Carlingford and Drogheda, County Louth

The Oldies, God love them, try to convince themselves that they are still young and crispy, but I know better. I’ve seen the signs. My beady little bird’s eye has spotted the elasticated waistbands slowly creeping in. The occasional afternoon naps. The spare pairs of reading glasses stashed in every room, bag and pocket. The sudden interest in felt slippers and sensible shoes. And now, the latest step on the slippery slope to full-blown Oldie-hood – the addiction to lemon drops.  

To be fair, it’s not their fault entirely. Here in Ireland, they have been under the spell of sweet pusher extraordinaire, Her Ladyship’s Mummykins. At every opportunity, she was whipping tins of delectable delights from the depths of her flowery shopping bag and waving them under their noses. Sure, they didn’t stand a chance. It was only a matter of time before they had become full-blown addicts.

Anyhow. I digress. Back to our latest outing…

This time the Boiled Sweet Brigade set off on a trip to County Louth. I imagine they enjoyed the scenery en route. I kept my head down in an effort to tune out the sucking, slurping and smacking noises that were driving me to distraction.

I did sit up and take notice, however, when His Lordship screeched to a halt in a tiny, non-descript village in County Louth. ‘Where’s the fire?’ I thought. All became clear when I saw the name of the place.

His Lordship looked pretty smug in Lordship. But as that was about the only thing one could do in Lordship, we soon drove on.

Lovely Carlingford, on the other hand, merited more than a quick photo stop. What a lovely spot, even on a bitterly cold January day. In fact, the sprinkling of snow on the Mourne Mountains in the distance added to the beauty of its idyllic location on the south shore of Carlingford Lough. The ruins of the 13^th century King John’s Castle at the harbour, the ‘Tholsel’ (medieval town gate) and the old town wall, the 16^th town house known as ‘The Mint’, the old railway station, the quaint shops and pubs in the old town centre… I am sure these all have tourists coming here in their droves in the summer.

By the way, when you see leprechauns about, you just know you’re in a tourist haven. I suspect the modern mania for leprechauns can be blamed on films such the 1959 Walt Disney film ‘Darby O’Gill and the Little People’. It has probably done for Ireland what the ‘The Sound of Music’ has done for Austria. There’s little doubt that films such as these have helped to keep the tourists coming. But although ‘The Sound of Music’ is loved with a passion in the English-speaking world, few Austrians have actually seen it. Or, like His Lordship, simply refuse to watch it.

But I bet Her Ladyship wouldn’t object to seeing the young Sean Connery doing his thing in ‘Darby’, in spite of his appalling Irish accent. And his singing. Hmmm… watching the first James Bond singing in a terrible Irish accent might actually be worth enduring all those awful Hollywood-style leprechauns!

We later drove along Carlingford Lough as far as Omeath where the Oldies briefly braved the cold to enjoy the lovely views of Warrenpoint across the water. I was delighted to see that, like in Carlingford, the local council provides litter grabbers and bags for anyone who feels inclined to use them. I was even more delighted to see that were actually being used too. Now there’s an idea that more local authorities should pick up on!

All too soon – I suspect that the reserves of lemon drops were running low – we had to turn southwards again. However, we did have time to make a short stop in Drogheda, where ancient mummy-in-law was anxious for His Lordship to meet an even more ancient ancestor of hers.

St. Peter’s, a most imposing church on West Street, houses the national shrine to St. Oliver Plunkett. Archbishop of Armagh and Primate of All Ireland, Oliver Plunkett was a victim of the ‘Popish Plot’ and was hanged, drawn and quartered in England in 1681. The door of his prison cell where he spent his last days is on display in the church, along with various relics including his skull.

Now, His Lordship says that when he googled the St. Oliver story, he read that his body was buried and these relics were later returned to Ireland. Her Ladyship, however, says the story she was told as a child was that his body was burned after his gruesome execution. A woman standing in the crowd is said to have kicked his skull out of the fire, slipped it under her shawl and then run off with it. Whichever version is true, I personally prefer the skull-stealing story.

Here’s a story I can definitely vouch for, as I witnessed it myself: Her Ladyship was in the process of taking a photo of the glass case where the saint’s skull is on display, when cheeky 87-year-old Mummykins photobombed her. ‘Do you notice the family resemblance?’ she asked, posing next to St. Oliver’s head.

The strange thing was, we did!