Most of this was written on the teensy tiny puddle-jumper of a plane from Derry to Heathrow after a lovely weekend in Donegal (preceded by a weekend in Dublin and Co. Westmeath), so the content of this Substack is unashamedly Irish-centred as Ireland is ON MY MIND at the moment. God’s own country! The very best (when it wants to be, anyway).
A truly teensy tiny puddle-jumper of a plane.
Books
An Irish theme to my books highlights this time round: Caroline O’Donoghue’s The Rachel Incident was worth waiting 6 months for (thanks again, Haringey Library Services). What seems like a familiar initial premise (illicit student-teacher relationship) ends up pivoting into something unexpected and much more interesting: would be interested to hear thoughts from anyone else who’s read it!
A Thread of Violence also surpassed expectations: a really thoughtful and nuanced piece of self-reflection and interrogation in our desire to ‘understand’ those who perpetrate truly horrific crimes. Malcolm Macarthur is one of Ireland’s most notorious murderers (Guardian long-read on the subject by the author here to whet the appetite), and Mark O’Connell struggles to piece together the man he meets with the man who committed two unashamedly violent and brutal murders.
Lastly, I was gripped by the horrors that unfold in Old God’s Time. Sebastian Barry is a beautiful writer (‘sheets so full of nylon they were like an electric storm over Switzerland’ and ‘tea so strong it was like the contour of hell in his cup’ being favourites of mine), and thank God because these small moments of light relief are much welcome in an otherwise unrelentingly bleak story, told by an increasingly erratic and unreliable narrator.
The big house + the famine
Don’t revoke my Irish citizenship for saying this, but 95% of Irish architecture is Ugly with a capital U. (Why do modern Irish housebuilders literally hate windows?) Glenveagh Castle is no exception - its interiors are unbelievably architecturally dull, although this is somewhat made up for by the hilarious kitsch decor which I am obsessed with.
As far as castles go, Glenveagh is pretty new. The estate was bought by John Adair - who was already a prominent landowner in Co. Louth - and he built the castle there in the 1870s (‘castle’ in name and vague style only: it definitely didn’t ever have a defensive purpose).
Adair was one of the truly nightmarish landowners of the era. According to Glenveagh’s own interpretation, he was a piece of work. He fined his tenants when their livestock “trespassed”, because they couldn’t afford to build fences. His revenue collectors were believed to be stealing livestock in addition to collecting fine money (and their own added extras). When one of the collectors was murdered in 1860, Adair evicted 46 families (244 people) the following year - coincidentally, another famine year and one which hit the western parts of Ireland even harder than the Great Famine (An Gorta Mór) of 1845-52. Grim. Safe to say he’s not remembered fondly in these parts.
Apart from one small board in the entrance hall, Glenveagh’s grisly beginnings aren’t touched on. It’s all fun mid-20th century kitsch and film stars. Which is kinda understandable - people aren’t coming here for famine history, they’re coming for a nice walk, some tea and cake, and a nosy round a castle. But I guess that begs the question of how *do* you display famine history? It’s an incredibly important chapter in Irish history for so many reasons - not least because it halved the population of Ireland, kickstarted Irish migration, and further exacerbated tensions in Anglo-Irish relations (which, c. 70 years later, bubbled over into a war of independence). Within these huge national shifts, of course, are hundreds of thousands of personal tragedies, unspeakable horrors and unforgivable cruelties, stories of families torn apart, spirits crushed and broken, new lives begun.
Adair made his fortune buying up bankrupt estates in the aftermath of the famine, evicting the existing tenants and replacing them with tenants who could make the estate profitable once again, then selling them on, and his evictions in 1861 earned him the nickname “Black Jack Adair” in Donegal. His fortune - and indeed Glenveagh’s existence - stems from profiting from human tragedy and the labour of others. Nor was he the only Irish landowner to profit in the period. Glenveagh’s story carried on long after Adair’s demise: before it ended up in state ownership, it was owned by an American, Henry McIlhenny, who used it largely as a holiday home. It’s got plenty of garish wallpaper, kitsch prints, and bold colour schemes: talking any more about famine history in a building with hot pink flock wallpaper in the Staircase Hall feels somewhat inappropriate.
Ireland obviously has a different context - and a different relationship - when it comes to big houses. Hundreds were burnt down in the War of Independence as symbols of English / Anglo-Irish oppression, and those that exist today are anomalies - they’ve often been bought and sold multiple times, taken into state ownership or have a connection to a particularly well-known Irish figure (Constance Markievicz at Lissadell, for example). Private owners are, of course, at liberty to do what they like with the houses they own and live in.
The OPW doesn’t seem to know what to do with a lot of the houses in its care - many of them are not in good repair (the Atlantic front in the west of Ireland does not make for a heritage-friendly climate in fairness) and in a nation where these houses represent the oppressive, and often brutal, British rule in Ireland, it’s perhaps more difficult to justify the maintenance of tens, or even hundreds, of these sites by the public purse than it is in other nations. Leaving them to crumble, on the other hand, feels too overtly neglectful for a state body, so instead, they’re left as slightly sad monuments to a history that is too complex to meaningfully engage with in the space & budget allocated. Eccentric Americans are much easier engagement material for leisure visitors.
(And in response to the initial questions posed: I think the answer is you don’t really try to meaningfully engage with famine history at a place like Glenveagh - at least, not in the main castle narrative and interpretation. If you’re going to do ‘the famine and the big house’, you’ve surely got to go down a Strokestown and provide a whole separate museum on An Gorta Mór).
Etc
I have been on a cinema rampage recently, and actually, have been pleasantly surprised that I’ve enjoyed pretty much everything I’ve seen; Challengers (incredibly sexy film, phwoar - loved the techno soundtrack); Sometimes I Think About Dying; Triangle of Sadness (beautiful rich people being horrible is my favourite genre); more Guadagnino in the form of Call Me By Your Name (I am literally years late to this party but God it’s gorgeous!); and last but not least High & Low: John Galliano, which charts the meteoric rise of the now infamous designer in the 80s and 90s, before turning to a spectacular breakdown. Galliano, unsurprisingly, is a deeply unreliable narrator of his own life and actions (not least because he was off his face on a toxic co*cktail of alcohol + prescription drugs for extended periods at his worst), but the filmmakers confront the contradictions head on, painting shades of grey over what anti-Semitism really means, and what repentance might look like. Surprisingly thought-provoking.
I also had to resist the temptation to pay for a checked bag home when I discovered that White Mausu is now making smoky chilli oil, and that a teensy tiny deli in Dunfanaghy was stocking the paprika Harry’s Nut Butter which will honestly change your life a little bit once you start putting it in cheese toasties.
PS: nothing like some bog views to break up a drive x
