MAL ROGERSexplores the Cooley Peninsula by horseback, and retraces the steps and stories of ancient heroes and northern farmers
THE SHREWDNESS of the east Ulster farmer is legendary. Even those most frugal of people, the Aborigines of the Australian outback, speak in hushed tones about the prudence of Co Down farming folk. But who couldn’t but admire the Northern farmer who might tether his horse in the street, allowing it to munch away in its nosebag, while he relaxes in the pub. In order not to waste a single grain of oats, the wily farmer brings along a couple of hens, and ties one foot of each hen to the front legs of the horse – to feed on any morsels dropped by the nag. And were you to return, say, an hour later, you would now see the hens tied to the back legs.
So when Niall Connolly, mounted on a huge bay mare called Cassie, told us that we would be stopping for lunch at the Long Woman’s Grave – Long Woman, long story – I half wondered if the nosebag trick would appear. After all, this northerly outpost of Co Louth acts pretty much as if it’s part of Ulster.
But no, as we dismounted, no sign of oats or poultry. Instead, Connolly’s wife had arrived fresh from the Ravensdale Lodge stables with our gourmet picnic lunch. And some gourmet apples for the assorted horses – Lyric, Rocko, Presley, Oscar, O’Gara, D’Arcy, et al.
After a hard morning’s trek the warm fresh rolls – along with ham, houmous, olives, salad and cheese – were just what the doctor ordered. Funnily enough, there was one in our posse, a GP from New Zealand, among a very cosmopolitan crowd; there were riders from Wales, Brazil, Holland and Ballymakellett.
Oh, and two Australians, who, although not Aborigines, bore many fanciful tales of the outback, including the admiration for the Ulster farmer among the indigenous people. But I have no reason to doubt them.
Lunch over, and I’m back astride Mo, a sturdy grey gelding. We’re heading into the valley of Glenmore, surrounded by, geology fact fans, the gabbro rocks of the Cooley Mountains. From here we ride along in the shadow of Slieve Foye – the highest point of the Cooleys – making our way uphill towards Medbh’s Gap. Spread out below us are huge stretches of H2O – Carlingford Lough (one of Irelands two fjords), Dundalk Bay, and the Irish Sea. On a clear day you can see as far as the Isle of Man, and on to the Mull of Kintyre; on a not-so-clear day, you’ll be lucky to see the horses’ ears in front of your face. Because, of course, it can get quite inclement here.
However, no matter what the weather, the going is relatively easy, but you do need a basic level of horsemanship. Ravensdale Lodge facilities are amongst the best in Europe – in December 2009, the International Student Rider Nations’ World Cup Final was held here. Regrettably, I was just too late (and too old) to enter.
The route begins at Ravensdale Forest Park, making its way along the Táin Trail – that’s the Táin Bó Cúailnge, which deals with the Cattle Raid of Cooley. Close your eyes for an instant and a world peopled by the likes of Cú Chullainn, Medbh, and, of course, the Brown Bull of Cooley, appears. Medbh was killed, apparently, by being hit by a lump of cheese. If only they’d packed the Port Salut.
The trail rises quite rapidly after the forest, making its way past rocky booleys (used in days gone by to shelter animals) and past plunging ravines. It’s not hard to see how Cooley’s legends arose. Craggy mountains rear up from the sea and the loughs, and twisting paths lead through shrouds of mist and on to the bog. Banshees and other tormented spirits undoubtedly emerge here after dark. Beautiful, atmospheric, romantic and empty, this area not only inspired the Táin, but the Icelandic sagas, too. This is, according to Icelandic Nobel prize winner Halldór Laxness, no stranger, I’m sure, to most of you.
An hour snaking up the mountainside and we’re at Clermont Cairn. From here, on a clear day, you can see south to the Great Sugarloaf, and north to Cavehill in Belfast – and about 12 counties in between (for homework next time, name them all). The whole of the Cooley Peninsula is now in view, with the Mountains of Mourne rising steeply on the other side of Carlingford Lough. Somebody really should write a song about them.
The trail now traverses along laneway and boreen, and eventually we clatter across latitude 54 degrees four minutes north; in other words, the last outpost of the Pale, and the village of Carlingford. Anything north of this latitude is, scientifically speaking, beyond the Pale.
Arriving by horseback is the ideal way to enter this outpost of medieval sophistication. The ancient cobbled streets ring to the sounds of the horses’ hooves as we canter past glowering Taaffe’s Castle. Carlingford boasts two castles and one mint – not bad going for a town of 850 souls. It also boasts more than a dozen fine restaurants, a veritable gastronomic motherlode that includes Ghan House, a fairytale Georgian pile with style to spare. From the window of the Ghan snug – if ever a bar was made for carousing, this is it – you can see the remains of a rather more austere building.
The Dominicans fetched up in Carlingford in 1305, ready, as ever, to preach the gospel and combat heresy. Their friary, which overlooks the sybaritic delights of Ghan House, is dedicated to St Malachy. Dissolved in 1540 by Henry VIII, it became the subject of handbags between the Dominicans and Franciscans in the 1670s. The remains today consist of a nave and chancel divided by a tower. A murder hole, through which tar and other assorted boiling stuff rained down on unwelcome guests, sits above the main door – a sensible option, really, in a violent, feudal society. The priory is equipped with several well-preserved gargoyles, necessary for warding off evil spirits. So far, so good. Carlingford has been largely free of rampant wickedness for the last good while.
Carlingford’s strategic position did make it something of a target for the Danes; however, the serendipity of a sheltered harbour and easy access to the Irish Sea led to relative prosperity during the Middle Ages.
But Carlingford’s early Celtic Tiger years were brought to an abrupt end when in 1388, the town was burnt to the ground by a Scots force in retaliation for Irish attacks on Galloway, whose head honcho was Archibald the Grim (his brother Nigel the Reasonable had little say on the matter, and little is heard of him). But Carlingford recovered, and soon prospered again, with King John’s Castle ultimately becoming the final outpost of the Pale.
On a breezy day, the air tastes of salt as you take the road from the castle, overlooking the harbour, to a statue of one of Carlingford's most famous sons, Thomas D'Arcy McGee. One-time editor of the Nationin Ireland, he emigrated to Canada and became pivotal in the movement for an independent state. He was subsequently assassinated for his trouble: the first duty of a revolutionary is to get away with it, a lesson McGee failed to follow. A reasonably attractive memorial to him stands just beside the London, Midland and Scottish railway station, today masquerading as a tourist office now that the railroad has gone.
The ancient streets of the village eventually lead to a Tholsel, a toll gate which also acted as the village jail, way back in the days when it was spelt gaol in English. The Tholsel is just along from the Mint, which incidentally seems never to have minted any actual currency. A shame, really, as it was, well, a licence to print money. But should you discover a golden guinea with “Made in Carlingford” stamped on it, it’s probably worth a doubloon or two.
Squeezed in just beside the Mint is the Carlingford Adventure Centre. Now, a no-nonsense professor of feng shui once told me that it was a bad idea to have a mint beside an adventure centre, but in this instance it seems to have worked a treat. Being something of a part-time adventurer myself, I was intrigued to see what this strangely situated place has to offer. The answer is rock-climbing, pier-jumping, high-rope climbing, orienteering, kayaking, sailing (in a range of dinghies or windsurfers), rock-face abseiling and so on, up the mountain or along the shores. What a shame I had my track suit rented out.
Carlingford’s name comes from the Vikings’ “Fjord of Carlinn”. Although not widely known or used, Carlingford had a previous name: Cuan Snamh Aighneach, literally “the swimming harbour of the people with perfect reputation”. This I gleaned from one of the main institutions in the town, PJ O’Hare’s. Our ride had ended here, and as we supped Guinness and reflected on the day, we tucked into an endless supply of lough oysters. These have to be the Rolls Royces of the gastropod world, truly irresistible. If I’d eaten any more I’d probably have been declared an area of special scientific interest.
From being a former Scandinavian colony, right through to the modern-day Troubles, Carlingford has seen a surfeit of history. But it has emerged as a delightful place today where you can have the finest of cuisine, enjoy traditional sessions and jazz nights, or attend classical recitals in the Holy Trinity centre. Here, in the shadow of the Cooley Mountains, serious quaffing can be combined with gentle walks – or something altogether more energetic. And the craic is as good as you’ll get anywhere, on either side of the Pale.
Cooley: where to eat, stay and go
Where to eat
Kingfisher Bistro. Dundalk Street, Carlingford, 042-9373716, kingfisher bistro.com. Open seven nights a week and for Sunday lunch all year round, the Kingfisher offers local produce prepared imaginatively and stylishly.
Malocco’s. Tholsel Street, Carlingford, 042-9383937. Crayfish tails in sweet chilli sauce with stuffed squid and a glass of prosecco will set you back €6.50. If you prefer something more traditional, go for the pizza option. Chef and owner Stefano Marinucci bakes the dough upstairs.
PJ O’Hare’s Anchor Bar and Restaurant. Tholsel Street, Carlingford, 042-9373106, pjoharescarlingford.com. The fulcrum of the village. Dine here in front of the fireplace in the bar or take your ease in the cosy restaurant upstairs.
Where to stay
Ghan House. 042-9373682, ghanhouse.com. One night BB plus one dinner is €105pps. Utter comfort, and a flair for stately cuisine.
McKevitt’s Village Hotel. Market Square, 042-9373116, mckevittshotel.com. BB from €60pps. A comfortable three-star hotel in the middle of the village.
The Eagles. Glenmore Upper, Cooley Peninsula, 041-9823366, theeagles carlingford.com. €550 for weekend, €700 for one week, midweek can be negotiated. This four-star, self-catering, converted farmhouse sleeps 10. Situated in the valley of Glenmore it’s an ideal centre for hiking – Carlingford is walking distance over the mountain, or a 10-minute drive away.
Where to go
Guided Walking Tours, 086-8100075.
Ravensdale Lodge Stables. Ravensdale, Dundalk, 042-9371034, ravensdale- equestrian-centre.com.
Carlingford Adventure Centre. Tholsel Street, 042-9373100, carlingford adventure.com.