Month: July 2016

Most everyone has heard of Ernest Shackleton and his exploits with his ship, Endurance. In fact, I sat through a leadership training designed by a well paid consultant who worshipped Shackleton’s leadership style, which by all accounts, was a bit autocratic.

Some people have also heard of Captain Robert Scott, a less inspiring leader to be sure, who had the sad misfortune of losing his life, and that of everyone who went with him, in a futile attempt at being first to reach the south pole.

Having been bested by the Norwegian Roald Amundsen who had arrived days before, Scott and his men planted their flag and then, weak from hunger, snow blindness and frostbite, died, one by one.

I learned of this when researching the role of Kathleen Scott, Robert Scott’s wife, for the tragic play, Terra Nova, which enjoyed an artistic and commercially successful run at Artist’s Repertory Theatre back in the late 1980’s.

What most people don’t know, and what I only found out a few days ago here in Ireland, is that Tom Crean, an Kerry man, worked for both Shackleton and Scott, on both the Terra Nova and the Endurance, and was quietly the real hero of every expedition in which he was involved.

Tom Crean was born on a farm in Gurtachrane, in July 1877, in the hills outside of Anascaul on the Dingle Peninsula in County Kerry. He was one of 10 children and times were hard for his family.

At 15, he borrowed a suit of clothes and enough money to get to what is now called Cobh (the same port the Titanic later sailed from) and ran away from home to enlist in Queen Victoria’s Royal Navy. He lied about his age in order to be accepted.

Tom was stationed in the Pacific on another warship when Captain Robert Scott sailed into New Zealand aboard his ship, Discovery, en route to the South Pole. One of Scott’s sailors had attacked a petty officer so was dismissed immediately. Tom, who was 24 by then and had an excellent reputation, volunteered to fill the vacancy. Scott gladly signed him on.

Discovery was at that time the best funded, best equipped and largest sailing expedition ever sent South. It would be gone for 2 ½ years, out of touch with civilization.
base camp, Antarctica

In 1902, while learning how to survive raging winds, temperatures in the minus 60-80’s, and conditioning on the ice for a push to the pole, Tom Crean was chosen by Scott as one of the few men to accompany him as they tested his newly conceived human pulled sledge across the ice.

In 1910, they returned to the Antarctica on the Terra Nova. This time Scott was determined to “take the pole”, planting the flag for England, and proving his naysayer’s wrong. He wanted Crean with him.

Eight men, including Captain Scott and Tom Crean, marched with the sledge to within 150 miles of the pole itself. At that point, Scott and his men were weakening and weather conditions had strained their already limited food supplies. The sledge was proving to be more of a hindrance than a help and Lieutenant Evans, one of the explorers, was in a very bad way.

Scott ordered Crean, his strongest man, and another, Lashly, to take Evans back to base camp, a distance of 750 miles, where they were to then grab more food and supplies and head back to join Scott He expected to be returning from planting the flag by that time.

Crean and Lashly pulled Evans, who, believing he was dying, ordered them to leave him behind. They refused, pulling him over 100 miles before their strength began to play out. Crean volunteered to go alone, on foot, to Hut Point, 35 miles away, where provisions had been stored. He walked, stumbled, and crawled, with no tent or sleeping bag and only 3 biscuits and 2 slices of chocolate to sustain him, He arrived at Hut Point within 18 hours!

Unknown artist’s rendition

This is after having already marched more than 1500 miles in 3 ½ months by this time. He returned to Evans and Lashly, with supplies, saving them both.

Captain Scott and his remaining four companions meanwhile did reach the pole, only to discover that Amundsen and his party had claimed it a month earlier, then come and gone. Disheartened, starving and exhausted, they died on the return trip before Crean was able to get to them. Scott’s last words, written in his journal to be discovered later were, ‘My God, this is a terrible place.”

Crean’s action has been called the greatest single act of bravery and endurance in the entire history of arctic exploration. For saving Lieutenant Evan’s life,
he and Lashly received the Albert Medal, the highest honor one can receive for gallantry.

Three years later, Crean was recruited by Ernest Shackleton to join the crew of his ship, the Endurance, for its famous hopeful, but failed, attempt to be the first to cross the Antarctic from one side to the other.

Tom Crean was one of the 28 men, including Shackleton, who found themselves barely surviving on drifting ice floes for nearly six months when the ship became stranded in pack ice.

When out of desperation they launched their three small lifeboats to row for survival, it was Stancomb Willis, the lifeboat steered by Tom Crean, which was the first to reach uninhabited Elephant Island and touch land.

Recognizing that a few men could survive on fish and water for a limited time on that remote island, Crean then joined Shackleton and four others to set off in a 22 foot open boat in the hopes of reaching the whaling station, South Georgia. The men made the 800 mile journey in 17 days.

Crean, Shackleton and a third man, Worsley, then had to march across unknown ice terrain and glaciers with no tents or sleeping bags in the hope of reaching Stromness. They managed to do it in an astonishing 36 hours.

It took four more months before they were able to return to the rest of their crew, still on Elephant Island, but they did. Remarkably, not one person died.

However, this was the last expedition for Crean, who turned down Shackleton’s offer to join him in yet another. We will never know the words spoken between the two adventurers but Shackleton was reportedly disappointed by Crean’s decision. Crean chose instead, in 1917, to return to his beloved Ireland, where he met and married a local woman from Anascaul, Eileen Herlihy.

They lived peacefully and happily, had three children together, and in 1927 they opened the South Pole Inn, where they lived until Tom Crean, the world class adventurer and hero, died unexpectedly in 1938 at the young age of 61 due to a burst appendix.

Those who knew him say that Tom was a gentle man, soft spoken, who never talked about his adventures. He just lived his life and enjoyed meeting the strangers who passed through. It wasn’t until his death, when his children, prompted by historians, began to discover the truth about their father and all of the extraordinary things he had done.

Knowing what I had learned about the Terra Nova expedition from my research for a performance in the play all those years ago, I made a point of stopping for lunch in the South Pole.
I became somewhat emotional as I strode around the inn reading the newspaper articles and looking at photos and paintings his family has hung on the walls. However, it is a happy place, full of talkative people and positive energy.

There is a timeline of Crean’s life as an explorer painted on the ceiling. It is an impressive list of accomplishments.

I am happy to report that I was served delicious fresh sea bass in this place created by an extraordinary man. I am happy to share him with you here.

Moving slowly through the streets of Dingle on a busy Sunday afternoon, taking in the sights. Here’s a taste of what I saw:

a bit of history to put things in context

Then, a couple of doors caught my eye. The Irish excel at the welcoming door.

Drain pipe graffiti in the middle of the land

Yet right around the corner is this lovely garden

Then I noticed the street sign on the corner thinking of a past life brought the smile to my lips.

Well, after that, this hallway into the “ladies” was just too perfect
but the dispenser in there seems rather risqué
condoms and tampons, what more could you possibly want?

Perhaps a drink to put one in the mood? this pub specializes in fine Trad music

Should your tastes run to spirits and horses, then this is worth a drop by
or, just go have some lively fun!

What? Not in the mood for a pub? No prob. How about a cuppa, instead?

Refreshed, and still moving slowly, I come down a quiet side lane to discover this beautiful church complex which is actually now the site of this theatre program.
How nice to receive the funding the arts receive in Ireland, to be able to buy a building for a program to have a home. Without that pressure to focus on producing things that will sell, the theaters can actually focus on producing art.
And, since theatre was born in the church, this purchase is most fitting.

Now, St. Mary’s Church, on the other hand, is still very much a church.
That tower is pretty impressive. It was designed by a McCarthy. J.J. McCarthy, apparently a name in church architecture of the time.

But inside it is the Harry Clarke stained glass windows which bring me to a complete stop. Here is one panel for you to contemplate

This mother and daughter were contemplating something else. They took their candle lighting and prayer very seriously.

I went on to contemplate this entombed Bishop and then got out of there

back into the streets where the people are alive

With children

without children

who knows?

Even the shop windows have their own kind of alive

happy, creative minds in that yarn store!

I also loved this cow in a gallery window

unfortunately the artist’s name was not to be found.

So I wandered slowly back to my car, mooooved.

Yes, I was a slow moving woman this afternoon; one whose brain was a fast moving machine. Taking it all in.

Farewell, prosperous Dingle Town, and your old, busy harbor.

photo g.duff

Oh, did I get to geek out today! In a pilgrimage which includes tracing one’s ancestors, I am not sure I could go back any further than this.

These are tracks made 385 million years ago on the southernmost tip of Valentia Island by the first known vertebrate to crawl out of the water onto land, the Tetrapod. 

Artist’s rendering. 

From archaeological evidence we know that they were slightly longer than nine feet, tail included.  The tracks left behind show four legs and the drag marks of their tail. They were heavy, which accounts for the well preserved footprints and skid marks in the mud. 

Down below there to the right you can make out a zig zag trail, almost as if one was sunning the way sea lions do. 

These tracks, discovered and authenticated in 1992, are the oldest known in the world. 

Tetrapods had gills, making them the first vertebrates to be able to breathe in and out of water. Before their evolution, fish were the only vertebrates on the planet. 

The Tetrapods evolved again, their fins becoming legs, creating the first mammals to walk on land.

And eventually, following further   evolution, they became even more complex, losing the tail and giving birth to generations of prehistoric mammamalia making the journey toward walking upright. 

Tetrapods are truly our oldest mammal ancestors. 

And these were right here in Ireland. 

This is the field you pass on your way down to the Tetrapod landing. Skellig Michael is 14 miles out to sea to the left of the frame. 

The force is with us all. 

This is John O’Shea.
Notice that very nice tractor behind him. He is quite proud of it, as he should be.

This is John’s farm. It is a beautiful, large spread at the base of Healy Pass in the Beara.

I drove up his road because I’d read that there was an Ogham Stone up there. There well may have been, but John didn’t want me trekking about on his property looking for it so he acted as if he didn’t understand what I was talking about.

What he did instead was flirt with me. Gently and in a non-threatening manner, but definitely a flirtation. He kissed my hand three times while speaking with me, once when I told him I was married, once when I told him the names of my children, and the final time when I said goodbye.

But before we got to that goodbye, John told me that he has never been married, will be 62 years old on October 22nd, and that both his mother and grandmother died in childbirth.

“Y’know, dey did it so differnt den. Women’s had 8, 9, even 10 bebbies. And dey were all borned at home. And dat’s God’s truff.”

I told him that both of my children had been born at home in America. He looked surprised for a moment but recovered quickly. I expected him to kiss my hand but instead, he took out a handkerchief and blew his nose.

“Well, dat’s fine, dat is. Doe, you were close enough to go to hospital if ya needed, weren’t you? Deese ladies in de oulder days, dey din’t have no hospital. Dey eever did it and lived or dey din’t. And dat’s da God’s truff, too.”

I agreed that we modern women have it a lot better when it comes to birthing babies. I stressed how grateful I was for that.

“And do you have enny grandchildren?” he asked. He smiled coyly, showing one full tooth and the stump of another in his mouth. I noticed that his hands were very calloused from hard work. He didn’t look 62, he looked like he might be 80.

I answered, “No. Not yet. My daughter just got married and maybe she will or maybe she won’t decide to have children. Either way is fine with me”. I didn’t mention my two grandchildren by marriage because the question was about my birth children, but I love both Josie and Maia. They are a delight.

“Dat’s good, dat’s good,” he was emphatic. “And yer son, whut about him?”

“No children there, either.” I replied. “He’s still living alone and waiting for a meaningful relationship.”

He shook his head knowingly. “I never found da likes of dat. No wife fer me. No. No wife for me. I live here and do alright, doe.” He gestured around his magnificent property.

He smiled again, slyly.”Ennyways, yer too young and too bee-yootiful to be a grandmuvver.”

“Thank you, John O’Shea.” I said. “And if I wasn’t a married woman I might share a cup of tea with you, but as it is, I will be on my way.” I couldn’t believe I’d used that line but there you have it.

And he reached for my hand and gave it one last kiss.
“Bye, so. Ye’ve a strong heart and independent spirit. I kin tell dat about ya. So you take care now, y’hear?”

“I will. And the same to you, John O’Shea.” I said. I then backed my car around and drove down his mountain

past the lovely waterfall on his property.

At the turning, I noticed again the neighbor (or perhaps, his partner?) who was cutting turf on John’s property.

This time he waved to me. Then went back to work.

At the very end of the drive to Tooth Mountain one finds this smaller stone circle
slightly different angle

And far up The Pocket, sheltered somewhat from elements and possible enemies, is the fulachai fia, where people camped and cooked.

Farther up Tooth Mountain itself it is said there are a set of standing stones, inscribed with a text no one has been able to decipher.

I longed to go up there but the gate to the land owned by the farmer where these stones are hiding was locked.
When a gate is merely closed, it is usually acceptable to enter, making sure to close the gate behind you. When one is locked, that is a clear message to keep out.

So I did.

I was driving the overgrown lane to Loch an Gleanna Mhoir so I could spend some time admiring the lake. Branches grow over the road at times, creating dark, moist, leafy green tunnels.

I arrived at the lake, which is beautiful and seems remote until you realize that there are people living out there, some of them in rather fancy digs across the lake.

I wandered around for awhile, taking my fill of the sweet, clean air and the spectacular views. Then I began the drive back to my bothy in the woods.

As I was rolling down the window so that I could continue to breathe the fresh air, I noticed this little creature on my windshield, hitching a ride.

Many local people will tell you that fairies are known to take on animal or insect forms at times, just to see what humans will do. Indeed, many a dragonfly and butterfly is thought to be a fairy, just messing with us. It’s not usual to imagine them taking the form of a slug but still, one does not want to anger the fairies!

So I knew that I needed to ensure that this small creature received a safe journey.

I stopped in the lane, praying that no one else would be heading out this way today, and found a leaf on the side. I placed in next to the fairy (slug? I don’t know…) and told it that I was happy to give it safe passage. It crawled immediately onto the leaf and turned its head to look at me.
here it is before it turned around.

I swear this on my ancestor’s name.

I carried the leaf to a mossy spot on the roadside and wished it a happy life. Sitting it down in a safe place.

And that’s what one must do when one encounters a fairy.

Way up the road to Fehanagh, on the Glanrastel river side,
after I’d pulled off, parked and headed up the trail, the road I’d beed driving on was suddenly taken over by this : those are sheep, hundreds of them

I captured video of this but am unable to load it into the post for some reason.

Which is a shame because you would notice that a farmer’s son and daughter have both jumped up on the four wheeler with him and are riding point, while the wife down below keeps their sheep from trotting off into the wrong direction.

More significantly, you would see 3 well trained sheep dogs cut across the field, jump into a new lane ahead of the sheep and then backtrack within the herd to keep them moving in the right direction until the farmer catches up.

After they’d all passed and headed up the mountain to pasturage along the river under the Pookeen, a dog across the way howled his loneliness for several minutes. He sounded exactly like a wolf, though of course, there are no more wolves in Ireland.

There are predators of some kind out there. I came upon this bit of sheep’s skull and tufts of wool are from one who didn’t make it.

Or maybe it was due to the Pooka who lives out in the Pookeen.

After all, these colorful bags mark the site of a cillin
which is an old unconsecrated burial ground for suicides, unbaptized children, and an unrepentant sinners. The bags have been put there to pacify and bring happiness to the restless spirits in the hope that they will not wander.

The people who live around this area say they don’t go into the fields at night because they are haunted. There are many stories of people being shoved nearly off the rocks by invisible hands or of farmers who accidentally stayed out past dusk getting totally confused and lost in areas they are completely familiar with.

Walking alone way out there after the sheep had passed, I could believe it. The place is powerful. Looking up toward the Pookeen

I made sure to be back in my bothy by nightfall.

No, it’s not on behalf of the Irish famine victims, though you would be forgiven for thinking so. After all, four million people, half the population of Ireland at the time,died in those dark years when English landlords turned starving men, women and children away from their well fed doors and evicted families who had worked the land they were living on for generations before the English even thought of exploiting the best land the country had to offer.

Nor is it in honor of those who died fighting for Irish freedom in one or the other of those ill fated battles throughout the years. There are, indeed, memorials to the Martyrs scattered across the south and west of Ireland, where independence is a trait well valued.

No. This garden was planted on behalf of the 343 firefighters who died in the line of duty when the twin towers fell in New York City on 9/11 in 2001.

Kathleen Murphy was a nurse who grew up on the Southeast coast of Ireland, near Kinsale. She spent the last 30 years of her life working as a senior staff nurse at Lennox Hill Hospital in New York City.

She lost friends and loved ones that day, and she treated survivors who would never be the same.

The experience so affected her that, even though she was not a rich woman, she planted one sapling for every person who died on this bit of her land called Ringfinnan, overlooking Kinsale harbor, plus one for Father Michael Judge, who was Chaplain of the New York Firefighters Association, and a close personal friend.

It is a lonely place and the experience of looking across the acreage at row after row of trees honoring the lives of courageous men and women is quite moving.

It is also sobering to see how many of the names are Irish in origin.


Kathleen Murphy choosing to build a Garden of Remembrance in Ireland for the lost firefighters of 9/11 began to make sense.

Her garden has become a shrine for families of the deceased who come here to visit, leave photos or memorabilia, and pray for their lost beloved ones.

Many of the trees wear tags bearing the name of the person they were planted in honor of. Those are the lucky ones. Their bodies were identified in the carnage.

There are many more trees carrying no identification because the bodies of those missing were never found, creating a strange legal and emotional vortex for their survivors.

There is a master list of all of the known and presumed dead at the garden, however. In some cases, family members have hung their own identification on an untagged tree, giving specificity to the memory of someone dear to them.

343 women and men, who died senselessly in an event which will be marked by its’ 15th anniversary this year.

Blessings to them all.

First stop on the Iveragh Peninsula. Lunch at the Towers Hotel Pub 

In the little village of Glenbeigh, Kilbnabrack lower

Poached salmon from the harbor, chips and salad. 

It is 12:30 pm. The man at the counter is so drunk he’s slurring. 

Every now and then he breaks into a few bars of song. Pretty good voice, actually. 

It is a popular spot with locals. 

Though it is only two hours from my peaceful bothy in Beara it feels a very different place.

I am now on  the Ring of Kerry, heading for Caherseveen.