Rambled three miles today, mostly around Cashel, where I got to be reminded how old I’m not. That’s half the mileage of yesterday, which was again half from two days ago. One of the joys of having made my way as a predictive model builder is the instinctive computation that, if I keep it up at this rate, two weeks from now I’ll be covering approximately six inches, total, per day.
But Cashel. I almost took the southern route, to skip it altogether. Obvious tourist spot, right? Then you come around the corner on the M8 and have that Camelot moment out of Monty Python. So of course I parked and paid my fee. Got the whole tour from a brilliant and funny council guide who clearly knew her stand-up as well as her history.
Crazy stuff up there on the rock. Note: with apologies to Duane Johnson, “the Rock” refers to the whole limestone protrusion on which the various castle/tower/chapel bits are built. They really don’t know how old the oldest buildings there are. The cathedral was built in the 1400’s, the chapel in 1134. All they can tell from the records was that by then the round tower had already been there quite a while.
Once you’re done wandering the cold stone archways and feeling like the insignificant speck in time you are, you can visit the ruins of the Hore Abbey to feel even more insignificant. The Rock is a treasured historic site, with guides, brochures, fancy lighting and a gift shop. The Abbey – a short way down the hill, through cow pasture and over a few stone stiles – is enormous, dates from 1272 and doesn’t even have anyone keeping the cows away. Look upon my Works, ye Mighty, and despair, amiright?
Okay – not going to get all philosophical and wordy tonight. Have some pretty pictures.