previous visit to this hoarder’s wonderland, we picked up a pump organ from the 1800s and an art deco cabinet, with a free taxi horn thrown in for good measure.
This time around, the larger pieces have given way to more pictures, lamps, tea sets, albums, jewellery – the smaller items that cost less. It seems fair enough for the times that are in it and even at that, you’ll not leave without haggling. “Five euro is the best I can do you for that,” we’re told, unbidden, as we pay for an €8 LP.
On the road home, a sign for Gyles Quay brings back memories from childhood daytrips (my husband’s, not mine). A mile down the road, caravans and mobile homes overlook a pebble beach dotted with families enjoying the seaside, a few braving the chilly waters. Serviced by the lone Fitzpatrick’s Bar Restaurant (and shop), it’s all very charming.
Before leaving the shadow of the Cooley Mountains, there’s time for one last stop: the Magic Hill. Some people call it the “magnetic hill”, but what do they know? Park your car halfway up the hill, release the handbrake and yes, you will roll up the hill. Sure Father Ted himself couldn’t make it up.