Kilkenny Folk Tales E-Book

Anne Farrell

• Herausgeber: THP Ireland
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Seitenzahl: 293

Beschreibung

County Kilkenny abounds in folk tales, myths and legends and a selection of the best, drawn from historical sources and newly recorded local reminiscence, have been brought to life here by local storyteller Anne Farrell. Kilkenny is the place where, legend has it, St Evin and St Molin once had to have their dispute settled by a shoal of fish; where the infamous Countess of Ormond brought fear and terror to the people of Grannagh; and where an imprudent local man decided to find out if the supposedly bottomless 'Kerry holes' would live up to their reputation. It is also said to be the home of a plethora of strange and magical creatures and stories abound of encounters with fairies, ghosts, banshees, shape-shifters and an army of cats who fought an epic battle near Dunmore Caves. From age-old legends and fantastical myths, to amusing anecdotes and cautionary tales, this collection is a heady mix of bloodthirsty, funny, passionate and moving stories. It will take you into a remarkable world where you can let your imagination run wild.

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Title

Acknowledgements

Introduction

1 The Legend of Grennan Castle

2 The Legend of St Evin and St Moling

3 Dearc Fhearna (The Cave of the Alders)

4 Ciarán of Saigir (St Kieran)

5 The Flying Fortress

6 Tearlaith Dá Súile is a Máthair Céile

7 Kilaspy House and the Black Lady’s Walk

8 The Joneses of Mullinabro

9 The Story of Dame Alice Kyteler

10 The Countess of Ormond and Grannagh Castle

11 The Connawee

12 An tSean Bhó Riabhach (The Old Brindled Cow)

13 Lough Cullen (Holly Lake)

14 Kilkenny Cats

15 The Weasel’s Funeral

16 Stories from Castlecomer

17 Folk Tales from Crosspatrick

18 St Nicholas and Jerpoint

19 Shape-changing in Ossory

20 Freney the Robber

21 Ballykeefe Wood

22 The Highwayman from Ballycallan

23 St Fiachra the Gardener

24 How King’s River got its Name

25 Blessed Edmund Ignatius Rice

26 The Rose of Mooncoin

27 The Carrickshock Story

28 The Priest Hunter from Bishop’s Hall

29 The Bridge of Clodagh in The Rower

30 St Cainnech of Aghaboe (St Canice)

31 Tales from James Stephen’s Barracks

32 The Last Fitzgerald in Cluan Castle (Clonamery)

33 The GillyGilly Man

Copyright

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Once again I am deeply indebted to many people for their support and guidance.

I am grateful for my upbringing which was steeped in the old traditions, thanks to my late parents, Patrick and Eileen Kirwan, and their friends. They told the stories and showed us the areas of their origin where possible.

Thanks to the friends and old neighbours who have never forgotten the old yarns and are generous in their shared remembrance.

I thank Liam Murphy, a master storyteller, who gave unstintingly of his time and wisdom.

Aisling Kelly and the staff of Kilkenny Libraries were a huge support and I thank them sincerely for their introductions to other folklorists in the county: Kathleen Laffan, author of A History of Kilmacow – A South Kilkenny Parish; Michael Brennan, author of Dearc Fhearna: Its History and Environs; Seamus Walsh, author of In the Shadow of the Mines; the late Patrick J. Cummins, author of ‘Emergency’ Air Incidents South East Ireland 1940–1945; Willie Joe Mealy, folklorist of Clogh; and Mary Anne Vaughan, folklorist from Crosspatrick. Ms Nicky Flynn of Kytelers Inn was generous with her time and information as were Vera Meyler and Kitty O’Brien and many, many others. Thanks also to Jonathan Quinn and the Quinn family in Kilkenny for their help with research.

I am delighted that Kees and Anneke Vogelaar gave the information on Mullinabro and thankful to Lieutenant Larry Scallan, curator of the Visitors’ Centre in James Stephen’s Barracks who was so generous with his time and military-based stories. It was like finding a treasure throve hitherto unexplored.

A special acknowledgement is due to my kind neighbours Elaine Mullan, Ian McHardy and my daughter Hazel Farrell for their proof reading and advice.

Finally thanks to that grand man who married me, Brendan, and to our family who gave encouragement and space when needed.

INTRODUCTION

The voice I bring to this collection of folk tales is that of a storyteller not an academic or historian. History has, however, a way of rearing its head in the best of stories and I have attempted to be historically correct where possible. These are stories handed down from people for people, however, so I would like each reader who picks up this book to enjoy the voice of the story which echoes for them alone.

The stories from the south of the county were bred into the bones of my siblings and I, and so it was wonderful to find that Mary Ann Vaughan was nurtured by similar tales in Crosspatrick in the northern end of the county, despite a big generational gap between us.

The proliferation of saints in the county gave me problems when deciding which stories I should choose for inclusion in this collection. The long-ago saints had great power and their goodness still lingers in many parts of the county and so if I have not included your favourite saint or holy well I hope you will understand my dilemma.

Stories which are included here range from a time when all creatures could converse, as in the Legend of St Evin and St Moling. Knights, fresh from the Crusades, both wicked and good, roam these pages as they once did the land. We did have knights living here in medieval times but we were so busy surviving one invasion after another that we had little time to think about or know the valiant deeds and protections offered by some good men. We did, however, know all about the cruel and hard-hearted ones. The Legend of Grennan Castle is one I love to tell to keep a balance.

On my travels collecting these stories I spoke with people from every walk of life and regret that I cannot include everything. Many people told me of their favourite legends and their small recollections had a way of blossoming into life between us. In a way this book is keeping the faith with the ancient storytellers and bards. I am passing on these stories to all of you to enjoy and to hand on to the next generation.

During the compilation of this collection I have found friendship and help at every turn. People are indeed wonderful. The journey through the folk tales of the county of Kilkenny has given me great joy and a renewed sense of belonging.

1

THE LEGENDOF GRENNAN CASTLE

The Castle of Grennan was once occupied by a medieval knight who went by the name of Denn. He was, by all accounts, a fair and good man and his family and tenants prospered under his care and protection. In fact, his lady wife loved him dearly and proved her love in a most unusual and spectacular manner.

It seems that the good knight Denn was so busy protecting and getting involved in all aspects of rural life that he conveniently forgot to pay his taxes to the king’s men who sat in Dublin, counting the vast funds they were collecting from lowly landowners like Denn.

Well, maybe he forgot or else he hoped that they would forget all about him and his lovely castle in Grennan, after all it was a bit off the beaten track when it came to places of importance. But there is always a clever little maneen somewhere when it comes to keeping tabs on people and what they have. It has ever been so since Cain killed Abel. So, news eventually came to the ears of the king that Denn was remiss in paying his dues to his liege lord.

The liege lord to whom Denn was beholden was none other than Richard II of England. Wouldn’t you think he had enough to do over in England without bothering poor Denn? Well indeed, he probably had but he decided to take a break from chasing them and came over to Ireland for a little rest; kings don’t get much rest you know, for there is always someone hounding them for this, that or the other. King Richard II was no different, some conniving little revenue collector, hoping to ingratiate himself with him, reminded him continually that his wayward subject, the knight known as Denn who held a castle in Grennan had not paid his respectful dues to his sovereign lord.

It appears that the collector, for good measure, said that Denn was getting too familiar with the mere Irish and was adopting their Irish ways and customs. Worst of all was the possibility that because he was becoming so involved locally he was dressing himself in the style of the Irish.

When the king heard this he was nearly hopping mad with indignation at the perceived slights to his royal person. He declared that he would drop in on Castle Grennan when he was travelling from Waterford to Kilkenny and that he would have Denn’s head served to him upon a dish at table in the hall of his own castle of Grennan.

Oh, there were some who were delighted to hear this oath declared and many hoped that they would be given the castle for themselves once the king had feasted his eyes on the head of Denn. Greed is a terrible curse.

In those times the journey from Waterford to Grennan would have taken much longer than it takes today. The king was always accompanied by a huge retinue. The many nobles who accompanied King Richard wished to impress him with their attentiveness and loyalty. They all dressed up in medieval grandeur of the finest wool and silk and bejewelled leather, but were careful not to show colours above or below their own station. Next, came the knights and squires who would be followed by a great number of archers and men-at-arms. Following along on the heels of this grand parade would be the cooks and servants.

Sure, it was like trying to move a whole village with all the paraphernalia they needed. The progress therefore was always going to be slow and it was no wonder then that a man on horseback with nothing to delay him might reach Grennan Castle long before this expedition drew near. Or indeed maybe the word was just passed from village to village until it reached the knight called Denn.

When the Denn household heard about the king’s oath to have their lovely knight’s head on a platter there must have been a right hullabaloo. If Denn was now truly a man engaged in the ways of the men of Ossory he probably said more than ‘Oh heck’. But his wife, on the other hand, took time to think things through. She was a grand woman, bless her.

Well, while King Richard and his huge retinue rested overnight at Knocktopher there was little rest at Grennan Castle. There were a lot of things to be organised and the lovely lady wife of that much-loved knight was clever as well as beautiful. Hurried orders were given and servants were seen to make many trips to the cellars and kegs were loaded up on several carts and sent off into the dark with specific instructions, which must be followed to the letter for the fate of Grennan depended on it.

When the king’s progress continued the following day he was amused to find that every mile of the road on the way to Grennan Castle was marked by patient Grennan servants with butts of rich Spanish wine. Needless to say these were sampled and enjoyed by the whole company and it was not cheap wine either, but the best stock to be found in Grennan’s cellars.

King Richard was impressed with the gesture and the obvious good quality of the wine being served at each mile-post and expressed regret that he had uttered the oath about having the head of the good knight Denn. He reminded everyone that even though he had regrets he could not go back on a royal oath, no matter what form of persuasion was used. This worried the wine servers from Grennan but cheered up the king’s companions for they all thought they still had a chance to gain possession of the castle.

Well, mile passed upon mile and the king was full of the joys of life and wine when he came to the causeway, which led to the gates of Castle Grennan. There, to his amazement, he found the pathway carpeted with the finest rich velvet and brocade and Denn’s lovely lady wife waiting patiently to greet her liege lord. Her courtesy was deep and her eyes grave when they met his, which had lost their merriment at the sight of this lavish and respectful display. Regret for his hasty oath was uppermost in his heart but he walked beside the lady as they went into the banquet hall.

The hall was bedecked with the finest furnishings and the tables piled high with every good food and a plentiful supply of wine. However, the king’s eyes were drawn to a large silver covered serving dish which was placed directly in front of the seat which was obviously for him. Did he imagine it or was that red liquid seeping out beneath the lid? The king took his place and the lady Denn allowed a blank seat to remain between herself and her monarch. There were many indrawn breaths as the nobles and king’s men noted this. A deep silence suddenly hung over the room. The lady Denn gestured with her hand and a servant reached forward, past the king, and lifted the lid from the silver serving platter.

The king recoiled in horror and anguish and the nobles one and all turned pale at the sight which met their horrified eyes. There, pale and bloodied, rested the head of the good knight Denn and red blood flowed freely around the platter.

With a startled oath the king, who was given to oaths, cried out that he would give a dozen of his knights if Denn could be recalled to life. No sooner had the words echoed around the hall than Denn’s lady wife rose and drew aside the table covering directly in front of the startled monarch. There on his knees was the good knight Denn with his head stuck up through a hole in the table and fitted with the silver platter like a collar around his neck.

For a moment the king lost his breath and nobles reached for their weapons in genuine alarm then Richard II, king of all he surveyed, threw back his head and laughed until the tears ran down his cheeks. The nobles subsided sheepishly and soon joined in their liege Lord’s merriment.

All was forgiven. The king had indeed been served Denn’s head on a platter and now all was in order once again. In the full flush of relief and good wine not only did the king forgive Denn but he gave to him additional lands and honours and stayed in his castle for many days hunting with hawk and hounds in the surrounding lands.

When the king and his huge party finally departed from Castle Grennan, the good knight known as Denn, Lord of Grennan celebrated quietly with his lady wife and household and as they drank to the health of Richard II it was noted that no taxes had been paid nor had the king asked for any.

2

THE LEGENDOF ST EVINAND ST MOLING

Did you know that St Evin is the patron saint of New Ross? I don’t think I ever heard his name mentioned when I was at school. A saint with a name like that would certainly have been suspect as being an English saint.

There is a story about St Evin which makes me laugh. It is brilliant and it goes like this.

In the long ago time when St Moling was living in his own private monastery just a little south of Graigue, which was later to become Graiguenamanagh, and St Evin was in charge of the religious affairs in New Ross, the two holy men often had arguments.

You would expect that they would have been arguing about great theological questions or ecclesiastical matters but not a bit of it. The two saints had more than religion on their minds. They had fishing rights to argue about. Can you imagine how it was with the two of them? They standing on the banks of the rivers with their robes fluttering in the breeze, trying to best each other.

Now, you know how the salmon come back to where they were spawned, so that they may finish their life cycle and spawn again in the same place? Well, each saint wanted the fish to come up the river they had nearest to them. Wouldn’t you think they were trying to feed thousands instead of a handful of brethren?

The two rivers, the Nore and the Barrow, meet about a mile up above New Ross, and this was where the problem arose. The two saints would, at different times, and sometimes at the same time, command the fish to go up the river they considered to be theirs.

St Moling wanted the fish to go up the River Barrow and St Evin was insistent that they go up the River Nore so he could benefit from their coming and going, for if they spawned in the River Nore then their young would return to that river to spawn eventually, and the same would apply to those who went up the Barrow.

Now, all the fish in both the rivers were becoming increasingly annoyed by the constant commanding and counter-commanding by the holy men. It appears that they would often ban or excommunicate the poor creatures if they didn’t do as they commanded. In fact the poor fish, who had no wish at all to offend or upset the holy men, were themselves becoming so weary that they were not even fit to finish their journey to the spawning grounds.

So the fish got together and told the saints that there had to be an end to this constant bickering. In a moment of clarity the two saints agreed that they would be guided by whatever the fish would decide.

A day and time was set when they would all meet at the confluence of the two rivers and there, after holding a Conclave, the fish would listen to both sides and whichever river the fish felt ‘in conscience bound’ to choose would be the one they would reside in ever after.

Well, the time came for the meeting of all parties. It was a lovely summer morning and St Moling, who had the furthest distance to cover, set out to get to the meeting place. He journeyed all along the banks of the Barrow and, on coming to the arranged place, he found he was early and so sat down in the shelter of a tree to rest while he waited. Now, saints are no different from any of us and, being tired and the sun warm on him and the constant murmur of the rivers meeting, didn’t the poor man fall sound asleep.

St Evin, on the other hand, had a short distance to travel from Ross and came to the scene refreshed and relaxed. He looked around for his opponent and soon found him snoring loudly where he slept. Ah ha, thought he and, without a hint of remorse, he went to the water’s edge and with great eloquence he addressed the congregation of fish who were waiting to give their judgement. His voice throbbed with sincerity and his arguments seemed entirely reasonable and sound to the listening Court of Fish.

They called for his rival to stand forth and give his position but, of course, the still sleeping St Moling never heard them call his name and, I hate to mention this, but St Evin made no move to wake him either. Sure, the fish in the water didn’t even know he was snoring just a few yards away.

When St Moling didn’t answer them or appear before them the fish decided that he was being contemptuous of their court and, if he chose to ignore their attempt at justice, then they had no choice but to rule in favour of St Evin, who had given such a marvellous oration in favour of the River Nore.

Their decision was that henceforth the salmon would consider the River Nore to be their parent river, and the lesser trout and all the other fish would frequent the River Barrow.

St Evin rejoiced with them that they had made such a wise decision and waved them on their journey up the River Nore with many blessings in both Latin and Gaeilge. Only then did he approach the sleeping St Moling and wake him up.

St Moling was a bit disconcerted when he realised that he had missed the Conclave of Fish and had been ruled against, but apparently this is where his saintliness finally showed itself, for he accepted their ruling and acknowledged that the joke had been on him.

There are mixed stories about what happened after. Some say that the older salmon who had already gone up the River Barrow continued to spawn there so that St Moling didn’t have to suffer the deprivation but it appears he never told St Evin of the defectors.

St Evin and his fellow monks enjoyed their salmon, firm in the belief that St Moling was feasting only on trout.

I said it often before and you will probably agree with me now: ‘You never know with saints.’

This legend is mentioned with much more detail and eloquence in Nooks & Corners of the County Kilkenny, by John G.A. Prim.

3

DEARC FHEARNA (THE CAVEOFTHE ALDERS)

The tales about Dearc Fhearna are many and varied, depending on who is doing the telling. It was the old name for the Dunmore Caves and that name was on it long before St Patrick or any of the saints passed that way. The more modern name of Dún Mór, which means the big or great fort, really applies to the townland around about rather than the caves themselves and indeed the remains of ring forts are clearly visible close by.

It was known as one of the three darkest places in Ireland. The other two ‘dark places’ were named as the Caves of Knowth and Slaney. The naming of a place as ‘dark’ would have had several meanings, even in prehistoric times. It was already known as Dearc Fhearna before the coming of the Vikings so it was not the Viking massacre, recorded in The Annals of the Four Masters, in 928, that gave it the name. No, I think it went back to a time when trees and groves of trees held special significance in the everyday lives of our ancestors.

As you and I know, there is a whole separate folklore associated with trees and their significance, so I will just give you what I know about the alder. There are mentions in old manuscripts of ‘Tree Judgements’ (Fidbretha) where every tree had a respected position according to law. There were penalties for damage done to different trees.

The alder was listed as Aithig fedo or Commoner of the Wood and if a branch was cut from it there was a fine of one sheep. To cut a fork of the tree brought a fine of a one-year-old heifer, for base felling of an alder, one milch cow and for the total removal, the price of two and a half milch cows. How they managed that I dare not think.

The old folk tales record many sacred sites on which sacred groves existed and were often subject to being attacked and uprooted by rival tribes or clans. This was done in the belief that it would weaken the resident tribe or maybe even oust them altogether. Groves such as those were known as ‘bile’. Maybe Dearc Fhearna was named for a sacred Grove of Alders.

I think the cave system was probably created by the earth stirring itself. I would also like to believe that it gave shelter to many creatures while the earth was still young. If the old tales are true then there must have been more than one opening into these underground vaults, and there is a possibility that there may have been many another entrance from the valley of the nearby River Dinin. But you know the earth is restless, and there was ample time for rocks to fall and close off access. Sure, a trickle of water can wear away any stone eventually, and there are many trickles of water still to be found in the depths of the caves.

When people populated this area and found this place they must have been excited and probably a little afraid. Deep dark places could be a cause of terror, for who knew if a creature from another time, or indeed another world, still inhabited it. But when needs must the devil drives, they say, and perhaps the need for shelter or safety drove them into the opening.

Perhaps they came upon the ancestors of the giant cat, named in Broccan’s poem in The Book of Leinster as Luchtigern (Lord of the mice), but wherever they came into the cave, they more than likely found it to be a safe shelter with fresh water running in a stream in its depths.

There had to be a more convenient way in because, if you look at the steep access which is there today, you will see that it would have been too hard to defend and too wet and dangerous for normal coming and going in winter. In those times, they had druids and people who knew and understood the earth better than we do today, so maybe they could divine for such places.

Michael Brennan, whose father John, God be good to him, was the self-appointed custodian of the caves during his lifetime, told me that he remembered when he was a lad, that there was work going on in a quarry area of the farm, and it was thought that there had been another entrance, maybe even the main entrance, to the caves from that site.

It was from Michael that I got the story about the time when a fox went to ground in the caves as he was being chased by the hounds, and one hound followed him into the underground caverns. Later that day there were reports from people in Kilkenny City, seven miles away, that they could hear the sound of a hound yelping under High Street.

He told a similar tale about the time when some bright sparks decided to send a drummer boy through the caves, and again the sound of drumming was heard under that same street. There are lots of empty spaces under the earth that we know little or nothing about, so maybe the sounds of both hound and drummer boy were echoing through these spaces from somewhere back along the cave system.

I have also heard stories which say these caves were linked through underground ways to Kilkenny City and indeed to the Castle itself.

This particular story is, I believe, a tongue-in-cheek tale which is told about the time when the Jacobites and Williamites harried and fought each other up and down Ireland. The Williamites had no sense as they wore their bright Red Coats which were clearly visible against the countryside. Well, it appears that a squad of Red Coats, fresh out from their barracks in Kilkenny City, were hard on the trail of local rebels and, confident that they had them cornered, they followed them down into the caves.

Mark my words, they would have skiddered and slid down that steep slope, leaving daylight and safety behind them. Their grand red coats must have been destroyed. I expect there were many words said which could never be set down here, as they stumbled and struggled through the rock-strewn cavern. They must have had some form of lighting, perhaps a tar brand or two, to persevere so obstinately with the chase. Perhaps they could hear the sounds of the rebels ahead of them.

Whatever took them deeper and deeper into the dripping wet and black dark caves we will never know, but not one single Red Coat ever came back up out of that wide mouth in the earth.

The story goes that some time later the sound of their fifes and drums were heard coming from underneath Kilkenny Castle. The possibility of the cave being connected to Kilkenny Castle may not be too far-fetched, but there had to have been a way out somewhere in the grounds of the castle. Perhaps it was connected up from the first building of the castle.

Having been down into the caves myself, I cannot see how they would have managed to bring their fifes and drums down, let alone play them. It’s unlikely that they had them with them as they chased the rebels. Some people tell terribly questionable stories, don’t they?

My guess is that the rebels put paid to the Red Coats but we will never know for sure or, knowing Kilkenny humour, maybe the soldiers came back up but their coats were no longer red.

In the early 1960s I went exploring the Dunmore Caves with my brother Seamus, God be good to him. The caves were still undeveloped, at that time, and when we came to them the cave mouth was partially hidden with scrub and young saplings. Ivy and ferns trailed down overhead. It was into this dark, yawning mouth in the earth and down a steep slanting slope we had to go. We secured a rope to a young tree and let ourselves down into the darkness below.

We had small hand torches and a spare flash-lamp from a bicycle. It was cold but the air was easy to breathe. A length of rope stretched between us, secured around our now cold bodies, in case either of us should slip, and far above us the mouth of the cave seemed to get smaller and smaller.

At the end of the first slope it levelled off for a little bit and then we followed it around to the left. We came upon some odd bits of bone but I thought they must have come from some long-dead animal. The going was not easy and the pool of light from our torches was small indeed. We scrambled over rocks and boulders and our voices echoed eerily as we came out into a high vaulted cavern.

We had no notion that this underground world had already been named by various explorers, who gave each section a title such as the Fairies’ Floor, which we had recently crossed, the Market Cross, Haddon Hall, the Cathedral and the Crystal Hall. With the innocence of children, who think their parents know nothing, we journeyed on. Maybe it was just as well that we did not know because each discovery we made was a wonder to us, and our hearts hammered as we made our way into this dark unknown.

It was at this suitably scary point that my brother decided to tell me about the massacre that had occurred in these caves. Apparently this story was recorded in The Annals of the Four Masters long ago. The Annals record a devastating attack on a small settlement near to Dearc Fhearna.

The Viking horde had penetrated far inland, and were more than likely heading for the monastic settlements in and around Kilkenny City, where they would have rich pickings. It was probably by chance that they came upon the settlement. Even though this settlement seems to have had maybe two large ring forts and some lesser enclosures, they had little or no warning. It is reported that more than 1,000 people fled to the caves. Perhaps this number is exaggerated, but there was a monastic presence in the nearby Rath of Mothel which probably drew in a local population.

Well, to get back to my story, as you can imagine the trail left by so many people, in full flight, must have been impossible to miss, and so it was that the Vikings came upon the cave entrance, where surely there must have been sounds of terror still echoing on the air.

Vikings were not new to this kind of thing so, without bothering themselves overmuch, they gathered the makings of a good fire from the surrounding woods, filled up the mouth of the cave, and set it alight. With a great number of souls trapped in the deep dark cave, it must have been horrific. Had it been just a small number they might have survived by penetrating deeper into the caves, but a thousand had no chance at all.

As the smoke began to smother them, and hot debris from the fire began to fall down towards them, they had little option but to surrender. Many of them were probably hurt already from the mad scramble down.

It appears that, in an effort to hide or save the women and children, the men went up first. The Lord help them, they were immediately taken captive and hauled away, probably to be traded or used as galley slaves. The women and children would have been an encumbrance to the fighting horde, so they were left with the fires still burning over them. Maybe some were able to get out after the Vikings left and the fire died down. I would like to believe that, and also that the sacrifice of the men was not in vain.

How many lost their lives in the caves is not known for sure, but the recorded remains, which have been found and removed, over the years, account for forty-four people. Nineteen were female adults and twenty-five were children. Perhaps there are still many undiscovered remains, or maybe they did take some of the young women, as slaves, also.

Scrambling along on the heels of my brother I was suddenly aware of how vulnerable we were. What if someone undid the rope we had tied off to take us back up to the surface? Then, in the light of his flash-lamp, my brother picked out the first stalactite and I forgot about everything in my wonder.

It was like nothing I had seen before. He told me how this had dripped and dreeped down through the rocks above until the minerals in the water had hardened over hundreds and thousands of years. There was a nub of another one being formed from the ground up and he told me that it was easy to remember which was which. Stalactites come down and stalagmites come up. His torch light picked out several more formations, and it was impossible to see where some started, as the light seemed to get swallowed up in the deep dark.

A short way further on and his delighted exclamation echoed loud. We were almost on top of a huge formation of calcite. It looked like it had melted down, almost like candle grease from some massive candle high above, out of range of the light. We stayed a long time just looking at this wonder. It was almost sticky to touch, and we both regretted that we had no one else with us to enjoy the spectacle.

Once we knew the stalagmites were there we kept our eyes open and were very careful where we stepped. It was still difficult to get about safely. We climbed up a slanting ridge and found our way through a very tight entrance into another cave beyond. Our lights were of little or no use in the total darkness and the climb down on the far side got more difficult by the minute. There was the constant sound of drips and plops, and even when we shouted loudly our voices seemed to get swallowed up in the vast interior darkness.

The stalactites and stalagmites seemed to be a dirty grey colour, but then we had only small torches. Some looked brittle and spiked down dangerously from above, while the ones beneath our feet seemed squat and nubby.