Campervan Therapy

As usual Bantry has so many gifts to offer, not least the wonderful parking spot in the hotel grounds, which were once part of the grand estate of Bantry House, which lies beside it. This means that there’s sub-tropical planting, along with woods of hazel, oak, wych-elm and willow.

The sea-fed lagoon hosts the resident herons. Why is it that herons always hunch into themselves looking so very grumpy? But when they flythey return us to the past, looking like prehistoric creatures. The oyster catchers also stage fly-bys, with their neon white Ws shining.

We’re both grateful for modern technology, which allows Seán a view of Bantry Bay while he works and allows me to go to the three-day poetry course as part of the West Cork Literary Festival.

The festival sees Graham Norton, whose humorous soft crime fiction I particularly like for a relaxing read, along with Richard E Grant, among a host of others this year.

Ruth Padel is the poet teaching the course this year. I’m told by my classmates that she loves Ireland, and so we’re all sharing stories, poems and laughter before five minutes have gone and it’s clear Ruth’s loving it as much as we are. It’s also clear that she’s a talented teacher, never resisting giving constructive criticism, but always in a supportive way.

Ma Murphy’s pub is a stalwart of Bantry life, excellent handmade pizzas, open mic for poetry and music. Our Lady of Perpetual Succour staring at us in a blood red room takes me back to my dear old mum, who had the same painting.

We can’t stay for the 10 pm start of the open mic, I’ve homework to do for my poetry course. The next morning I’m abashed – all my classmates have managed to go to the open mic and still do the homework, some octogenarians didn’t leave Ma Murphy’s until 2 a.m.

No visit to the festival is complete without a tour of Bantry House. My favourite part of the whole tour is the garden, the wisteria around the sea-serpent fountain, the flight of steps up to the top of the garden, with a wonderful vista of Bantry’s bay, the cottage garden by the conservatory.

Perhaps the highlight, though, are the Strawberry trees, their trunks glistening like new blood in the rain, the prehistoric gunnera, the ferns in the dell, the path climbing up beside the stream, and the Japanese bridges crossing it.

I count the chimneys on the mansion house – thirty-three in all. We mooch around the portraits of ancestors, carved Spanish trunks, the Arabic chest, and the Russian shrine.

The tithe table holds Ireland’s history in its wood, the hidden drawer was turned towards those paying rent, then back towards the agent and master of the house, dues paid by a sleight of hand.

The intimate photographs of the White family interest me, the ordinary events of the family whose ancestors bought the house in the 18^th Century, and who once owned 95,000 acres, as far as the eye can see, across the bay and beyond the mountains ringing it.

The family still live in the house, and I wonder what it’s like to carry the weight of all that history on your shoulders. Today, there’s a wedding in the grand library, a new use for a historic space.