Normally, I write a blog post once a month. I can incorporate and consolidate stories and pictures into a single post. After our day on Whibby Island, I had so many pictures and stories to tell that I had to sit down immediately and try to recreate the sights and stories we encountered on this fascinating and historical Irish island.
We woke up aboard Equus at 8 AM, drank our tea, and prepared for a day of biking. It was a mile bike ride to the ferry that crossed from Bantry to the nearby Whibby Island. Several local people we met over the last few days suggested we visit: “You really need to go and visit Whibby!” Leaving Equus at her floating dock with her gorgeous views of the green, cow dotted hillsides, we made our way through town and to the ferry terminal.
A tiny ferry, the jovial Irish driver welcomed us and our bikes onto his vessel. Only two other passengers were aboard, obviously local commuters as they sat in his cabin chatting with the captain. The bright sunshine seemed an unusual treat. When I asked the ferryman if it was unusual to have such sunny weather first thing in the morning, he replied “Aye, this is the first sunny morning we’ve had this year,” in his thick accent. We felt rather privileged to have this amazing weather for our day trip.
We tucked our bikes against the railing and enjoyed the views on the 10-minute ride over to Whibby. The weather was gorgeous, sunny, in the high sixties, and after days of fierce winds, it was finally calm again. There wasn’t a ripple in the bay as we made our way across. The iconic Irish green hills rose all around us, jutting into the sky from each section of the mainland as well as from the islands dotted across the bay.
(Click on thumbnail pictures to see them full size.)
Once we arrived at the island and walked our bikes up the ramp, we struck up a conversation with our passage mate. She was visiting the island for a special occasion. She explained that once a year, a mass is held on Whibby. This mass honors all the people who have died and blesses the local ships which provide a living for many of the residents. After the mass at an ancient cemetery on the highest hill on the island, those attending come back to the Bank House for some tea and sandwiches. It’s the only establishment on Whibby, The Bank House is a tiny pub and restaurant, formerly the island’s bank. The kind woman gave us suggestions for our bike tour. After looking at the maps and reading the signage on some of the highlights we would be seeing, we were on our way.
It is rare you can take a tour of a place filled with such history and not see another soul, for us, it was a real treat. We began our bike route without seeing a car, or another human being. The air was fresh and crisp, the sun warm and bright, and the flowers and foliage bursting with vibrant colors. There was, however, an abundance of cows to stop and chat with. I got very excited with each cow pasture we passed and had to stop and chat with my friends – a little irritating to my biking partner. They seemed quite curious and interested in these people that were visiting – not the usual farmer that probably brought them food on a daily basis.
We rode for a few kilometers before coming to a closed gate. We were on Old School Road but seemed to have missed the school. We backtracked past our new friends and suddenly noticed off to our left the school the road was named for. It had been recently renovated, surrounded by a high wire fence, and did not stand out as an old schoolhouse upon first inspection. We paused a moment to read the name of the school and the date on the sign placed just below the peak. That’s when a small truck pulled up and parked next to the school. “Uh oh,” I thought to myself as a large man appeared from the truck. “We are probably in trouble again for being somewhere we shouldn’t be.”
I smiled at the man and he asked us what we were doing. We explained we were biking around the island looking for the historic points on the trail guide. “Well, you missed the trail to the battery,” he explained, “It’s just up the hill there, you will see a yellow trail mark.” I then questioned him about the school.
“So this is the old schoolhouse the road was named for?”
“Aye,” and as he started to explain about it, he stopped in mid-sentence. “Well, why don’t ya just come in and have a look.”
Once again, impeccable timing at being somewhere optimal for getting a wonderful, personalized experience. We followed the gentleman past the gates and entered into the one-room schoolhouse, the only one on Whibby Island. As we entered, we stopped at a sign which explained the building was being restored with the help of the Irish Government as a special preservation and history project. Not only were we getting a tour by the man responsible for the renovation, but he attended this school as a child, then bought the property and began the restoration just a few years ago.
The pride in his voice was evident as he told his story, the words of his thick accent reverberating through the room, scented with the smell of freshly cut wood and varnish. He began saying that when he attended as a child, there were eighty children in this one-roomed school. Pictures of the old building and one class of students with the teachers lined the wall. I gasped at the idea of having eighty students in a room smaller than my school rooms which I felt were packed with up to 23 kids – for only one grade level.
We had to listen carefully to the story as it unfolded as we didn’t catch every word he spoke. His thick dialect made him difficult to understand, but the emotion in his voice helped tell the story. There were two teachers in the room, a man and a woman. We looked at the picture of them standing beside their students. The woman, he explained, was very kind and a great teacher. The man, however, was evil incarnate. He said looking into his eyes was like staring at the devil. His uncle, who attended the school before him, was beaten so badly by this teacher, kicked relentlessly as he lay on the floor, that he broke his arm in three places. Wanting retribution for his horrendous and abusive treatment, the family tried to get the teacher fired. Everyone was so fearful of this man that they couldn’t get a doctor to testify that the boy’s arm had been broken.
The young children attending school were always grouped close to the fireplace. He shook his head at this memory. “They huddled in terror when they saw him enter the room. Some of them were so scared they peed on the floor. Then, he would go over and beat them for peeing on the floor. My heart was so broken for those little ones, it made me want to cry.
On to happier memories, he shared a few, then explained that there were 60 American workers arriving by ferry that day. They were helping with the restoration and building a small hotel behind the school with a few rooms for guests. This man was helping to restore the building and keep the stories and history of it alive for future generations. The woman school teacher taught there for 50 years – her contribution to the education of the children of Whibby will always be remembered.
We thanked our kind guide for taking the time to tell us the story of the schoolhouse. We could sense he was nervous about the arrival of the Americans… Getting back on our bikes, we followed his directions back up the hill finding the pathway to the fort. It was not far up the road. We had missed the set of wooden stairs going over a fence, to a pasture. We climbed the hillside while the expansive horizon appeared and left us breathless from the incredible view.
We sat on the grassy hill and absorbed the panoramic view of the bay, the long lines of muscle farming that threaded through the water. This bay is the largest producer of muscles in the world. The occasional fishing boat motoring by left a rippled wake in the otherwise still and tranquil water. It was magical. While we couldn’t go in and explore the old fort, there were signs describing its historical significance. We walked all the way around it, admiring the deep moat and picturing what it must have looked like fully restored and filled with soldiers.
Next stop on the list was the far South end of Whibby Island. We passed old farms and houses, the road lined with vibrant orange and purple flowers. It seemed as if we had the island to ourselves, stopping at the pretty vistas and making friends with each pasture of cows. Finally, the road ended and the landscape totally changed. Gone were the rolling hills, replaced by a rough and rocky shoreline. We read up on the history of this end of the island on the marquee. It seemed we needed to make a treck by foot down the shoreline to Witch’s Rock. The story entailed two witches battling, one being defeated and the indent of her butt after her fall, forever etched into this rock.
We strolled down the shore, carefully treading over the boulders and rocks, amazed at the diversity of the stones. There were layers of rock formations crossing over one another, revealing thousands of years of stratification, abruptly replaced by a completely different type of stone. We imagined this to be a geologists dream with the multitudes of rock layers and obvious drastic transformations somewhere in the island’s history. And once again, it seemed there wasn’t another soul on this island. We were being stocked by a rogue trio of sheep hidden in a high vantage point on a cliff. We thought it a strange place for sheep – much more suited for goats. Maybe they were goat whannabes.
Two stops left on our tour. The next was the cemetery high on the island’s largest hill. The hill was too steep to ride the bikes to the top so we got off and walked them up. Along the way, we met the group people attending the mass. We saw our ferry mate that told us about the event and talked to a few of the visitors, some having come from other countries such as the US. Most had relatives buried on Whibby and had made the journey back to honor their memories. Meeting the people was great, but the donkeys, oh the wonderful donkeys we stopped and chatted with. They were friendly and delightful, eager to have their fuzzy ears rubbed.
At the top of the hill, we were greeted by more incredible panoramic views of the island and surrounding bays. The history of the cemetery was revealed to us through the marquees. In the US we often think of our history dating back two hundred years as being monumental. Our short time in history is evident as we read about the island’s history dating back thousands of years. We took our time wandering around the gravesites and reading what was still visible in the time-eroded stones.
Last stop on our great circle route was the oil tank field, a prominent part of the Whiddy’s history. One of the reasons for their notoriety was the disaster that took place in the late ’70s. An old oil ship transferring oil to Whibby suddenly and violently exploded. It not only killed 50 people but it decimated the entire section of the island the tank was built upon. The memory is still vivid in the minds of the people on the island and on the mainland. Whibby is an important oil transfer point built in the late ’60s and was utilized during the oil crisis in the ’70s when oil was not available from the middle east. The giant drums seem out-of-place on the rustic island and jut like iron dinosaurs on Whibby’s eastern horizon.
Our route completed, we biked back to the ferry harbor, and the only pub on the island. Whereas there were only the two of us when we arrived, the island was now busy with the folks from the mass as well as families spending the day on the tiny beach. The pub was bustling with activity. We had a beer, some local cider, and sat and people watched while we waited for the 4:00 ferry.
Our legs were exhausted from the hiking and biking up many hills. Our minds were still buzzing with the stories and history we had experienced. It was mind-boggling to think about all we had learned this day, from all that we had seen. This was one small island in one small part of the world. To think about all we have to see and learn in our travels around the globe is truly incredible.
Dan and Alison
S/V Equus