As I laid on my back, precariously stretched over the edge of the ancient parapet, arched over a void and hands gripping iron rails, I couldn’t help but think that this was an awkward position for a grown man to put himself simply to do a silly thing that millions of tourists have done before.
My head tilted backward, almost defying gravity, we peered down at the ground far below. The faint aroma of damp stone and centuries-old history wafted through the air, mingling with the nervous excitement that tingled in our bellies. This, they said, was the way to unlock the legendary “gift of gab.” This was the moment I would join the ranks of countless tourists who had come before us, seeking eloquence from a simple act of smooching a stone.
Kissing the stone is ingrained in the traveler’s psyche. Like riding a gondola in Venice, pretending to hold up (or push over) the Tower of Pisa, or for the more daring running with the bulls in Pamplona, it’s expected that if you travel to Ireland, you are expected to do it.
According to lore, Cormac McCarthy, Lord Blarney was known for being able to lie to your face so believably that you’d accept the most ridiculous things – an action he succeeded in doing repeatedly to Queen Elizabeth the First to maintain his power without directly upsetting the crown. When asked how he developed such a talent, he spun yet another ridiculous tale. He said that he once found himself embroiled in a complex political situation, his words trapped in a web of diplomacy and intrigue. In a dream he was told that if he could kiss the large stone near the top of the castle, he would be granted eloquence enough to talk his way out of his situation. So he had his servant hold him by his ankles and dangle him over a 90-foot drop as he kissed the stone, magically gaining his persuasiveness.
Of course it was another example of his trademarked “blarney”, a whimsical fabrication. But it spawned a steady flow of believers for 400 years.
For the first three hundred years, before it became a true tourist attraction with proper safety precautions (along with kissing the backside of the stone rather than being dangled by your ankles), alcohol-fueled believers probably snuck into the castle late at night and had their equally-drunk buddies dangle them over the edge. While safety measures are better now, it’s still unnerving to be bent over backwards peering down at the rocks nine stories down.
Being in Cork, we wanted to tour a castle and grounds anyway, so why not que up to smooch a rock? The tale of the Blarney Stone weaves through guidebooks and folklore, beckoning visitors like us to partake in this peculiar rite. “You simply must do it,” they’d say. And so, joining generations of fellow explorers, my wife and I took our place in line.
Blarney Castle is more properly an Irish “tower house”, built on a rocky outcropping in the Cork countryside, providing the McCarthy clan a place to rule over the region. Like the other Irish tower houses, it is square, flat-sided, and lacks the enclosed areas and external fortifications that medieval castles are known for. But that doesn’t keep it from being impressive.
The tower is largely exposed limestone, though in its heyday it would have been plastered and painted white to make it stand out even more. It’s a ruin, and oddly it is a ruin on purpose. In order to enforce its power over Ireland, the Tudor dynasty implemented polices and taxes that forced the castles to be un-roofed and fall into disrepair.
As it sits now, its interior woodwork is gone. No floors, no paneling, no roof. But the strong foundations dating from the 1400’s and the limestone walls with their crenelations remain. The staircases up and back down still provide access and vantage points to see the now open interior, with fireplaces and notches in the walls showing where wooden floors would have been suspended. Banquet halls, living quarters, and the chapel are now empty space, but visitors can still visit “the dungeon” which is in reality a cistern and the castle’s bathroom called a “garderobe”, which is basically just a small room with a hole that dumped waste down the side of the castle walls.
Entry is up a narrow earthen ramp with a sharp bend to expose an attacker’s unshielded side to defenders’ arrows. Then through a small antechamber with stout doors on both the entrance to the antechamber and out again. Directly above the space is the “murder hole” allowing defenders to shoot down arrows or pour burning oil down onto the bunched up attackers. A few steps inside and up some stairs, you can look down the hole and ponder massacre in defense of the castle.
Climbing the narrow, winding stairs brought us past arrow slits peeking out from higher and higher vantage points. Until at last we emerged at the top of the castle. A slate-covered roof, gone now, would have spanned the open inside of the castle. Instead, a railing on our left had been added to keep tourists from wandering in and… down down down. To the right was the crenulated outer wall of the wall. We could peek out between the crenels, notches, and see the Irish countryside. Surprisingly, the Lord’s quarters were on the lowest level where there would be the least climbing involved rather than on the topmost level where he could have a commanding view.
Between the space where we could walk and the outer wall were openings looking straight downward, large enough that stones or arrows could be used against attackers who stood right against the castle wall. Called “machicolations” these openings had a special role in our adventure. We were going to go down into on.
While the rest of the castle walls were several feet thick, that topmost piece of wall is only one layer thick. Lord Blarney’s magical rock that was dangerously far down the side of the castle could be accessed much easier from the inside. Well, much easier if you consider laying on your back, slithering backwards head first into the hole, and going so far that you hope that the local man assisting the process doesn’t let go, is easier than being dangled by your ankles.
So we dropped a couple euros into the pot and took our places. I doubt very many people rejected the local man’s assistance knowing that they will be staring straight down at rocks and jagged tree branches. There were a pair of iron bars to grip on and a grid to keep you from falling, but it was still unnerving.
Pucker up, smooch, and slither back out.
My wife and I had joined the ranks of Mick Jagger, John Kennedy, Queen Elzabeth II, and Mark Twain along with centuries-long line of tourists.
Descending from the castle via a different set of stairs, we explored the grounds. Ancient and beautiful with gnarled trees, summer flowers, and stones with fanciful names like “Witches, Kitchen” gave us a pleasant and soothing ending to our adventure.
So should you do the same? Should you spend a little time joining in a bit of tourist silliness, inspired by a whimsical yarn spun by a smooth-talking liar who was so audacious al that he’d like right to the face of a Tudor queen and so skillful at it that not only did he not get beheaded, his name itself is synonymous with flattery and balderdash.
Why not? If you do, maybe you’ll be blessed with the gift of gab too.
For more information:
• blarneycastle.ie
About the Author
PAUL PENCE not only writes many of the articles in the pages of this magazine, he is also the publisher and editor of all of the magazines in the Amygis Publishing’s family of travel magazines.
He loves exploring, traveling the back roads, experiencing the world, and finding what is unique and memorable about the places he visits.
And he loves writing – poetry, short stories, essays, non-fiction, news, and. of course, travel writing.
For over 20 years, he has shared his explorations with readers in a wide variety of outlets, from groundbreaking forays into the first stirrings of the dot-com boom to travel guides, local newspapers, and television, including Runner’s World, Travel Lady, Providence Journal, and Northstar Travel Media. He currently publishes and writes for Amygis Publishing’s magazines Jaunting, Northeast Traveler, and Rhode Island Roads.