One of the most picturesque and interesting trips I made in Great Britain was the trip by the Cork, Muskerry and Donoughmore railway to Blarney. The train follows the winding, grass grown, tree shaded banks of the river Lee for some miles. The lowlands along the river are emerald green and are divided into small fields by hawthorn hedges or by moss green, lichen covered country walls of country rock.
The stream is amber coloured and when the sunlight is reflected through the overarching trees on its ripples it is a sight worth coming a long way to see. Near Carrigrohane steep bluffs fall abruptly to the side of the river and high up on the bluffs, an old castle can be seen. Passing through Leemount, Healy’s Bridge and St. Ann’s, one reaches the little village of Blarney.
Leaving Blarney village, I followed a woodland path, crossed a rustic bridge, and came in sight of Blarney Castle. Aside from its historic and sentimental interest, it is most charming. Its massive ivy-covered towers rise 120 feet. It crowns a hill and is surrounded by yew trees which were full of their sweetish, indented red berries. Beside the castle is a ruined round tower. Caves beneath the castle and a natural moat formed by the Coomaun river made this fortress on its limestone rock a place hard to capture. It has seen strenuous times and its battered walls bear witness to the fact that in spite of the valour of the soldiers of King Charles who formed its garrison, Cromwell’s officer, Ireton, was able, with his ordnance to batter its walls’ down about the heads of its defenders and capture it. Even in its ruin it gives one the impression of tremendous strength and durability. No one happened to be there when I visited the castle. I climbed the winding stone staircase to within a story of the top. A 12inch ledge railed off by stout iron bars attracted my attention. Seeing a blackberry vine at the opposite end of the wall on which were some ripe blackberries ready to be eaten, I climbed over the iron bars, got on the narrow ledge and made my way to the opposite wall of the castle. On one side rose the rough wall, and the other, for nearly a hundred feet, was vacancy. I reached the blackberries, ate them, and made my way cautiously back to safety. I had not realized till I started for the blackberries that a recent shower had rendered the narrow ledge uncertain footing. The blackberries tasted like home. Many a time in Spring Valley, Polk County, I have picked just such sweet, ripe, wild blackberries growing over the tall fence by the side of the road.
I climbed to the top of the castle and located the world-famous Blarney Stone. It forms the upper stone, or cap stone, of an opening in the wall. Two iron rods support it. It is about six feet from the top of the wall. In the old days, the manner of kissing it was to have two trusted friends hold you by either ankle and let you down, head first, your full length, over the wall, so you could kiss the stone. Sharp iron spikes along the wall prevent the procedure nowadays. The way the stone is kissed now is to lie on your back and have two friends hold your arms and your ankles and push you downward and outward through the opening, so you can raise your head and kiss the stone. Many a person, I am told, decides not to kiss the Blarney stone when he looks down 120 feet to the ground. I had no trusted friend to hold my ankles, but I wasn’t going to come clear from Portland to Castle Blarney to kiss the Blarney stone and fail in my quest. I found that by lying down, reaching up and supporting my weight from both arms by holding to the iron bars, I could swing out and kiss the stone. I succeeded in swinging myself into position and I gave the Blarney stone a number of kisses so I could generously pass them on to my Portland friends who are not able to kiss the stone themselves. When I had wriggled back, somewhat mussed up and dishevelled, I examined the stone critically and at one side I discovered a slight projection. The stone is about four or five feet across, fairly wide, and is 15 or 16 inches thick. I coveted a bit of the Blarney stone. If there is any type of pest I despise, it is the tourist who goes over Europe acquiring souvenirs of this sort. I had never succumbed to that mania but this is where I fell. It was the difficulty of the thing that appealed to me. I wondered if I could hang on with one hand and with a bit of rock knock off that little projectile on the edge of the Blarney stone, I found a rock twice as large as my fist. It was of a flinty texture and made an ideal hammer. I squirmed into position again, one third of me hanging over space. Then I discovered that if I held on with one hand and knocked the projection off with the other hand, I needed a third hand to catch the bit of rock that would be broken off. I decided to take a chance so I held my back and legs stiff, braced my shoulder against the wall, held one hand under the projecting bit of the Blarney stone, hit it a couple of hard blows and broke off the bit I wanted, which fell into my hand. If anyone thinks this is an easy job he can come and, unaided, get a bit of the Blarney stone for himself.
As I scrambled back, I heard voices. An Australian lieutenant and two ‘Aussie’ sergeants came up the stone stairway. I apologised for my mussed-up condition by explaining I had just kissed the Blarney stone. One of the sergeants immediately decided he would kiss the stone. I have a long back. He hadn’t. He couldn’t get his face within six inches of the stone, so, his comrade, the Australian lieutenant, took one leg and shoulder and I the other, while the other sergeant held his belt and we held him out so he could kiss the stone. The lieutenant was next. We helped him in the same way. The other sergeant said, “I will risk shells, bombs and bullets, but I draw the line at being held out head first over a hundred feet or more of atmosphere.” The sergeant who first kissed the stone longed to acquire a bit of the real Blarney stone but after looking it over thoroughly decided it would be absolutely impossible to get a sample. I held that if a man had a chisel and a hammer and two men held him out, he might get one but they proved to their own satisfaction that it couldn’t be done, for the bit chipped off would fall into the tops of the trees below and be lost. As far as a man getting a piece unaided, they showed me how utterly impossible such a feat was. I politely gave in, holding the piece I had secured tightly in my fist in my coat pocket all the while.
I have reformed. I don’t go around anymore breaking pieces from world famous monuments. Though I have reformed, still I am not at all repentant. I am glad I have a fragment of the real Blarney stone.
The above article was written by Fred Lockley for the Oregon Daily Journal, Portland USA in 1918.
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