Freemans Journal 26th February, 1829 p.3
The Burren (county Clare) mountains blazed from one extremity to the other a few nights ago, in consequence of a rumour having reached the people’s ears that Mr. O’Connell M.P. had taken his seat. On the bonfires being discerned by the county of Galway peasantry, they immediately followed the example in almost every village, and along the roads. Nothing can equal the intense interest, the laudable anxiety of every class of persons. Two persons cannot speak together for five minutes without alluding in one way or another to Mr. Connell, the Catholics, Wellington, Anglesey, Peel or the Brunswickers. The latter infatuated miscreants are breaking the peace for spite, and God knows we do not think that if they all broke their necks into the bargain, the country would be anything the worse of the accident.
Temple Cronan, the Burren, County Clare has been dated to the 12th Century.
The church is Romanesque in style, with carved stone heads (human and animal) on projections around the walls. Small shrines lie to the east and south east of the church and beyond the enclosure traces of several dwellings can be seen. A small track leads from Temple Cronan to a holy well – and to a wonderful walk through the hills. A beautiful site, in a beautiful place – the Burren, County Clare.
New Zealand Tablet Vol XXI Issue 34, 31st December, 1897 p9
To gallant Clare – my native vale,
I bid a last adieu.
Farewell you every hill and dale,
Farewell ye waters blue.
Farewell ye fields of gallant deeds,
And streams renowned in song,
Farewell ye mossy rocks and meads
My heart has loved so long.
Home of my love, my native home,
How oft I’ll sigh for thee.
When the raging billows, white with foam,
Shall part both you and me.
Then, fare thee well my lovely Clare;
Farewell to home and thee.
I ne’er shall find a spot so fair
As home and Clare to me
Grey and bleak, by shore and creek, the rugged rocks abound,
But sweet and green the grass between, as grows on Irish ground
(excerpt from Galway Bay by Francis A. Fahy, (1854 – 1935) poet and songwriter born in Kinvara, Co. Galway )
South Australian Weekly Chronicle 15th November, 1884
excerpt – BRIAN OF MUNSTER: THE BOY CHIEFTAIN
(by E.S.Brooks in St Nicholas)
And with this defiance the boy chieftain and ‘the young champions of the tribe of Cas’ went into the woods and fastnesses of County Clare, and for months kept up a fierce guerilla warfare. The Danish tyrants knew neither peace nor rest from his swift and sudden attacks. Much booty of ‘satins and silken cloths, both scarlet and green, pleasing jewels and saddles beautiful and foreign’ did they lose to this active young chieftain, and much tribute of cows and hogs and other possessions did he force from them. So dauntless an outlaw did he become that his name struck terror from Galway Bay to the banks of the Shannon and Lough Derg to the Burren of Clare.
THE ADELAIDE ADVERTISER 18TH MARCH, 1890
ST. PATRICK’S DAY – CELTIC DEMONSTRATION
Excerpt from Mr Patrick MacMahon Glynn M.P (President Irish National Federation) address;
…”Some of you may have, like myself, been born in the West. There by a road which winds along the side of the Burren Mountains is a spring of clear cold water such as the water which fills our day dreams but not our throats, when the mercury is dancing a South Australian hornpipe between 100 degrees and 110 degrees in the shade. It is called Patrick’s Well. Why, I am not sure. I may have been baptised there and don’t remember. Some say that my great namesake once or twice opened his flask by that spring. If he did it is proof that he had a taste for more than spring water, for the sight commands a splendid view of Galway Bay. It was there that I first felt the romance of the sea, as I watched with the wondering eyes of childhood the turf boats glide down between Aughinish and the mainland on the swift ebb of the tide. This is one of the characteristic reaches of a western bay. Outside on the shimmer of the horizon are the wild islands of Arran against whose bold cliffs beat for ever the breaking swell of the Atlantic. It is there that you can feel the glory of Shakespeare’s rebuke of the surges that “Wash both heaven and hell.”
Behind me are the ruins of an early Christian church, a holy well and the cave of a hermit. The track meanders downward, across a field and onto a limestone terrace. It’s quiet, beautiful and relaxing. We share a cheese sandwich and a flask of water. Nothing happens. Perfect. The Burren – West of Ireland.