A light breeze pushed us along at a modest 3-4 knots of speed, a perfect pace to examine the outline of Cape Clear island as it disappeared to our stern. A bright blue day was the canvas upon which we traced our wanderings, a trail of bubbly water. The weather gods were making gestures of peace as the wind built enough for a gracious downwind sail, depositing us at the entrance to Baltimore harbor. Locals here like to remind us transatlantic kin that this was the first, the real Baltimore. Like everything, Americans had super-sized it, but here, an infant coastal town had just enough of the basics to put it on the map. A handful of cafes, pubs, and boutiques occupied the waterfront street while a sailing school with a bee-hive of young teenagers took over a corner of the harbor. I was thrilled to see a bunch of young girls, paired up with their moms, being given a shoreside walkthrough of their trailerable sailboats before they set out into the harbor. It was mother-daughter day on the water! Breezing past us in the direction of the cafe-scene were clutches of slightly older young adults dressed like it was a high-school prom, except this was August.
In continuity with the festive spirit, flags with the Olympic rings flew from nearly every pole that could carry them. In neighboring Skibbereen, where we bussed to find marine supplies, the Olympic spirit was even stronger, with creative five ring decorations in all of the store fronts and banners everywhere. As it turned out, Skibbereen was the home town for two Olympic goal medal rowers, with every reason to be as proud as a mother of her newborn twins. Fintan McCarthy and Paul O’Donovan, about as Irish surnames as you can get, were back-to-back gold medalists in the double scull, and this endearing little town was rolling out the red carpet.
Olympic successes aside, the real reason we popped into Baltimore was to pickup two other VIP’s – Karen’s brother Gary and his wife Karen – who were last onboard way back when Sea Rose was just a babe in the woods as we sailed the Amalfi Coast of Italy. Ireland has a long list of dissimilarities with Italy. To start, there’s a considerable inequity of tourists – that is, in Ireland’s favor. We hadn’t seen one cruise ship, and for that matter, not one super yacht since we crossed from Scotland. Small is king on this island nation.
With our clients safely on board, we set off for a short sail. After steady winds brought us down the coast to Bullock Island, we quickly dropped our anchor before strong currents pushed us on to the rocky shore. We launched our wee boat and took to exploring through rapids to Lough Hyne where we were told a popular summer outing was to wait for the tide to turn and swim or float back out the same rapids. But this local intel was a bit optimistic. The current was pushing our dinghy too close to weeds and rocks, and the water felt a tad too cold to commit the whole body to a fitful fight to get back downstream. We resorted to an ambling walk at the water’s edge, finding a small marine research station, and a young aspiring marine biologist asking lots of questions to the research staff. I found myself hoping she would hurry up and follow her dreams so we could have an answer on the indignant Orca population!
Sea Rose seemed quite content to ride out the evening in the shadow of Bullock Island’s beauty, but we had promised our guests generous quantities of sightseeing so up came the anchor and out rolled sails for a brisk downwind run to Castletownshend. We were loving this new easterly heading. No heeling, no water in the cockpit, no slamming of the bow. Milder temperatures were adding to the joy; my down puff-jacket had not come out of the locker in over a week… bring on life in the lower latitudes!
Castletownshend, like Castletownbere in name-likeness only, possessed no crowded harbor front with big commercial fishing boats nor rowdy-looking bars. Narry a soul walked its streets. At the St Barrahene’s church grounds, a silent couple avoided contact as if re-enacting the protocol of peak Covid. Possibly they were simply embracing the somber tone of the church’s graveyard, filled with half-interred caskets next to flimsy rusting metal grave markers, neither of which faired well in the moist Irish climate.
Isolated as it was from the advances of time and commerce, Castletownshend did offer a choice of two pubs. Mary Ann’s pub, Michelin-rated and oozing history and charm inside could only offer us non-reservation holders a modernistic and drafty back patio for dinner. We thought we could make up for it by chasing rumors of live music at the second offering, Lill McCarthy’s pub, a steep climb up the one street out of town. Halfway through the door to a music-less interior but not wanting to appear short on resolve, we huddled around draft beers poured by a surly barmaid expecting us to know immediately what we wanted for our once-in-this-lifetime beverage at her venue. A gaggle of women in the opposite corner, joined by one obliging man, were having their own private laugh party – perfectly reasonable in a crowded pub but a bit disjointed in this otherwise empty space with Ms Grumpy as the overlord. At least the beer was cold and frothy, and the immediate company warm and engaging!
The morning brought rain steady enough to keep us down in the cabin. We could afford a late start along this coast full of anchorage options. As we raised the dinghy to get underway, I noticed we were missing our prized big round ball fender. We used to have two of these gems of fiberglass hull protectors. One disappeared over the deck back in Yarmouth, England. I was about to be pretty bummed to lose the other to the sea when I thought I spotted something small and white far downstream of us on the river bank. Down went the dinghy again and off I went to attempt an FOB – Fender Over Board – rescue. Success was ours and we headed out to coastal waters and another day of brisk winds from astern.
With a following wind and sea, the only decision to make is which of the many downwind sailing plans you should choose. We tried wing and wing, and as the wind built to 25 knots it was time to slow this freight train down with a few reefs. The points of land passed quickly on our port side, starting with Galley Head, then Seven Heads, and ending with our heads in the heavens as we dropped anchor in Broadstrand Bay. True to its name, stretching out before us was a long arcing beach with Sea Rose in the middle, making us feel like we were the center of attention at a theater-in-the-round.
The swan song of our Emerald Isle exploration had always been Kinsale. But first, we had to avoid the faux pas of mispronunciation by ensuring we put the emphasis on the second syllable (kin-SAIL). We had visited Kinsale over 20 years ago, a century of time as far as cell phones and Instagram are concerned. Karen’s mom, Pat, had joined us with our two young kids. Despite it raining on our visit, Pat was enthralled with Kinsale and even spoke of moving there. With a married name of Wells, a maiden name of Mulks, and a Mother’s last name of Keane, she would have blended right in. Without question, Kinsale tugs at the spirit of nearly all Irish we met on our journey. When we told newly acquainted Irish people of our plan to make Kinsale the end of our Ireland itinerary and the jumping off point to the Canaries, they would pause, reflect, perhaps tilt their head to the side, and respond with “ooh’s” and “ahh’s” as if recalling the joy of their long-ago wedding day. Kinsale, close to the economic hub of Cork, but situated right on the coast, is a haven for boaters, and sailboaters in particular. I could never have guessed I would return 20 years later, on my own craft, and sail into this harbor steeped in history. In 1601, during Queen Elizabeth I’s reign, Ireland’s dominant Gaelic form of governance lost a bitter fight with England at the Battle of Kinsale, despite the aid of a 130-ship armada from Spain. The Spanish went on to battle against the English in the Anglo-Spanish War, but for Ireland, another 300 years would pass before they would gain their independence again in 1921. In that light, it is fortunate that the prevalent Irish sentiment towards Kinsale is one of romantic affection rather than the horrors of dead countrymen.
The day started with gray skies, a light rain, and zero wind. As we approached the prominent Old Head of Kinsale, numerous sailboats motored past us in the opposite direction. We discovered that this is the way to make progress westbound on this coastline. When the prevailing west and southwest winds die out, westbound boats hurry up and start their engines to take advantage of the moderate seas. We gave these time-bound travelers plenty of room as we rounded Old Head and turned towards the harbour entrance of Kinsale. Old Head combines two wide land masses separated by a narrow isthmus. Ashore, a world class golf course of the same name occupies the table-top promontory, bringing well-heeled golfers from far flung countries to Kinsale. We ran into a gathering of U.S. southerners who had just finished a round at Old Head before heading off to an American football exhibition game featuring Georgia Tech vs Florida State in Dublin. It’s good to see that Kinsale is diversifying from an oft-frugal sailing community!
After tying up at Kinsale Yacht Club, there is much to entertain the visitor, whether landlubber or sailor. The town itself is bustling with shops, restaurants and pubs. There is the impressive star shaped Charles Fort (built after the Battle of Kinsale). Across the harbor is the more subdued James Fort, with more open space for walking in tall grasses swaying in the breeze. When we announced our plans back in the winter to sail to Kinsale, Gary and Karen came up with the idea to scatter some of Pat’s ashes there as a fitting end to the life of a beautiful and courageous woman. Some of Bill’s (Pat’s husband & Karen’s Dad) ashes were also brought to scatter. A suitable spot overlooking the harbor was selected, made even more memorable with a collection of wildflowers. Words were shared, moments of silence were treasured, and the honor and respect from son and daughter were palpable. The rest of us can only hope for such a kind sendoff when our time comes.
We bid adieu to Gary and his wife Karen in Kinsale and prepared for the arrival of our ocean-going crew member, Alex, to join us for our pending departure to the Canary Islands. Check out our next blog entry for that exciting offshore adventure!
In the meantime, have a look at our most recent YouTube video release, Norway’s Glacial Wonders from last summer.
Sounds like you had a great time in Kinsale, and what a nice tribute to parents to bring their ashes there. We really liked Kinsale when we visited there several years ago as part of our cycling adventures along the WAW (Wild Atlantic Way).
In terms of surly barmaids, we often found that servers in UK restaurants and pubs were annoyed that we weren’t immediately ready to order a drink the moment we sat down.