DAVID SMITHis impressed by the sense of freedom he experiences on a visit to the west Cork town
DRIVE DOWN the N71 in daylight and you will feel a lightening of spirit as you descend into Clonakilty in Co Cork. The dense, coastal vegetation rushes by on either side and the smell of the sea seeps in. Reach the first roundabout and you may have to wait for the train from the Model Railway Village to pass before you continue on.
To your left Clonakilty Bay begins its broad, languid quest for the sea. Second right and you are on Pearse Street (the main street), where everything screams coastal town: the brightly coloured, independent shopfronts, the sprinkling of galleries and studios, the couples, clad in pastel colours and sandals, ambling down the drag. In the air is an unmistakeable ambience – that of seaside bohemia.
Helen, an artist friend, moved to Clonakilty not only to escape the Dublin gridlock but also to draw inspiration from the sparsely populated countryside. Her tour begins with the many ambiguously named coves that carve into the shoreline just outside the town. The name of the first we stop at, Ballinglanna Cove, is not in doubt – a plaque confirms it. The beach scribes a wide arc and is more coral than sand. A concrete jetty reaches down to the sea. On it a few brightly coloured tubs lie – waiting to return to the ocean. We linger a while, briefly mesmerised by the small waves gently rolling in, and then on we drive, keen to find the elusive Barry’s Cove.
Down a narrow laneway, beside an old farmhouse, we find a smaller, more secluded cove. The beach is only about 10 metres long, but when standing on it, sheltered by outcrops of land on either side, we feel the full intimacy of nature. Beyond the tiny bay, in what seems like another sphere, the waves crash into the rocks. These are real west coast waves, several feet high. It is the perfect refuge in the summer months, Helen says.
Once on the road again, we pull up beside a woman out for a walk in order to learn the name of the cove. “How should I know?” she sings. Her accent suggests she is local and perhaps should know. Some convoluted and incomprehensible directions follow. They do lead us, perhaps by accident rather than design, to yet another cove though. It is also unmarked, also beautiful.
In Clonakilty town, Emmet Square sits just off Pearse Street. On one corner stands a statue of Michael Collins, hands gesticulating as if mid-speech. Those attuned to irony will smirk at the exquisite Victorian Square behind his back. Michael Collins was born in Woodfield, 6km west of Clonakilty and is claimed as their most famous son.
Not far from the town, one can visit Béal na Bláth, the site of the ambush in which Collins lost his life.
There are two churches almost side by side in the heart of Clonakilty – one Catholic, one Presbyterian. In what is surely a metaphor for the town’s nationalist history, the Presbyterian Church now houses the post office, whereas the Catholic Church still holds Mass.
Lunch is at Gearoidin’s in Pearse Street. Inside, we have to shift places several times to avoid the sunlight streaming through the shopfront. There is a bacon and Clonakilty black pudding salad on the menu. As black pudding is the town’s most famous export, I feel obliged to sample. The pudding lives up to its reputation in the dish – fresh, crumbling, subtle.
A few miles outside the town is Inchydoney Island beach. From the car park it seems a hive of activity: a horse-drawn cart speeds around, fathers and children put their kites to the wind, surfers chase the perfect wave.
But once we take to the Blue Flag sand, we are soothed by the sense of space. It is probably 1.5km from one end of the beach to the other – the only break a rocky outcrop on which the Inchydoney Lodge sits. Helen assures me that reclining in the hotel’s spa and looking out on to the beach is tranquillity in the extreme.
Less tranquil but no less satisfying is the nightlife in the town. Live music is available almost every night at venues such as De Barra’s folk club, An Teach Beag and Shanley’s Bar. Legendary Jimi Hendrix Experience bassist Noel Redding made Clonakilty his home and it would not be unusual to spot Irish greats such as Christy Moore at one of the venues.
We pick Shanley’s where people of all ages mingle inside. A cabaret-style band, Ocean 6, is playing. From time to time the singer swaggers into the crowd mid-song, serenading a girl here, taking another’s hand there. The locals lap it up – so do we.
“Sit down,” an auld fella tells one of the girls in our group, patting the seat beside him. “No, I’m checking out the view!” she replies. “So am I! Sit down!” he repeats with a twinkle in his eye. And so into the crowd we blend, as if welcome regulars.
We are invited to dinner the following evening in Ardfield, a few miles outside town. We drive up a long, secluded driveway where before us is a building more mansion than house. Inside, we find that it has been renovated into a yet-to-operate guest house.
Halfway through a banquet-style dinner, the sister of the host is coerced into singing. The dining hall reverberates with crystal clear notes; all eyes are drawn to her. Then one after the other, her two brothers stand and sing, their voices powerful, pure. Everything about the mansion lends itself to music – the acoustics, the Gothic aura, the seclusion. It is no surprise when I discover later that it belonged to none other than Noel Redding.
“Does the feeling of freedom fade when you live here?” I ask Helen when I leave. She does not answer but looks wistfully out onto Clonakilty Bay. Enough said.