Thurs 27 Aug: A False Start

I hit the road this morning for Omagh some fifty miles away. While I've followed the other stages of De Cuellar's journey around the north west this feels like the real beginning. Every other stage of the journey ultimately led back home. It was easy on the road, regardless of the weather, knowing I would arriving home to one of Mum's dinners and my own bed. It was a little unreal. From now on it gets real for me. The Summer is over and its quite a long road down to the middle of Spain from here. The weather takes on a whole new significance from here and this morning its not good. The nerves are back big time. I've had a cushy time at home for the past five months even though I've worked a lot on the history of the Armada and the northwest during that time. I've spent a lot longer at home than I had originally planned for one reason or another but thats okay. We've had weddings, births, birthdays, sickness, and the occasional funeral, in short, a myriad of excuses throughout the months to prolong the stay at home but its coming to a stage in the year now where I either go soon or I'm here for the Winter. Its hard to let go though.

It was tough saying goodbye to Mum and Dad. I cycled up the road lonely enough. Goodbyes are never good. Rain was forecast for the day but inexplicably I was dressed more for good weather than the reality of Autumn rains that we've been getting more or less for the past two months. Wishful thinking for good weather on my part. Ten minutes up the road the rain began and out came the rain jacket. It was a dark, grey morning. Depressingly grey, and wet. The rain fell incessantly and would do for the rest of the day. A horrible first day away. The cycling was easy though, even with a fully loaded bike. The first three miles were uphill and then it was basically downhill for the next six into the village of Garrison which lies just across the border on the shores of Lough Melvin. The lake is renowned for its trout and salmon fishing though we never caught anything down there. I stopped for a sup of water by a pier on the lake and was surprised by the number of fisherman out on the lake. There were at least ten boats visible on the water.

With the rain getting heavier I had to put on waterproof leggings and coasted through Garrison village. Eventhough Garrison lies only nine or so miles from Manor I never saw the place until I was over twenty. During the troubles the road into the village was blown up by the British army. It was one of many minor border roads in the area to be blocked. It wasn't restored until the mid-nineties. Its a much busier wee place now than it was then.

Five miles further down the road lies Belleek, another border village. It's built on the banks of the river Erne. A bridge crosses the river and connects with the busy main street. A hill on the opposite bank lies in the south and looks down on the lower end of the village next to the river bank. This was the site of a medieval castle occupied by the O'Gallagher clan for the O'Donnells of Tirconnell. It was a frontier castle, defending an important crossing point into Ulster and the lands southern Tirconnell. Its quite possible De Cuellar and four colleagues crossed into Ulster here as they attempted to reach the north Antrim coast where they hoped to find a boat to take them to Scotland. Coming from Lough Melvin it was a convenient crossing point and gave easy access to central Ulster. During the Troubles British army foot patrols on street duty occasionally came under fire from snipers lodged on the hill on the far bank of the river across the border. I crossed bridge and cycled up the main street which was almost completely blocked by delivery trucks. The are no patrols here today but we did see one on the streets during one of the rare occasions we were in the village back in the late eighties. When the patrol reached the bottom of the street they set up two of their own snipers to cover the hill across the river while the rest of the patrol sprinted for cover to the far side of the street.

There's no such drama on the streets today. A couple of delivery trucks block the middle of the street causing a traffic jam but everybodys patient and polite, no beeping horns and angry drivers here. The main street runs uphill for a couple of hundred feet, twists round a bend and runs out into the Fermanagh countryside. A couple of minutes later I'm back into the middle of the countryside. But there's not much to see today. The clouds are low and heavy. The rain fall without a break. A couple of hundred yards either side of the road the fields disappear into a grey mist and with the wind and rain blowing into my face I aint looking about. Its a case of keeping the head down and pushing along the road. Its 14 miles to the next village of Kesh.

The road runs along the shore of Upper Lough Erne, crosses Boa island and skirts around the northwest corner of the lake before running into Kesh. I was going to stop for a break and a bite to eat in Kesh but I never made it that far. After three hours of cycling in headwinds and heavy rain I had to face the fact that I wasn't dressed properly for the conditions. The jacket and waterproof leggings were fine but my footwear was inadequate. The gloves that I thought were waterproof were sodden and I didn't have any great headwear. My hands feet and head were all losing heat and this wasn't a good sign either for today or for the journey further down the road. Inside there was a cloud hanging over me as well. In two days my sister and husband's new baby was going to be christened and I felt I should really be hanging on to go to that. All day things hadn't felt right. I'd thought about turning round a lot sooner but after putting Mum and Dad through the ringer saying goodbye I didn't want to land back on their doorstep within the hour. All the way down the road it felt wrong and a couple of miles beyond Boa Island I decided I had to turn around. I phoned home and told them I was coming back. So the big journey has stalled in its tracks for the moment. When the Family commitments have been attended to, better footwear etc for travelling in the Winter have been added and a couple more hot dinners from Mum I'll try again.

A Gypsy among Savages

Francisco settled down to an easy life amongst the people of Rosclogher. His host, Tadhg MacClancy had been Lord of Dartry for six years. He claimed the lordship in 1582 after killing his brother, Cathal og, who was then in power. He was a rebel chieftain and, aided by his overlord Brian O’Rourke, strenuously resisted any interference by English officials in his lands. It was a small but strategic territory in the most northerly portion of Breifne. North of Lough Melvin his lands bordered territory controlled by the O’Gallaghers who fortified the southern frontier of Tirconnell. The castles they occupied at Ballyshannon and Belleek stood within five miles of Rosclogher. The lands of Magheraboy beyond the northeastern shores of Lough Melvin traditionally belonged to the Maguires, Lords of Fermanagh. They were held for them by the O’Flanagans of Tuatha Ratha (Toora), whose stronghold was a crannog in Carrick lake, east of Garrison. Brian O’Rouke however held claims to this area and at this time appears to have controlled Magheraboy. MacClancy’s neighbours on the south were the O’Harts of Carbury with whom he seems to have had a cordial relationship. The MacClancy’s were fosters to at least one son of an O’Hart chief.

De Cuellar reckoned MacClancy’s lands, which were ‘all flooded and marshy’, to be more than forty leagues long and wide. It covered the modern Barony of Rosclogher in present day north Leitrim. Straddling the Dartry mountains he controlled the coast between Ballyshannon and Grange. MacClancy’s principal strongold was at Rosclogher. Here he had a village on the shores of Lough Melvin. De Cuellar has left a description of this castle, the ruins of which still stand in the lake. ‘the castle is extremely strong and very hard to take unless it is battered by artillery, since it is founded in a very deep lake that is over a league wide in some parts, and three or four leagues long, with an outlet to the sea, through which it is not possible to enter the lake, even if its waters are swollen by tides. That is why this castle can be taken neither by water nor from the promontory which is closest to it. Neither can it be damaged because, for a league around the town, which is built on terra firma, lies a marsh that is breast-deep, so that not even the locals can reach it except by footpaths.’ There was a second castle near the coast at Duncarbery commanding the road from Ballyshannon to Sligo beside the present village of Tullaghan. In 1586, two years before the arrival of the Armada, there are indications that Tadhg was building a third stronghold on the borders of his territory. In August of that year the Governor of Connacht, Richard Bingham, sought permission to attack him ‘and suppress and put down the castle, the which he is now fortifying and building in most suspicious sort.’ There are traditions of a castle in the townland of Derrylihan in County Sligo on the mountain road three miles from Grange. This townland marked the extent of MacClancy’s lands in this area. The O’Harts of Grange controlled the neighbouring lands. A castle placed in this location is featured on two maps of the region. One, drawn in 1589 by Richard Bingham, illustrates where the three ships sank at Streedagh, the other was drawn up by Richard Bartlett in 1603 depicting southwest Ulster. Both maps place a castle in this area, close to Benwiskin mountain. There is no evidence of the castle today.

In the carefree security of Rosclogher the first few weeks in the village must have seemed like a holiday for the Armada survivors. The Spaniards were an exotic attraction for the villagers. A shared religion and a common hostility towards the English made the Spaniards popular. Francisco certainly enjoyed the attention. He earned a certain amount of notoriety amongst the locals and became an outrageous flirt with females. ‘My master’s wife was extremely beautiful and was very kind to see me. One day, she and other female friends and relatives were sitting in the sun with me, asking me what life was like in Spain and other countries and, in the end, they came up to me and asked me to have a look at their palms and tell their fortunes. Giving thanks to God, since I could hardly fall any lower than to be a gypsy among savages, I set to examining each one’s hand, telling them a great deal of nonsense, which pleased them so much that there was no other Spaniard better than I, nor any whom they held in higher esteem. And by night and by day men and women would pester me to tell their fortunes until I found myself under such pressure that I was forced to beg my master’s leave to depart from his castle. He declined my request, but gave orders that I was not to be annoyed or have my life made a misery.’ De Cuellar was evidently a good storyteller with not a little charm. He seems to have had a personality and wit people warmed to. However, he does appear to have become an unwitting victim of his own popularity. Having a constant stream of men and women follow him with requests to read their palms was a rather pleasant annoyance compared to fleeing hostile robbers and English soldiers. And for the chieftain of the territory to have to scold his subjects for pestering the Spaniard and then order them to leave him alone must have made for quite a comic spectacle.

Like many inhabitants of the region MacClancy’s people had been down to Streedagh during the days after the shipwreck to pick through the wreckage and the evidence of money and jewelry which they showed to Francisco suggested their efforts were well rewarded. During these days De Cuellar had time to sit back and observe life in Rosclogher. As much as the Spaniards were attractions of great curiosity for the locals so, too, was the Irish way of life for the survivors of the Armada. Gaelic Ireland remained almost untouched by continental trends and fashions. It wasn’t influenced by the renaissance and remained virtually untouched by the Reformation. Despite the Elizabethan administration’s efforts to abolish archaic Gaelic customs and traditions, at the time of the Armada the old way of life, its structures and institutions, remained firmly intact. While the modern, urbane Spaniards and, indeed, English officials in Ireland viewed the Gaelic Irish as savages they were merely confronted by a civilization that had evolved on a completely parallel plane to their own. Gaelic Ireland, during the late sixteenth, had attained its own levels of sophistication in poetry, music, history and law. It was an aristocratic, clan-based society which still cherished Iron Age ideals of the heroic warrior. After two thousand years of evolution the Gaelic Ireland at the time of the Armada was the direct offspring of a society older than, and untouched by, the civilization of the Roman Empire.

De Cuellar, in his recollections of his stay with MacClancy, shows himself to have been sharp, vivid observer of those around him. The description he put to paper remains an important snapshot of life towards the end of the Gaelic era. Little did he know he was producing a document of great importance for our own generation four centuries later as we look back upon a way life utterly different from our own. Within a generation the power of the Gaelic Lords had been broken. The Gaelic lifestyle was becoming dismantled as English laws and customs were enforced by a new regime. De Cuellar’s description of what he saw is clear, concise, and best read untouched by any commentary.

Typically, these savages live like beasts in the mountains, some of which are very rugged in that part of Ireland where we were shipwrecked. They live in thatched cabins and are all big men, handsome and well-built, and fleet as the roe-deer. They eat only once a day, and this has to be at night, and what they normally eat is oaten bread and butter. They drink sour milk for they have no other drink. And they don’t drink water, though it’s the best in the world. On feast days they eat some kind of half-cooked meat, with neither bread nor salt, for such is their custom. They dress accordingly, in tight hose and short loose coats of very coarse goat’s hair. They wrap up in blankets and wear their hair down to their eyes. They are great travelers and can endure any hardship; they are continually at war with the English garrisoned there by the Queen; against these they defend themselves and don’t let them into their lands, which are all flooded and marshy: the whole area is more than forty leagues long and wide.

What these people are most inclined to is thieving and robbing one another; so that not a day passes among them without a call-to-arms, because as soon as the people in the next village find out that in this one there are cattle or anything else, they come armed at night and all hell breaks loose and they slaughter one another. And as soon as the English from the garrisons find out who has rounded up and stolen the most cattle, they are sent to seize them. All that these people can do is retreat into the mountains with their women and herds, for they have no other property, furniture or clothes. They sleep on the floor, on freshly-cut rushes, full of water and ice. Most of the women are very beautiful, but badly turned out: they wear no more than a shift, and a shawl that they wrap round themselves, and a piece of linen on their heads which is folded several times and knotted at the forehead. They work hard, and are good housekeepers, in their own way.

These people call themselves Christians: Mass is said among them and they observe the rules of the Roman Church. Nearly the majority of their churches, monasteries and hermitages have been demolished by the English who are garrisoned there and by those from the region who have joined them, who are as bad as they are. In short: in this kingdom there is neither justice nor reason, so that everyone does as he pleases.’

To Rosclogher

Senors O'Rourke & MacClancy

Finding refuge at Glencar De Cuellar recuperated for a short time while his wounds healed sufficiently for him to make the journey to Brian O’Rourke’s castle at Dromahaire. Many of the Spaniards were directed here and given assurances that a warm welcome awaited them. Here he joined seventy other survivors at the ancient stronghold of the Lords of Breifne. He was given a woollen ‘blanket’, or mantle to cover himself with and this helped to keep him warm. Francisco didn’t see Brian O’Rourke during his time at Dromahaire. He suggests the chieftain was away defending his territory against the English. He was, in fact, in the process of attempting to drum up support for a rebellion amongst the chieftains of neighbouring Lordships of the region. It seems O’Rourke misinterpreted the arrival of the Armada ships as that of an invasion force. Convinced that Spanish aid was at hand he joined together with the O’Connors, MacDonaghs and O’Harts of Sligo to attack the castle of Ballymote, the stronghold of George Bingham, sheriff of Sligo, in an attempt to topple the English administration in the northwest.

De Cuellar seems to have stayed only a day or two at Dromahaire. The following morning news came to the castle that there was an Armada ship at the coast picking up survivors of the ships that were wrecked. ‘….we were given news that a ship from Spain was at the coast, that it was a very big one and had come to pick up Spanish survivors. On hearing this news, all twenty of us left without further delay for the area where they said the ship was.’ This ship was most likely one of two ships which dropped anchor in the northern part of Donegal Bay. The galleass Girona was in Killybegs harbour undergoing repairs for damage sustained its hull and rudder. It was now about the end of the first week in October. The Girona had been docked in Killybegs for around three weeks and would remain at the small port until the end of the month. However it seems likely that the ship De Cuellar and his comrades were told about was one of the large supply ships that accompanied the Armada. This ship, carrying among other things 120 horses and 60 mules, had damaged its mainmast and had to be towed to safety by a coal ship. It was at Donegal town making emergency repairs before making the attempt to return to Spain.

Of the seventy Spaniards at Dromahaire De Cuellar says only twenty decided to attempt to reach the coast. This group set out in a hurry to meet the ship before it left Donegal. Once again De Cuellar was handicapped by his injured legs which were far from healed. Just as had happened before, he fell far behind everybody else. Unable to keep up he lost sight of his companions and then seems to have got lost. ‘….I didn’t reach the port where she had put in, as did the others who were with me. They embarked on her, as she was an Armada vessel that had put into harbour there in a great gale, and with her mainmast and rigging badly damaged. And, fearing that enemies might burn her or do further damage-something they would have done with all dispatch-the crew prepared to sail two days later. But what with the numbers she was already carrying and others she had taken on board, she ran aground again somewhere along the same coast. More than two hundred men drowned and those who swam ashore were taken by the English and put to the sword. God granted that I alone should remain of the twenty of us who went in search of her, so that I should not suffer the fate of the others.’ Francisco doesn’t indicate how far he managed to get in trying to reach ‘the port’ where the Armada vessel put in. He merely says he ‘encountered many obstacles on the way’. By following a route through Glenade valley to the coast he would have been confronted with deep bogs and swollen rivers to cross. The greatest of these was the river Erne which would have to be crossed at either Ballyshannon or, upstream, at Beleek. Both of these crossing points were dominated by castles occupied by the O’Gallagher clan, an important family under the O’Donnell’s of Tirconnell. Whether De Cuellar made it this far is impossible to tell.

Wandering about with no idea of where he was going Francisco happened to meet with a priest on the road he was traveling. They conversed in Latin while the priest shared with Francisco some food he carried. He was dressed as a lay person as it was too dangerous for priests to travel openly at this time. The priest knew of somewhere safe De Cuellar could go ‘and put me on the road to a castle that was about six leagues from there; a very strong castle belonging to a savage chieftain, a very brave soldier who was a great enemy of the Queen of England and anything to do with her. He is a man who has always refused to obey her or pay tribute to her, keeping to his castle and mountains, the source of his strength. So I headed off in that direction, suffering a lot of hardship on the way; and the greatest which caused me most pain, was my encounter on the road with a savage who tricked me into going with him to his hut, which was in a deserted valley.’ Francisco had been given directions to the castle of Tadhg og MacClancy, Lord of Dartry. He was one of the sub-chiefs of Breifne, another rebel chieftain and a right-hand man of Brian O’Rourke. His castle, at Rosclogher, was situated on Lough Melvin on the borders between Breifne and Ulster. He was one of the chieftains to shelter Armada survivors. De Cuellar was somewhere within a day’s hike of this castle as he set off on the directions of the priest. But he didn’t get that far.

Meeting with a blacksmith Francisco somehow allowed himself to be taken to this man’s home in a ‘deserted valley’ where he operated a forge. This valley is commonly believed to be Glenade, five miles over the mountains from Rosclogher and accessible by a mountain road from the lower end of the valley. Another possible location for this forge is the vicinity of the modern village of Garrison on the northeastern shore of Lough Melvin. A large iron foundry operated here in the early years of the seventeenth century. It, too, was within one day’s walk of MacClancy’s castle. Wherever this forge was located De Cuellar became imprisoned there, a captive of the blacksmith and made to work for him operating the bellows. ‘He told me I was going to have to live there for the rest of my life and he would teach me his trade: he was a blacksmith. I couldn’t think what to reply, nor did I dare, in case he shoved me into his forge. Instead, I looked cheerful in front of him, and set to work with my bellows for more than a week, much to the delight of the villainous savage blacksmith, since I took pains not to displease him or his hideous crone of a wife.’ Though De Cuellar described his captor as living in a deserted valley a blacksmith’s forge was a busy enterprise within any community. Though he doesn’t speak of seeing locals coming to the forge word must have circulated in the locality that there was a Spaniard working for the blacksmith. Curiosity alone must have drawn people down to see the spectacle. While Francisco laboured at the bellows word obviously reached the priest he had spoken to as, about a week and a half later, the priest arrived at the forge. ‘He was appalled to see me held there. I told him I had no choice in the matter since that savage refused to let me go as he had me working with him. The priest upbraided him severely and told me not to worry about it as he would speak to the chieftain of the castle to which he had directed me, and would see to it that I was sent for, as happened the following day.’

The priest must have gone straight to Rosclogher as, the following day, true to his word four of MacClany’s warriors accompanied by a Spaniard arrived at the forge to take Francisco back to his stronghold. He joined ten other survivors of the wrecks who were then with MacClancy. Limping into MacClancy’s village in abject state, without any clothes covering him other than straw matting, De Cuellar was an object of pity for the villagers. The ‘women even wept to see how badly I had been treated. They fixed me up as well as they could with the sort of blanket they wear, and I spent three months there…’ De Cuellar’s arrival at Rosclogher brought a period of respite for him. By now he had been in Ireland for almost a month wandering around a large tract of territory of the modern counties Sligo, Leitrim and Donegal. It was mid-to-late October. Winter was beginning to set in. Exhausted, no doubt, after his travails he accepted the hospitality of Tadhg og MacClancy and decided to remain here in the remote, mountain lordship of Dartry.

To Dromahaire

In search of a savage chieftain: September 1588

De Cuellar left Grange and coast behind and began to make his way towards Ben Bulben and the mountains around which he would travel in order to make his way to Breifne. In the daylight which remained he may have traveled a couple of miles, no more, given the state of his injuries. However, with the prospect of a safe haven and welcome shelter behind those mountains Francisco’s spirits had risen. He now had hope.

He wasn’t the only survivor to get away from Streedagh. Other groups of Spaniards had escaped from the area before him. The survivors who had managed to avoid the English patrols around Grange were faced with two choices once they made it to open country. They could turn north and follow the coast up to Ballyshannon where they would have to cross the river Erne to get into Ulster and, perhaps, head for the north coast to try and make their escape into Scotland with the help of sympathetic chieftains along the Antrim coastline. Or they could move south around Ben Bulben and then head inland through the valleys which led through the mountains to O’Rourke’s strongholds in Breifne. Of the three hundred or so who survived the shipwrecks, between eighty and one hundred were caught and executed by English soldiers. The rest, around two hundred men, fled in small groups or alone across country, making the choice to go either north or south and prayed to God they had made the right choice. Some, like De Cuellar, were given directions or assistance from sympathetic locals. Others weren’t so lucky. One group of Spaniards found themselves on a mountain road heading north beneath the cliffs of the Dartry mountains. Under the shadow of Benwiskin mountain in a small abbey at Keelogues, five miles north of Grange, local tradition tells of their grisly fate. English soldiers, as at Staad abbey, rounded up the fugitives and hanged them within the church before setting fire to it. Other groups following the northern route found refuge with Tadhg MacClany in Dartry. Others made it into Ulster. Pedro Blanco, who had sailed on the Juliana, found refuge with Hugh O’Neill and spent twenty years serving him as his bodyguard. Another group of eight Spaniards were still in Ulster in 1596. Approximately one hundred survivors made the journey De Cuellar was now taking and sought refuge in Breifne.

That night Francisco had travelled a few miles when he arrived at a small settlement consisting of a cluster of huts. He found out that one person could speak Latin and so was able to converse in this language. The ‘Latin scholar’s’ father and brothers were away at this time at Streedagh searching for anything they could salvage from the beach. Francisco was brought in to the hut and given shelter for the night. He and the ‘Latin scholar’ chatted while his wounds were dressed with De Cuellar explaining what had happened to him since he came to the Irish coast. Afterwards, he was given supper and a place to sleep on a bed of straw. Late that night the scholar’s father and brothers returned to the hut from the beach. They didn’t seem to mind presence of the Spaniard in their midst and proceeded to show to De Cuellar the loot they had picked up.

The next morning De Cuellar was provided with a horse and a lad to guide him across a mile of bog. Before they were gone very far they were forced to run for cover as a large group of one hundred and fifty horsemen approached traveling in the direction of Streedagh. The route De Cuellar was on was dangerous. During the late sixteenth century this part of the northwest was considered a dangerous place to travel with large bands of armed frequently passing through the region moving between Connacht and Ulster. Due to the upheaval caused by the arrival of the Armada ships large bodies of armed men were now roaming about the district almost at will. Traveling south if, indeed he was, the route was talking him in the direction of Sligo town ten miles away. The garrison there was now very active and reacting to any rumour concerning the presence of Spaniards. It was a risky path to follow if there were English soldiers on the move.

After watching the horsemen pass by the two took to the path again only to find themselves confronted by a mob. Very quickly they were surrounded ‘by more than forty savages on foot who wanted to cut me to ribbons because they were all out and out Lutherans. But they didn’t do it because the lad that was with me told them his master had captured me and taken me prisoner and was sending me off on that horse to have my wounds treated’. This ruse persuaded most of the mob to leave De Cuellar alone but as they passed by Francisco was attacked by two of the mob with clubs. He was clubbed half a dozen times on the back and arms, dragged off the horse, then stripped of his clothes and left naked on the ground. ‘The savage’s lad wanted to go back to his hut with his horse, and wept to see the state I was in, stripped to the skin and so cold and ill-treated, I earnestly begged God to take me to any place where I could die confessed and in His grace’. Having taken what they could the mob moved on. Battered, cold and wet Francisco was left alone where he lay. The terrified young lad went back to his family. Wrapping himself in a piece of old matting and some dry ferns to keep out the cold De Cuellar got back on his feet and did the only thing he could do, keep moving in the direction of the lands of the chieftain he’d been told about.

Moving south past the distinctive sharp profile of the Ben Bulben plateau the traveler crosses the plain of Maugherow, following a line of cliffs that end in Kings mountain. Beyond Kings mountain the plateau opens out into the broad, long valley of Glencar which runs inland for ten miles in an easterly direction from Drumcliff. The south side of the valley is lined by Cruckauns and Keelogyboy mountains beyond which stood the main strongholds of the ‘savage chieftain’ O’Rourke at Dromahaire and Newtown. In the middle of the valley lies Glencar lake. During the sixteenth century the eastern shore of this body of water marked the boundary of the territory of Carbury while the western shore marked the limits of Breifne. This was where De Cuellar had been told he would be given refuge.

Despite his injuries and without further mishap De Cuellar crossed the plain south to Kings Mountain and the mouth of Glencar valley and then followed the bank of Drumcliff river up to Glencar lake. ‘Bit by bit, I journeyed on towards the area that had been pointed out to me, seeking that chieftains lands where those Spaniards had found refuge and, after reaching the mountain range that I had been given as a marker, I came upon a lake around which there were about thirty huts all abandoned and uninhabited......’ . It was evening time and darkness was falling. Looking into one of the huts De Cuellar found it full of sheaves of oats. Happy that he could keep warm amongst the sheaves he entered to make himself comfortable for the night. But before he could do anything he was startled by the appearance of three men who emerged from the gloom of the hut, silent and staring at him. ‘When I entered, they didn’t address me, nor did I them, because I couldn’t make them out and the hut was pretty dark. So, finding myself in such great confusion, I cried, ‘Oh Mother of God, be with me now, and deliver me from all evil!’ On hearing me speak Spanish and invoke the Mother of God, they too exclaimed, ‘May the great Lady be with us!’ I was reassured then and went up to them, asking them if they were Spanish. ‘We are indeed, for our sins, for they stripped eleven of us on the strand and, naked as we are, we’ve come here looking for Christian territory, and on the way a band of enemies found us and slaughtered eight of us! And the three of us you see here fled into such a dense forest that they couldn’t find us, and this evening, with God’s help, we came upon these huts here, where we have stopped to rest even though they are empty and there is nothing to eat’.

Greatly relieved, the four Spaniards began to relax. They chatted. Two of the Spaniards were soldiers, the third was an ensign. They were greatly surprised when De Cuellar told them who he was as the three were sure he had drowned. Francisco then let them know of the directions he’d been given to the lands where they could find refuge. ‘….not far from where we are is friendly Christian territory, for I have heard tell of a village about three or four leagues from here, which belongs to the chieftain O’Rourke where many of our shipwrecked Spaniards have found shelter. And though I have come here badly battered and wounded, we’ll make for there tomorrow.’ After chewing on some ‘blackberries and cresses’ for their supper the four agreed to get up early the next morning and then buried themselves in the sheaves of oats to sleep.

At the eastern end of Glencar lake, the O’Rourke end, there are the remains of a crannog, a lake dwelling. It was known to the annals as ‘Inish na Lainne’(Sword Island) Over the centuries it was used as a stronghold by different branches of the O’Rourke clan. It was still in use forty years before the Armada came to Irish shores. In 1541 rival septs of the clan battled over possession of the settlement. Describing one such encounter the annals report that ‘Donnell and Ferganaim (O’Rourke) made an attack on the crannog, and privately set fire to the town’. However the occupants were alerted and extinguished the fire, pursued the two assailants and killed them. The ‘town’ referred to in the annals was most likely the crannog itself but there may well have been a small settlement by the lakeshore. Small villages accompanied most of the strongholds of the chieftains in which resided the Lord’s immediate retainers and those staff who were required for the day-to-day maintenance and upkeep of the household. This may have been the deserted settlement which De Cuellar and the three Spaniards stumbled upon.

De Cuellar didn’t sleep very much that night. The great pains in his legs kept him awake. He was still lying awake at dawn when the sound of voices and people talking outside the hut jolted his senses. ‘Whereupon a savage appears at the door with a halberd in his hand; he started looking at his oats and muttering to himself, and I held my breath, as did my companions who had woken up, and from the oat stalks kept a close eye on the savage and what he was up to. He left, thank God, and went off with many others who had come with him to reap and work, but so close to the huts that we couldn’t leave without being spotted.’ The four were now trapped in the hut while the group of farmers worked in the fields nearby. The Spaniards didn’t show themselves for fear of what might happen to them if these farmers were hostile. De Cuellar thought they were ‘savage heretics’ from Grange where so many of the survivors had been put to death. He was quite likely mistaken but, given the recent experiences of all four survivors it is understandable that, by now, the appearance of groups of any kind put the men in fear of their lives. They remained hidden in the hut all that day, not moving while the farmers worked outside. Debating what they should do the four resolved to wait until the farmers had finished up and left and then slip away from there during the night and hopefully ‘put behind us the grave danger through which we had passed.’.

That night, after the farmers had left, they made their escape. They set out not having eaten or drunk anything in the previous twenty four hours while they lay hidden, buried under sheaves of oats. Having subsisted on the merest scraps for almost a week since the shipwreck the men were starving and dehydrated. Francisco needed assistance to walk and so the four left the shores of the lake in a wretched condition, wrapped in straw to keep out the autumn chill. Fortunately they were now on the borders of the territory of Brian O’Rourke. A few miles slog up the valley ‘we began to find huts inhabited by better people who, though all savages, were Christian and charitable. One of them, seeing me so ill-treated and wounded, took me to his hut and, with his wife and children, dressed my wounds, and wouldn’t let me leave until he thought I was well enough to reach the village I was heading for’. Following tracks that led up into the valley from the lake De Cuellar and his companions were passing, under the light of a rising moon, into the heartlands of the kingdom of Breifne. Just over five miles away at the top of Glencar valley sat the O’Rourke tower house of Carha. It was one of the principal strongholds of Breifne but the chieftain, Brian, didn’t reside here, his main residence was at Dromahaire, eight miles to the south. Eoghan MacFelim O’Rourke, chief of Carha and head of a lesser branch of the clan, occupied this castle. It is quite possible that that the four Spaniards arrived here in a bedraggled state after their night trek from Glencar lake. No doubt, other survivors also followed those well-worn paths through the valley to arrive here seeking shelter. If so, then it was the O’Rourke’s of Carha who were the family that sheltered De Cuellar and tended his wounds until he was fit enough to make his way to Dromahaire. In the last few days of September after about a week on the run Francisco could rest his starved, battered body. He had reached the lands of the savage chieftain. For the moment he was safe.

Fri Aug 21 Streedag to Manor pt2

Just outside the village of Carney I got caught in a heavy downpour and had to run for cover. For 15-20 mins the rain hammered down. Carney was a small quiet hamlet which seems to have balooned recently with the addition of two or three housing estates. It's location, a few short miles from Sligo town yet in a very quiet, rural setting made attractive for the Celtic Tiger property developers. The rain doesn't do this place any favours though. I'm keen to keep moving as soon as the rain eases off. I get down the road about a mile before the rain starts coming down again in torrents and I have to scurry onto a ditch to find shelter among some trees.

Eventually the rain stops. The road is crossing an old area known as the plain of Maugherow in the direction of Glencar valley which is starting to come into view up ahead. From point of Ben Bulben which dominates the landscape the mountain range runs south to Kings mountain beyond which Glencar valley beginds to open out. I cross the Main Sligo - Bundoran road and follow this old road up to the foot of Kings mountains which looms above through a covering of mist. The road then winds its way around the base of this mountain to join with another road whih leads the way into the heart of the valley. De Cuellar and other spaniards escaping from the Streedagh area in 1588 would have followed a very similar route to the one I was on as they tried to find refuge in the lands of the rebel chieftain Brian O'Rourke. Sligo town, a few miles down the road, was garrisoned by hostile troops indeed, the whole coastal area between Sligo and Grange was dangerous for survivors on the run as bands of soldiers moved between both places searching for spaniards and their treasure. By turning inland through Glencar valley the survivors were putting distance between themselves and those hunting them. A few miles up the valley the fugitives would pass into the lands of the chieftain of Breifne who was giving shelter and protection to any spaniards arriving on his lands. The soldiers wouldn't follow them up here. It was too dangerous, the hunters would very quickly become the hunted. Only large bodies of soldiers ever ventured into Breifne.

The road I was on passed through a townland called Castletown. Back in 1588 there was an important and village here, under the shadow if Kings mountain, belonging to the O'Connor family who were Lords of Sligo. Peering over hedges I found the remains of the old stronghold. It has virtually disappeared now, almost totally flattened. All that remains is a large grassy platform, about 3ft high, in one corner of a field which mark the extent of the foundations and a single fragment of a wall is all that still stands of a village which once housed up to 50 families. Rounding Kings mountain I enter Glencar and follow the road up to the shores of Glencar lake.

De Cuellar and three other survivors of the Streedagh wrecks spent two nights in a deserted village close to the lake before moving up into the valley to safety. They slept in a haggard in which freshly harvested oats and corn were being stored and when a group of farmers arrived the next morning to work in the fields nearby the Spaniards were too afraid to leave their hideout and remained hidden throughout the following day buried among sheaves of oats. That night after the farmers had gone home they left under cover of darkness. As This road follows the lakeshore vertical cliffs on the valley sides tower above with forests hugging the lower slopes and numerous waterfalls cascading from the mountain tops over the cliff edges. Halfway along the lake one particularly large waterfall marked the ancient territorial boundary between the O'Rourke lands in the upper valley and the O'Connor country of Carbury in the lower portion of the valley facing the coast. Today the county boundary between Sligo and Leitrim is marked by this waterfall which itself is a notable landmark. In stormy weather strong winds blow the waterfall back on itself in a circular motion. You see the water dropping over the edge of the cliff, falling ashort distance and then the winds catch the water blowing it back up onto the mountain where it flows back into the streams and over the cliff edge once more.

I stopped at a carpark at the upper end of Glencar lake, near to the famous Glencar waterfall of W.B. Yeats lore etc. I don't have any interest in the waterfall myself, the carpark was just a convenient spot to stop for a drink and a quick bite to eat as its mostly uphill for 10 miles or so after this to get to the top of the valley. I was hungery, I had passed a house a short time earlier and the smell of a breakfast fry up that wafted out of its windows smelled delicious. My mouth strted watering and in a short time I couldn't stop thinking about food. It was a good place to stop as well as this particular spot was a good candidate for the location of the deserted huts in which De Cuellar and his colleagues hid. Down in the lake opposite the carpark are the remains of a crannog, a fortified lake dwelling. Over the centuries it was used as a stronghold by branches of the O'Rourke clan to defend the borders of their territory in the valley. It was still in use some forty years before the Armada came to Irish shores when it was mentioned in the old Gaelic annals. The old annals call this crannog 'Inish na Lainne' (Sword Island) perhaps a reference to past battles and border wars between the O'Rourke warriors and their neighbours the O'Connors of Sligo. The nobility who occupied these strongholds usually had retainers and supporters who lived in settlements in the adjacent neighbourhood so it was quite possible there was a lakeside village still in existence here when Francisco De Cuellar hobbled up the valley.

Leaving the lakeshore I followed the old narrow roads up into the hills of the upper valley. A few miles beyond the top of Glencar lies the adjacent valley which holds Manorhamilton and home. As the road climbed higher up the valley Benbo mountain and other hills which surround our valley began to drift into view still a few miles distant. Finally near the head of the valley, after creeping over yet another ridge the ruins of an old O'Rourke castle emerged from amongst the greenery a few fields away. This castle was known as Carha and from this place the valley takes its name - Gleann an Cairthe - Glencar. In 1588 it was one of the main strongholds in the area and was the seat of one of the principal branches of the O'Rourke clan. It was a towerhouse, a fortified residence rather than the big medieval castles that we picture from school. Today its in a poor state of preservation and its walls are gradually crumbling away. Most of the building has mostly collapsedbut enough of the structure survives to indicate it was a fine building in its day. Owen MacPhelim O'Rourke was the chieftain who resided here when De Cuellar and his companions arrived here in a bedraggled state. Almost a week after they were shipwrecked the men were in poor condition. Injured, half starved and wrapped in straw and a few rags to ward off the cold. They were in urgent need of decent food and shelter and it seems they were given a warm reception here. De Cuellar describes how the family took him under their roof and nursed him for a few days until he was able to continue his journey to the castle of Brian O'Rourke. Francisco was most likely exhausted and in urgent need of medical attention for his injuries but he had made it to safety.

So, leaving De Cuellar at castle Carha I climbed to the top of the valley and cyled the last 3-4 miles home still smelling the aroma of cooking from the house back in the bottom of Glencar. A rattle of thuinder took me out of that daydream and I had to race the last strech of road home as dark black clouds began to gather overhead. The last thing I wanted was a soaking now.

Survival in a Wild and Savage land (Sept 22-25 1588)

In the aftermath of the shipwrecks De Cuellar spent the next three days or so in the Streedagh area. By now the beach was littered with dead bodies and hundreds of tonnes of timber from the wrecked ships. Almost everything of value had been taken but as more objects were washed up on the beach people continued to comb through the debris to lift anything of use. Francisco was unable to move very far. His injured leg severely restricted his movement and his hunger may have kept him by the strand as some meager food supplies in the form of biscuit was occasionally washed up on the beach from the wrecks out in the water.

Alone, De Cuellar moved away from the beach in the search of refuge. To leave the strand he had to move south and this he did, moving away from the strand along the edge of the salt marsh. It seems Francisco was told of one possible refuge not too far from the strand, Staad abbey, a small refuge by the shore no more than a mile and a half from Streedagh. For centuries it had provided a place of shelter for pilgrims traveling to the ancient monastery on the small island of Innishmurray five miles off the coast. After struggling up to the top of a ridge the abbey would have been visible on lower ground very close to the shore a few hundred yards away. Francisco ‘reached it in great pain and discomfort and found it abandoned, and the church and saints burned and everything destroyed; and twelve Spaniards hanged inside the church by English Lutherans who were going about looking for us to finish us off - all of us who had escaped drowning in the storm.’ There was to be no refuge at Staad abbey. The twelve hanging corpses of men who had arrived here earlier were evidence enough of that. It was also the first indication of a manhunt that was underway by the English administration to eliminate all Spaniards who landed in Ireland, shipwrecked or otherwise. Soldiers were instructed to apprehend and execute all Spaniards they encountered. Having survived the storm and shipwreck the three hundred or so survivors now had to avoid capture as it would mean certain death for them. For De Cuellar it was too dangerous to remain at Staad.

Francisco followed a road that led inland from the abbey and entered some woodland. After walking a distance through these woods he encountered an old woman who was driving a small herd of cattle. On seeing De Cuellar the old woman asked him if he was one of the Spaniards. He indicated he was one of those from the shipwrecks. Unable to communicate properly with him she warned him by signs not to continue in the direction he was following. Her village was nearby and in it was a strong body of soldiers who were killing Spaniards. That village was Grange and a body of soldiers under the Sheriff of Sligo was sent here from Sligo town when news reached them that the Spaniards were coming ashore. The old lady was taking her cattle to hide in the woodlands so the soldiers wouldn’t confiscate them. This bad news was a shock to De Cuellar and it began to dawn on him just how perilous his situation was. During these days Streedagh region was one of the most dangerous places in Ireland. He couldn’t go any futher along this track for fear he would be captured by the English soldiers billeted in Grange. Unnerved by the old lady he decided to turn around. ‘In the end, after the old woman’s warning, I resolved to go back to the beach where the ships had foundered three days earlier, and where several gangs were roaming, people pilfering and taking everything of ours as booty to their huts. I didn’t dare show my face or go near them in case they took the poor linen shirt off my back or killed me. What should I see next but two unfortunate Spanish soldiers, naked as the day they were born, screaming and calling on God to help them. One of them had a bad wound on his head, which they had given him while they were stripping him. They came up to me, for I called them from where I was hiding, and they told me about the cruel deaths and tortures which the English had inflicted on more than a hundred Spaniards they had taken.’

Hiding in the dunes with his two new companions De Cuellar was torn by conflicting emotions. On the one hand he was fearful of being discovered by looters or soldiers knowing what would happen in that event. On the other hand his ravenous hunger was drawing him towards the open beach to search for bits of biscuit or other scraps of food he could find there. All three were starving. They resolved to take their chances amongst the looters. Hundreds of corpses still lay on the beach. Passing by many as they searched for food Francisco began to see the bodies of people he knew. Discovering the remains of one of his friends ‘I refused to pass by before burying him in a pit which we dug at the water’s edge, in the sand, and we buried him there with another man, a very fine captain and great friend of mine’. This activity attracted the attention of a large group of people on the beach who came over to see what the Spaniards were doing. They seemed content, however, to leave the three alone once they saw they were burying the dead and not, perhaps, recovering a hidden stash of treasure.

Moving along the beach to pick up scraps of biscuit they were encountered by a small group of four men. This time the strangers were aggressive and intent on robbing De Cuellar. Leaving his two naked companions alone the robbers tried to strip the clothes off his back. As he began to struggle a fifth man came over and dragged the attackers away from De Cuellar. ‘This man, by the grace of God, defended me and my two companions, moving us away from there and staying with us for quite a while until he got us to a road that led from the beach towards a village where he lived. He told us to wait for him there as he would return shortly and direct us to friendly territory.’ This incident is puzzling. Whether this man was from Grange or another village is unclear but there was only one village to which the road from the beach led. Grange is the only settlement of note in the vicinity and given the position of the strand at Streedagh there is only one road to and from the beach. This road leads to Grange. Either this man was unaware of the English soldiers in his village, had word that the soldiers had left, or was deliberately sending these men to Grange knowing that they would be picked up by a patrol who would kill them. De Cuellar doesn’t indicate any real timescale to the sequence of events in the days after the shipwreck but he does state that this incident took place three days after he was shipwrecked. Given that the sheriff of Sligo had been given responsibility for much of the north Connacht coastline and reports were coming in of other landings elsewhere it might be acceptable to assume that the English soldiers, out of necessity, had been deployed elsewhere in the east Sligo, north Mayo district where it was known Spaniards had come ashore. Furthermore the O’Harts and their followers from this area were about to join up with other clans in the region to attack the English so it be might safe to assume that the man’s offer of assistance was genuine. What the incident does illustrate is the confusion and uncertainty of people during these days. Many ships had been seen on the water. They now appeared to be coming to land on many parts of the coastline. Some, as at Streedagh, were wrecked. Reports and wild rumours were taking hold. Whether the arrival of these ships was bringing with them an invasion force from the King of Spain nobody really knew.

The meeting with this ‘chieftain’ as Francisco called him brought the first good news to De Cuellar’s ears. He spoke of giving directions to a friendly territory. With renewed hope the three Spaniards set out towards Grange to wait for the chieftain seemingly undaunted by the earlier killings in the village. The distance between Streedagh and Grange village along the roads is no more then two miles. It should only take 45 minutes to an hour for somebody unfamiliar with the terrain but De Cuellar’s injured leg continued to be a terrible impediment. He was in great pain and had great difficulty walking. Very soon De Cuellar was left behind. ‘……there were lots of stones on that road and I couldn’t manage them or make any progress because I was barefoot and dying of pain in one leg which was very badly injured. My poor companions were naked and freezing, for it was very cold, and since they could neither hold out nor help me, they went ahead, and I stayed behind asking God to favour me.’ Alone, De Cuellar was retracing the route he had earlier taken when he sought refuge at Staad abbey. Making his way slowly with the aid of a walking stick he came to the top of a nearby ridge where he spotted thatched cottages in the distance. He made his way towards them, entering the same wood where he’d previously encountered the old woman.

A track led through the woods but De Cuellar, apparently fearful of being caught on the track seems to have followed the path from a distance, remaining within the cover of the trees. Within sight of the village he was surprised by the sudden appearance of two armed young men, De Cuellar describes them as English and French, accompanied by an old man and his daughter. ‘They were all going to the beach to plunder and, on seeing me go by among the trees, they come after me and the Englishman comes up to me saying, ‘Surrender, Spanish Poltroon’, and, wanting to kill me, takes a swing at me with his sword. I parried the blow with a stick I was carrying, but in the end he got me, slashing my right leg. He would have got me again if the savage hadn’t arrived with his daughter, who must have been this Englishman’s mistress. I replied that he could do what he liked with me since I had already been overcome by fate and disarmed in the sea. They got him away from me. Then the savage started to strip me, even taking my shirt, beneath which I was wearing a gold chain worth more than a thousand reales. When they saw this they were jubilant and searched every stitch of my doublet in which I was carrying forty-five gold escudos which the Duke had ordered that I be given in Corunna for two months salary. The Englishman, on seeing the chain and escudos, wanted to take me prisoner, saying I could offer him ransom money. I said I had nothing to give, that I was a very poor soldier, and had earned that lot on the ship.’ Before he came to any further harm the girl, ‘an extremely beautiful young woman of twenty’ begged the men to leave him alone. She returned his clothes while they took the gold and some holy relics he’d been given in Lisbon back to their hut. Francisco was left to dress himself in the woods as he bled profusely from the wound the ‘Englishman’ had inflicted. A short time later while he lay there among the trees a boy approached him with some food, oat bread, butter and some milk, and a poultice of herbs to apply to his wound. It seems his attackers, after the excitement of acquiring their treasure had subsided, began to feel a certain sense of guilt towards the wounded Spaniard. De Cuellar says ‘I owed this favour to the Frenchman, who had been a soldier in Terceira and felt sorry to see me so ill-treated.’ The boy remained with De Cuellar and took him on a track away from Grange village and whatever dangers may have lain there. What had become of the two companions who had left him behind at the beach? Had they entered Grange village? Had they found refuge or had they been captured? Were they still alive? Leaving the horrors of the coast behind he guided Francisco in the direction of mountains that overlooked the coast some distance inland. They were heading towards Ben Bulben. Before turning back the boy pointed out the route he should take and told him that behind those mountains lay ‘good land belonging to an important savage chieftain (and great friend of the King of Spain) who sheltered and welcomed all the Spaniards that went to him’. He then left De Cuellar to make his own way towards the savage chieftain. The land he was looking for was the kingdom of Breifne. The man he was looking for was its lord, Brian O’Rourke.

Fri Aug 21 Streedagh to Glencar pt1

Dawn. I wake up, its cold. The wind is whipping at the outer layers of the tent which I haven't set up properly so there are a few loose flaps slapping around in the breeze. Despite this I slept quite well through the night, better than expected. I'm not great at camping. Normally my experience of camping consists of long, cold dreamless nights during which I usually hear strange noises and spend an age wide awake listening intently, wondering if I'll hear that noise again and conjuring up all kinds of images of the most unlikely kinds of animals that might be prowling around or sniffing at the tent. Last night was good though I reckon I slept for most of it. I was comfortable and warm and dozed off to the sounds of the breeze and raindrops tipping on the tent canvas. Though I did wake up from a dream at one point thinking I could hear a crowd of people rubbing against the outside of the tent.

I went outside. There was a right nip in the air. Autumn definitely feels close even though there's still nearly two weeks left in August. It was bright but the sun hadn't come up yet. I went back to bed for another couple of hours and got up at eight. I wandered over to the beach to have some breakfast down by the beach. By now it was a beautiful morning, bright and sunny. The wind had eased off but there was still a cool nip to it. I certainly kept my layers on. Out in the water the lads I'd watched surfing last night were back, this time with a friend and the three of them lounged around on their boards. The surf wasn't as good as it was last night. Looking around at the beach this morning its hard to imagine the place littered with a thousand dead bodies and the immense litter and debris from the three wrecked ships three or four hundred meters out in the water. I feel quite cold this morning but I can't imagine what it was like to sleep out here soaked to the skin and with only a few handfuls of rushes covering me.

De Cuellar spent the first three days or so after he was shipwrecked in the vicinity of Streedagh but I'm not doing that. Its time to take down the tent, pack up and hit the road. There's only one way off the strand, it's surrounded by water on three sides. Behind the dunes there's a lagoon which fills up at high tide and seperates the beach from the mainland. A narrow neck of sand joins the beach to the rocky headland at Streedagh point. To get back to Grange you have to follow the roads on a wide loop around the lagoon.

Back on the bike I follow the strand road towards a ridge half a mile south of the beach following the route De Cuellar took as he began to search for some shelter. After a day or two trying to scavenge food on the beach he appears to have heard from someone that there was an abbey in the area where he might find refuge. He was unable to walk properly and needed medical attention after recieving some pretty severe injuries when he jumped into the water to escape the sinking ship. I found a small private lane which led to the crest of the ridge and down in a hollow by the shore a further half mile distant sits the ruins of Staad Abbey. While Francisco limped slowly over the fields to get down to the abbey I find a network of ancient trackways to cycle round to the ruin. There's not much left of the place now, only a single gable still stands but you can see the outline of the building. It sits on the edge of a field right beside the shore looking out to Inishmurray five miles out to sea. Pilgrims travelling out to the old monastery on the island used Staad as a hostel, a stopping point (Stad), on their travels to and from the place of worship. It was a well known landmark and obviously a sympathetic local must have directed the destitute spanish survivors to this spot.

De Cuellar wasn't the only spaniard to make his way to Staad. At least twelve others arrived before him. He found their dead bodies hanging from the burnt out rafters of the building. English soldiers hunting for the survivors had rounded them up and executed them under orders from Dublin to kill every spaniard. Having been greeted with this sight he didn't hang about the abbey for very long and followed a road which ran inland from here. I followed an ancient trackway still cobbled and half covered in grass. At some point De Cuellar met an old woman fleeing from Grange who warned him to stay away from the village so he doublebacked down to the track to the strand where he met up with two other spaniards and searched for scraps of food on the beach. They eventually split up, De Cuellar's injuries slowed him too much for the others and they made their way seperately in the direction of Grange. I too followed the network of old roads back to the village to join up with another old track in the direction of Ben Bulben and the tiny hamlet of Cashelgarron two or three miles up the road. I'm trying to keep to the old roads as much as possible in an effort to follow the routes which were in use some four hundred years ago and the great thing is they're almost deserted so they're great for cycling along. Following this old road I meet with my first 'dog' episode of the trip. An ancient wee terrier comes rushing out of a farmyard barking and gnashing his teeth at me but he's so old I don't even bother getting off the bike and just cycle alongside him. He gets a little too close my rear pannier for his own comfort, gets a fright and runs back into the farmyard yelping in fear.

A few minutes later I crest the top of a ridge to face Ben Bulben with a storm brewing up above it. The beautiful morning is quickly deteriorating into a wet one. De Cuellar was directed by some of the locals to stay away from Grange where about a hundred spaniards had been rounded up by the English forces in the area and killed. He was told to travel in the direction of the mountains behind which were the lands of a chieftain who was providing shelter and protection for the survivors who could avoid the bands of soldiers and make it that far. Glencar valley lies behind the mountains of the Ben Bulben plateau which dominate the skyline inland from Streedagh and Grange. If De Cuellar could find that valley he would pass into the territory where he would find a safe refuge.

Following the old roads towards Glencar I spin down to Cashelgarron. Today this is an almost deserted little hamlet but in the past it was a settlement that grew up around a busy cross roads as the road between Sligo and Grange met with the mountain road coming south from Glenade and the territories to the north. If De Cuellar followed this route he had to pass through this settlement. The main Sligo Road also passes through Cashelgarron but most people barely register that they've passed through the place. Cars zip through it and they're gon in the blink of an eye. Continuing on the old road I head for the village of Carney. This is an area of rich pasture land and the air is full of the smell of lush grass. A downpour passed through here shortly before I arrive and the air is fresh and clear. I've never been in this village and I've grown up only twenty five miles or so from the place. The village used to be on the main road between Sligo and Grange but now its now bypassed and tucked away in a quiet corner a mile from the heavy traffic on the busy N15.

.......to be continued

Shipwreck at Streedagh Sept 21st 1588

On the deck of the Lavia Francisco De Cuellar stood helpless amidst the chaos as the ship was blown towards land. ‘a huge gale hit us broadside on with waves reaching the sky that the cables couldn’t hold and the sails were no use, so that we found ourselves hurtling ashore onto a beach of very fine sand, hemmed in at either end by tremendous rocks. The likes of this had never been seen for, within the hour, our three ships broke up completely, with less than three hundred men surviving. Over a thousand drowned, among them many important people, captains, gentlemen and regular officers.’

Some 400yds from Streedagh strand the ships ran aground, keeled sideways on the sandy bottom, and took a heavy battering from the incoming waves. Men began to die. Onboard The Lavia De Cuellar and De Aranda held on for dear life. De Cuellar, recalling the scene at Streedagh a year later, described what happened. ‘I placed myself on top of the poop of my ship after commending myself to God and Our Lady, and from there began to observe the whole appallingly sad scene: many men drowned inside the ships, while others jumped into the water never to come up again; others were on rafts and barrels, or astride planks; others were shrieking in the ships, calling on God for help; the captains throwing their gold chains and gold coins into the sea; others were swept away by the waves which scooped them from right inside the ships……… when any of our men reached the shore, two hundred savages and other enemies went up to him and took everything he was wearing until he was left stark naked. In fact, survivors were pitilessly beaten up and wounded; and all of this could be plainly seen from the broken-up ships, and I didn’t at all like what was happening in either place.

The ship was being battered to pieces by the waves and was disintegrating rapidly. Very few were left onboard as most of the officers and men had either jumped or were washed overboard. Those still onboard had only a few minutes left in order to try to save themselves. As De Aranda had saved De Cuellar’s life so Francisco now attempted to save the life of his friend. Neither man could swim so, looking around, Francisco decided ‘to place myself on a piece of the ship that hadn’t broken off, and the Judge Advocate followed me, weighed down with gold coins sewn into his doublet and hose. But there was no way of getting this timber to detach itself completely from the side of the ship because it was fastened by great iron chains, and was being battered by waves and looses timbers which were causing us, too, terrible injuries. So I tried to find another solution, which was to take a hatch-cover the size of a decent table which, by the grace of God, happened to be to hand and, when I tried to lie on it, I was plunged six fathoms under the water and swallowed so much of it I was almost drowned. When I surfaced again, I shouted to the Judge Advocate to get him on to the board with me but, as we were moving away from the ship, there came on top of us such an enormous wave that crashed down on us with such force that the Judge Advocate couldn’t hold on and was swept away by the wave and drowned. He kept shouting as he was drowning, calling on God. But there was nothing I could do to help him because, as the board was weighed down on one side only, it began to spin around with me on top, and at that moment a piece of timber smashed into my legs. Plucking up all my courage, I positioned myself well on my board and, after invoking Our Lady of Hontanar, was swept ashore-without knowing how and unable to swim-by a succession of four waves and emerged, unable to stand, covered in blood and in a very wretched state.’

De Cuellar had been flung headlong from one storm into the middle of another maelstrom on the beach. Half-drowned he struggled to get out of the water. While the storm continued to rage Streedagh strand was a frenzy of activity. Crowds of people had been drawn to the beach while the ships broke up and as survivors and the bodies of those drowned in the water began to wash up on the sand the looters set to work robbing the living, stripping the dead, carrying away everything else that washed ashore from the ships. Within the hour the ships had disintegrated. Anybody who hadn’t made it to the shore was now doomed. De Cuellar staggered away from the water while on all sides people were busy stripping those who managed to swim ashore. Spaniards wandered around the strand in shock, naked and shivering in the cold. Francisco, with his clothes, hands and legs covered in blood was left alone. His injuries were severe. He could only limp very slowly as his legs had been crushed by wreckage in the water.

Bit by bit De Cuellar moved away from the chaos on the beach. Streedagh strand is lined by a series of high dunes behind which a lagoon separates the strand from the mainland. Somewhere in the vicinity of these dunes De Cuellar hid in the long grass and remained here until dusk fell. The sun sets around Streedagh at about 7.30pm in the evening during late September. As it got dark the storm had almost blown over. The winds started to drop and the sea was beginning to calm. De Cuellar was joined by another Spaniard, a young man who had been stripped naked. He was in a state of shock. He didn’t reply when Francisco asked him his name. Unable to speak he simply lay down beside De Cuellar. It was a harrowing time for the two hungry, shivering survivors. One man was badly injured, the other in severe shock. Neither had any idea where they were other than that it was the west coast of Ireland. Both men were exhausted, cold and wet, without any food or shelter. The people on the beach had been hostile. De Cuellar had seen survivors being beaten up and robbed as they emerge from the surf. If their hiding place was discovered now they would be in no condition to defend themselves.

They were discovered by two armed men, one had an axe, the other a musket. The men approached as De Cuellar and his comrade lay quiet and still. They didn’t attack, instead, seeing the terrible state of the Spaniards ‘they felt sorry for us; so without saying a word to us, they cut plenty of rushes and hay and covered us up very well. Then they went to the strand to ransack and break open chests and whatever they found there.’ While large crowds ransacked the booty being washed ashore the two exhausted Spaniards, now completely hidden from view fell asleep. Sometime during the night De Cuellar awoke to the sound of a large group of horsemen arriving on the beach. He called to his companion to see if he was awake but there was no reply. The young man had died adding one more corpse to the hundreds which now littered the vicinity of Streedagh. In the darkness as De Cuellar lay grieving the death of his unnamed companion he must have wondered how in the name of the Lord the greatest fleet that ever sailed could have been so forsaken by their God and brought to this pitiful condition on such a windswept desolate coastline.

Thurs Aug 20 Streedagh Strand

It was blustery and cool. There would be no sunset tonight, too much cloud around. It was getting dark now and I was starting to feel cold so I gathered up my things and left the beach. As I climbed through the dunes back to the tent my phone began to ring. It was Mike G, a pleasant surprise as I wasn’t expecting any calls tonight. ‘Just phoning to wish you luck on the trip’ says Mike. ‘Ah good man, thanks a lot’. ‘You’ll never guess where I am now?’ ‘Well, by the sounds of that wind you’re outside’. ‘Yep, down at Streedagh for the first night on the road and just about to get into the tent.’ We got talking for a couple more minutes and then my phone went dead. I’m going to have to change that phone soon. I have it over five years now and the battery only lasts a few minutes on a call. I’m too feckin tight to get a new one for my travels. But it was good to talk to Mike even for a few short minutes. It dispelled the uncertainty and doubts that can cloud your mind at the start of something like this. He got me smiling again. Right, it was time to bed down for the night. I zipped up the tent, got into the sleeping bag and tried to make myself as comfortable as possible.

I’m staying at Streedagh strand for the night. The site where three ships of the Spanish Armada were wrecked in 1588 and the starting point for one of the survivor’s travels through Ireland as he tried, initially, to stay alive and, afterwards, to find his way home again. Over a thousand men died when the three ships went down but Captain Francisco De Cuellar was one of those who survived to tell the tale of his experiences after he staggered ashore on Streedagh strand half drowned and badly injured. In order to follow this guy’s footsteps I have to begin where he set foot in Ireland and so I’m down at Streedagh.

I cycled down from home earlier in the evening though, at one point, I didn’t think I’d make it this far at all. All afternoon heavy black clouds had come blowing in over Benbo mountain and swept over the town, the downpours falling in torrents as new storm clouds moved in to replace them. I’d intended heading for Streedagh in late afternoon but by six o’clock I still hadn’t ventured outside. I always get a bit uptight before the start of a journey but this evening I was in a foul humour mostly because of the terrible weather outside. I can take heat, wind and cold but not the wet, I detest it. As the angelus bell rang out it appeared I wouldn’t be venturing out on this occasion. On tv the World Athletics Championships were in full swing and later on Usain Bolt would be searching for another world record in the final of the 200m. It was a strong attraction for staying in but the rain eased off and there was even a hint of sunshine breaking through the clouds. I decided I’d better go now or I wouldn’t go at all.

I said a quick goodbye to Mum and Dad, ran out to the bike, it was already packed, and cycled up the old road, straight into the next torrential downpour. 300m up the road there’s a small rise from which you can see a good 10 miles down Glenade valley, the route I was about to take down to the coast. You could see the hazy veil of showers drifting across the bottom of the valley but behind Truskmore there were glimpses of clearer skies and some sunshine. It looked better down towards the coast.

The first downpour was the worst. But after that I got lucky. The showers mostly missed me after that and the rest of the evening was spent racing against the sunset to get down to Streedagh and get the tent up before darkness fell. I followed the old road down into the middle of Glenade. An ancient track, it follows the high, drier ground along the side of the valley heading for Kinlough and Bundoran. It’s been used by people for centuries until at some point a new modern road was built, winding its way through the lower boggy ground in the bottom of the valley. The old road doesn’t get used that much nowadays and a grassy tract lines the centre of the road. It’s quiet, great for cycling on. I pass by a number of old whitewashed farmers cottages built in the nineteenth century, modern family homes and a few large ‘Celtic Tiger’ mansions built a few years back when bank loans were still easy to acquire. I zip downhill past Mullies chapel where we used to go to Mass on Sundays. It used to be whitewashed but it’s been painted recently and now sports an odd two-tone shade of green almost blending in with the sodden, rush strewn fields that line the side of the road.

After Mullies chapel it’s great for a few miles. I freewheel downhill as the road gradually eases its way into the bottom of the valley. Rounding one bend a flock of sheep block the way. They’re being moved up the road by two redheaded brothers. These sheep obviously know where they’re going because the two lads are following behind them in a beat up old tractor. My sudden appearance hurtling round the bend brings the flock to a standstill as they all watch me nervously. I stop and move to the side of the road but the sheep turn to flee back in the direction they came from forcing one of the lads to jump out of the tractor cab to stop a headlong flight. After much whooping, whistling and frantic arm-waving the sheep are persuaded that I’m less of a threat than the hollerin farmboy jumping up and down behind them and they straggle past me gingerly. I continue on my way.

Down in the middle of the valley beside Glenade lake the old road joins the new main road and that’s where the fun ends…. or begins, depending on your point of view. There’s no hard shoulder on this road. It’s fast and winding and the passing traffic zips along. You don’t want to be caught on a bike on one of these blind bends when ‘one-a-da-boyz’ come flying down the road. I pushed hard along this stretch of six or seven miles. It’s actually gorgeous along here. Leaving the lake, where we used to fish for perch and pike, behind the valley broadens out under high vertical cliffs on either side. The skyline is normally dominated by Truskmore and its giant television mast but this evening with dark clouds bubbling over the tops of the mountains it was out of sight, shrouded in a grey mist.

Sweating under my waterproofs I kept one eye on the storm clouds above and an ear out for oncoming traffic. But it was grand, none of the speed merchants got me this time. I passed by Glenade chapel and a few hundred meters further on turned off the main road onto another old, mountain road which would take me over to Grange and the coast. When we were kids back in the seventies some IRA sympathizer climbed the mountain above the chapel and after painting a load of rocks arranged them into a crude ‘Brits Out’ slogan across the slope which passing drivers could see from the road. It stayed up there for years. Nobody seemed to be too bothered about dismantling it though perhaps it was safer to leave it alone. It remained blazing its defiant message until the rains finally washed it away. It must rank as one of the less subversive actions carried out in the area during the Troubles, only matched in its audacity by an action carried out by a local unit of the IRA during the War of Independence when attack was launched on a bank of turf in a bog near Kiltyclogher which had been cut to supply fuel for a local RIC barracks. The turf was destroyed by throwing the lot into the nearest boghole and those who carried out the famous attack were awarded with medals for their service to the cause after Independence. A true story!!

It was good to be out of Glenade. I was leaving the rain clouds behind and the mountain route to Grange is a beautiful route. The road runs along the base vertical face of the spectacular Benwiskin Mountain and overlooks the lowlying coastal plain that stretches between Ballyshannon and Sligo. In good weather you can look across Donegal Bay to the mountains beyond Killybegs but this evening there was no sign of them. Grey rainclouds sat low to the horizon. Looking out into the sea beyond Grange you could see Inishmurray, the low flat island that sits about five miles off the coast. A couple of miles away Classiebawn castle is a famous landmark, It’s dark silhouette standing clear on a low hill above Mullaghmore harbour. This was the summer home of Lord Mountbatten who was killed thirty years ago this week. That was one of those occasions you always remember where you were when you heard about it. We were in the car heading into Sligo when we heard the news and later that afternoon saw helicopters ferrying the dead and injured to Sligo hospital as we returned home.

I stopped by Benwiskin to check the time. It was 7.30pm, in 90 mins the sun would have gone down so I needed to keep moving in order to get down to Streedagh and have the tent up somewhere amont the dunes before it was dark. Out of the shelter of Glenade now there was a stiff breeze blowing head on making it slow going in a few places. There were a couple of stiff climbs but after Benwiskin the road leveled off. Nearing Grange the distinctive shape of Ben Bulben came into view. It’s an iconic mountain and a symbolic landmark of the northwest. I didn’t have much time for looking at it now as I was hurrying against a fast approaching dusk. The sun, now sinking towards the horizon, broke through the cloud cover creating a bright silvery haze over Inishmurray.

I arrived at Grange, a small village lining the busy highway that runs between Sligo and Donegal. Crossing this I took a side road down to Streedagh and 15 mins later I rolled into the car park behind the strand. I wasn’t sure if camping was allowed down here or not but I didn’t see any signs prohibiting it and, anyway, it was too late to be turning around now. There were still a number of people about so I quickly wheeled the bike in the direction of the dunes to get out of sight. Very soon I found my spot in a little hollow where the tent would be hidden from the heavy gusts that were blowing now. I got the tent up and after changing out of the sweaty clothes into some warm layers I went over to the beach to eat a bite of food.

The strand, about two miles long, arcs in a crescent shape between two dark rocky outcrops. When the tide is out the beach is a big, broad expanse of sand but the tide was fully in tonight, the waves rolling in and rattling through a protective layer of stones at the base of the dunes. The wind was whipping spray off the tops of the waves and two hardy surfers, covered head to toe in wet suits continued to ride the breakers as I munched on bread and cold spaghetti hoops. The light was fading fast, it was after 9pm now and it would be dark in a matter of minutes. The surfers paddled away towards their campervan in the car park. There was a sharp edge to the breeze and as my body was cooling down after my earlier exertions I began to feel the chill. I gathered up the leftovers of the food and made my way back to the tent. Just then the phone rang.

Wednesday September 21st 1588

On Wednesday September 21st 1588 Captain Manuel De Orlando stood on the deck of his ship, The Lavia. She lay at anchor half a league from a stretch of sand somewhere along the West coast of Ireland, but he wasn’t sure where. The ship was in poor condition. The hull was leaking badly and the men at the pumps were struggling to cope with the amount of water that was surging in. It had been a struggle to reach this coast. The boat had suffered battle damage six weeks ago during heavy fighting in the narrow seas between Dover and Calais and while she hadn’t sunk in the open Atlantic it had been a struggle to keep her seaworthy. The exhausted crew had done well to bring her to this coastline. But the men were in poor condition themselves. To be honest many of them were just about hanging on. There had been casualties in the fighting but disease had taken hold after two long months at sea. Contaminated water and rotting food supplies had infected the men with Dysentry and Typhus. This was more deadly than combat and disease exacted a far higher toll on crews than the fighting. To add to the difficulties what food supplies there were onboard were running precariously low. For over a month the men had been subsisting on reduced rations barely sufficient to keep them alive. Most of what was left was an unedible putrid mess. Disease and starvation were taking a sorry toll on the number of able bodied men that were left.

Orlando had sailed into this wide bay some days earlier around the 17th of September along with Captain Francisco Olanda in the Juliana and Juan de Bartolo’s ship the Santa Maria de Vision. These ships originally formed part of the one hundred and thirty strong fleet of the Great Armada of the Spanish King Philip II. Carrying some thirty thousand men Its mission had been to join up with another twenty thousand elite troops then fighting in Flanders under their brilliant commander, Alexander Farnese, Duke of Parma, to invade England and depose Queen Elizabeth. The Armada had failed in its efforts to join up with Parma’s men at Dunkirk and had been pushed north past Scotland under heavy attacks by the English fleet. Endeavouring to limp back to Spain and avoid further attack by the fleet of England the Armada sailed on a wide arc west of Ireland into the Atlantic. In the ocean big Atlantic storms battered the fleet and dispersed it. Unable to complete the journey back to Spain small groups of stragglers and badly damaged ships turned towards Ireland in the hope of finding some respite.

By the first week of September the first of these ships had begun to spot the Irish coast. Sailing together, the Lavia, Juliana and Santa Maria de Vision had caught sight of the north coast of Ireland and followed the coastline south which had brought them into Donegal bay. Sailing across this bay a line of high cliffs of the north Mayo coast barred any further progress southwards and a heavy westerly gale had blown up making it impossible for the ships to clear the cape at Erris Head some forty miles to the west. In the face of this gale it was decided to turn around and run for shelter further back in the bay. Backtracking along the coastline Orlando, Bartolo and Olanda had found shelter of sorts in the lee of a low, rocky island called Inishmurray. Between this island and a small headland to the north the ships dropped anchor a few hundred meters off a broad stretch of sandy beach. It was an odd place to stop there were much safer anchorages at Kilalla, Sligo and many other small inlets which were scattered around the coastline of Donegal Bay. The place where they were anchored was known to locals as Streedagh.

Among those joining Orlando and his crew on the deck of The Lavia that morning were Captain Francisco De Cuellar and Martin De Aranda, a senior official of the Armada. De Aranda had saved De Cuellar’s life on August 10th after he was sentenced to death on charges of gross negligence. Francisco had been captain of the galleon The San Pedro when, on August 10th, his ship had been accused of breaking formation in the face of the enemy. De Cuellar as captain was personally held responsible for a breach of discipline which was punishable by death. He vigorously protested his innocence and De Aranda, in his capacity as the Judge Advocate of the Armada, investigated De Cuellar’s appeal against his sentencing and found De Cuellar innocent of the charges laid against him. De Cuellar was cleared and his life spared though he was stripped of his command of The San Pedro and remained onboard The Lavia in the company of De Aranda. During the ensuing weeks the two men became friends and now stood together with Captain Orlando to survey the scene before them.

Looking across the bay this morning De Cuellar and the Judge Advocate knew the situation was grim. Gale force winds blowing in from the West were strengthening and the seas which accompanied this storm were rising to a frightening degree. The ships had been anchored here for four days now but because of the head winds had been unable to attempt to leave the bay. High seas prevented any effort at landing men onto the coastline to search for supplies of food and fresh water. All that could be done was to remain at anchor and ride out this storm. If the winds changed direction it might be possible to look for fresh supplies on land and then sail around that western cape into open waters. However, for the moment, the only thoughts entertained by those onboard were to survive this storm intact. Large waves were crashing against the ship, battering the hull, washing over those on deck. The Lavia’s anchor cable ran taut, straining against its anchor which was struggling to maintain a grip on the sandy bottom. The surf foamed and surged high up onto the beach nearby as wave after wave was whipped in from the open seas. Nearby, the crews of the Santa Maria and the Juliana no doubt entertained similar thoughts. It must have been tough for Bartolo in the Santa Maria. His was a hospital ship and had taken many casualties on board after the engagements with the English fleet. Many of those men were doomed. The badly injured couldn’t possibly survive in these conditions. A lot of the seriously wounded had died before now anyway.

By early afternoon the storm had built into a terrible fury. Everybody onboard was getting nervous now. Spray whipped into faces of the men, stinging red rimmed eyes. Waves were crashing on deck now, knocking sailors off their feet sending them sliding across the slick boards. The hull shuddering as tons of water crashed into it. The crews of each ship, a short distance apart, could only watch one another, sit tight and hope everybody came through this storm in good order. If any one of the ships began to founder then those crew members would have to shift for themselves. It would be suicidal to attempt any assistance in this storm. The fate of approximately one thousand men lay in the lap of the Gods and a turn in the weather. But the weather didn’t improve, instead, the anchors, unable to hold in the soft sands of the seabed, gave way and, in quick succession, the three ships were hurled towards the shore.