Rothar Routes

Cycle routes & pilgrim journeys in Ireland and Europe …..

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A West Cork Pilgrimage: Farewell and Remembrance

All Ireland Sunday, what better day to create this post.

A recent visit to West Cork for a sad occasion offered one of those unexpected chances to touch base with some of the deeper threads of Irish history—threads that run through bog and bóithrín, through grief and pride, and through the lives of people who changed the course of this great nation.

I was in no rush, so I made a small pilgrimage to three evocative sites—Béal na Bláth, Sam Maguire’s grave in Dunmanway, and the site of the Kilmichael Ambush. Each place stands as a marker in the story of Ireland’s struggle for independence, bound up with courage, controversy, sacrifice—and West Cork’s fierce sense of identity

Béal na Bláth – The Ambush of Michael Collins

The road to Béal na Bláth winds through a peaceful valley, but history clings to it like mist. Here, on 22 August 1922, Michael Collins, Chairman of the Provisional Government and Commander-in-Chief of the National Army, was killed in an ambush during the Irish Civil War. It’s hard to believe he was just 31.

A memorial cross marks the spot where his armoured car was stopped and the fatal shot was fired. The setting is still and rural—sheep and dairy cows graze nearby, unaware of the turmoil once played out on this narrow road. It’s hard to reconcile the serenity of the place with the trauma of that day. Collins was a national hero and a signatory of the Anglo-Irish Treaty, after which he said ‘he had signed his death warrant’. It’s hard to imagine the bitterness and sadness of the Civil War that pitted brothers against each other. Surely some of the darkest days in our long history of suffering.

There’s something sobering about standing where he fell, in the quiet hush of the West Cork landscape that shaped and ultimately claimed him. (The Current cross isn’t the exact location of where he was killed; it was slightly south of it). 

Miscellaneous fact: a lot of us in Éire Óg have a great interest in Collins as we were asked to take part in the film of Michael Collins as the Tipperary team in Croke Park playing against Dublin, represented by Kilmacud Crokes!

Sam Maguire’s Grave – A Forgotten Patriot Remembered

In the churchyard of St. Mary’s in Dunmanway, I stopped at the grave of Sam Maguire—a name familiar to every follower of Gaelic football, though few know the man behind the famous cup given to the winners of the All Ireland SFC.

Born in 1877, Maguire worked in the British Civil Service in London, where he became involved with the Irish Republican Brotherhood. He later played a crucial role in intelligence-gathering for Michael Collins during the War of Independence. A passionate advocate for the GAA, he helped foster Irish identity in exile and on the field where he captained London in the 1901 and 1904 All Ireland Finals. It was he who recruited Michael Collins into the IRB.  He was Collins’ chief intelligence officer in London but he had to flee as his cover was blown and he returned to Dublin, joining the new Irish Civil Service. But because of his anti treaty views he clashed with his superiors and was dismissed.

Sadly, Maguire died penniless and in obscurity in 1927, just five years after Collins, and was buried in his hometown, Dunmanway. Today, a statue and the Sam Maguire Cup—awarded annually to the All-Ireland Senior Football Champions—keep his name alive. But his grave is a quiet one, and worth visiting to remember the man behind the silverware: a patriot, organiser, and believer in Ireland’s potential.

Sam visits Éire Óg 1984 approx.

Kilmichael Ambush Site – Turning the Tide

After leaving Dunmanway I passed out by the birthplace of Sam in Mallabraca.

Not far from the back roads of Dunmanway lies Kilmichael, the scene of one of the most significant—and controversial—engagements of the War of Independence.

Just one week after Bloody Sunday in Croke Park, when the Auxiliaries killed fourteen civilians, including one player Michael Hogan, on the 28th November 1920, Tom Barry led a flying column of the IRA in ambushing an Auxiliary patrol. Seventeen Auxiliaries were killed, along with three IRA volunteers. The event was a turning point in the guerrilla war, demonstrating that the British forces were not invincible. The Auxiliaries, like the Black and Tans, were notorious paramilitary type forces who tried install fear into the civilian population with their cruel tactics and reprisals against local populations, such as burning homes, looting shops and shooting civilians. They are well characterised in the great film ‘The Wind that Shakes the Barley’. They bookended this cruel chapter with the burning of Cork City in reprisal.

A stark monument, stands at the ambush site. Various Panels at locations around the site tell the story, but it’s the landscape that speaks loudest: boggy fields, rocky outcrops, and that same mix of calm and sorrow that haunts much of Ireland’s rebel history.

The Kilmichael Ambush has been the subject of historical debate, particularly around claims of a false surrender, but it was a defining moment in West Cork’s memory and in the folklore of resistance. The surviving Auxiliaries feigned to surrender and killed three local IRA men who had dropped their weapons. Barry gave the order to open fire and not to cease until he gave the order to do so. 

In the modern Ireland, we have forgotten the sacrifices and hardships of generations of Irish men and women who gave their lives so we have our freedom today. Cruel hard times; that opened scars that have taken generations to heal.

West Cork wears its history proudly, if quietly. These sites are not huge tourist destinations—they’re tucked away, often signposted with a kind of modesty, as if to say, “We remember, but we don’t boast.”

Each grave, each cross, each quiet roadside plaque reminds us that history is never really in the past. It’s under our feet. And sometimes, when we need it, it rises gently to meet us. Gone but not forgotten.

It was time to head home.

Killanerin, Croghan Hill, Ballyfad & 1798 echoes

My latest looped spin dipped over the borders of County Wexford and Wicklow, beginning at Killanerin GAA Club, a handy spot to leave the car—although it didn’t start smoothly. A flat rear tyre on the car meant my cycle began with a bit of hassle changing the tyre before even hopping on the bike!

Once finally rolling, I left Killanerin and pedalled by the Wexford Lavender Farm, one of Ireland’s few commercial lavender growers. Their rows of purple bloom are a unique sight in this country, against the backdrop of rolling fields.

From there, I coasted through Coolgreaney, a small village with a lot of history. The Askamore to Coolgreaney area was very active in the 1798 Rebellion, when United Irishmen under the leadership of the Catholic Miles Byrne and the Protestant Anthony Perry, played such a pivotal role in the Rebellion of 1798 as Wexford rose against British rule. Local tradition holds that rebel columns marched through here en route to the key battles at Oulart Hill and Vinegar Hill, leaving behind stories of hidden pikes and daring night gatherings. As I came into the village I could hear raised voices coming from Coolgreaney House gardens – an outdoor play was being performed among the gorgeous gardens,

Next up was Ballyfad, also with strong 1798 associations.

It’s a 10 km climb to Croghan Hill. The ascent snaked steadily upwards, passing through Ballyfad with the shoulder of Croghan drawing closer all the while. Croghan Hill’s upper flanks are dotted with giant whooshing wind turbines. I followed the wide gravel fire breaks through these towering blades until I reached the last steep 600 metres of heather and spongey ground – but very dry today, which demanded a short 600 metres hike.

At the summit, I was greeted by one of the best 360-degree panoramas I’ve seen. Under a crystal-clear blue evening sky, the whole sweep of the Blackstairs Mountains and Mount Leinster lay to the west, while Lugnaquilla’s bulk marked the Wicklow mountains. The line of the Great Sugar Loaf stood proud to the northeast, and the east coast ribboned away south past Arklow, all bathed in late sun.

From there, I looped back down toward Ballyfad Wood, taking a peaceful cycle through 200 acres of mature woodland listening to nothing but late evening bird song—quite the contrast to the frantic start to the day. Ballyfad Wood was used as a refuge by The United Irishmen both before and after the rebellion of 1798 and there are records of rebels encountering local loyalist militia in the woods in the autumn and winter of 1798. Ballyfad Wood was said to be a hiding place for rebels on the run after the failed rising. Some old locals still talk of “rebel paths” threading through these woods, though most of the traces are long since swallowed by bracken and pine. I was back in Killanerin, the car (now with a spare wheel) waiting.

Cycle details

  • Total distance: 31 km
  • Climbing: 767 metres
  • Start/finish: Killanerin GAA Club
  • Highlights: Lavender farm, Croghan Hill views, 1798 history, tranquil Ballyfad Wood

Another gem of a loop, mixing rebel folklore, modern turbines, and timeless vistas. Well worth the tyre hassle!

Glen of Imaal Loop

There’s a road out of Rathdangan that pulls you gently upwards, wrapping around the shoulder of Slievemaan. It doesn’t shout for attention. No cafés, no car parks, no welcome signs. But beyond it lies one of the most storied and mysterious landscapes in Ireland – the Glen of Imaal.

On this particular spin, the sun was high and fierce – longest and hottest day of the year so far! As I pedalled into the wide glacial scoop of the Glen, Lugnaquilla loomed on my right like a sleeping giant, the North Prison cast in shadow. To my left, the softer hulk of Kaideen offered contrast – rounded, brooding, ancient.

The first stop was McAllister’s Cottage, beautifully whitewashed, where it clings to the hillside, it was once a safehouse and hiding place during the 1798 Rebellion. It was here that Michael Dwyer, the famed rebel leader from Imaal, spent a winter on the run with comrades including Sam McAllister. When Crown forces finally caught up with them in 1799, McAllister made his final stand – deliberately exposing himself to gunfire to draw attention away from Dwyer, allowing his commander to escape into the misty folds of the Wicklow hills. His sacrifice made him a folk hero, and the cottage remains a potent symbol of defiance, endurance, and tragic loyalty.

Onward, across the Glen. The road turned rough, and I followed it towards the edge of the Glen of Imaal Artillery Range, where live military exercises still take place. Signs warn you not to stray from the public track – this is still a working range. I forded the River Slaney, little more than a silver thread here, but rising proudly from the heights of Lugnaquilla before beginning its long journey down through Carlow and Wexford to the sea.

Past Fentons, the famous pub at the foot of “Lug,” the road curved through this beautiful and remote valley that tourists tend to overlook. I stopped to pay respects at a somber site: a memorial to 16 Irish soldiers, killed in 1941 during a tragic accidental explosion while training in the Glen. A quiet spot, beautifully kept, with names etched in stone. These were young men, preparing to defend their country in neutrality during a dangerous time for Europe. Their deaths were a devastating blow to the community and are still remembered here.

There’s an added dimension to my Saturday and Sunday cycles when GAA games are on the radio; today was an epic battle between Dublin and Clare hurlers while Cavan travelled to take on Kerry. Kudos to the commentators who paint such vivd word pictures that it’s like being there and sometimes I’d end up pulling over to the side when it got particularly exciting – there were a lot of stops today as the Dubs overcame that brilliant Limerick team! I was outside Fentons pub for the closing minutes chatting to a bus driver who was transporting climbers undertaking the 4 Peaks Challenge! I completed a similar challenge many years ago with Donal Nolan and John Wynne!

Curiously, hidden within the artillery range itself, there’s a civilian cemetery, its presence a mystery. Perhaps a relic from before the land was taken over by the Defence Forces. It’s these oddities – the half-remembered things – that give the Glen its haunting pull.

The next waypoint was a true rarity: the Knickeen Ogham Stone, a tall, lichen-covered standing stone etched with ancient script, probably from the 5th or 6th century. Ogham was Ireland’s first written language – a series of slashes and lines denoting sounds. The Ogham inscription on the North East corner reads ‘Maqi Nili’, which broadly means ‘Of the son of Niall’, standing here for over a thousand years in silent testimony. It’s easy misss this important heritage site as it is off the public road and to the side of a walking track and out of sight. Glad to have visited it today.

Then it was time to close the loop. The road climbed again after Knockanarrigan, the crossroads at the centre of the Glen, where Kaideen again loomed in front of me like a guardian angel guiding me home. After a bit of climbing, it was an easy glide down to Rathdangan, my water bottle drained and legs toasted, but mind and body satisfied with stories and scenery.

Distance: 38km

Total Ascent: 603m

Avoca to the Coast: Red Kites, Sea Air and the Castletimon Giant!

There’s a special satisfaction in linking up a series of bike loops. Each one feels like a jigsaw piece – this piece is a cycle from the wooded hills above Avoca to the Wicklow coast and back again, across undulating country, through ancient landmarks, moody skies, and the odd magical tale.

The route starts in the village, just after the Church and loops back around and above the village.

I began with a climb into Kilmagig Forest, drawn by the promise of wings above the treetops. This is the Red Kite Walk– a 2.5km waymarked trail beloved by hikers and bird watches alike. Since their reintroduction in 2009 by the Golden Eagle Trust (other locations were unsuccessful), Red Kites have made a dramatic return here, with over 30 breeding pairs now resident. Circling high over the canopy and the village of Avoca far below, their forked tails and effortless glide gave an otherworldly feeling to the morning. A local man told me the kites are not always so graceful in their habits – apparently they sometimes drop bones from scavenged meals onto cars below, occasionally causing dents and confusion among unsuspecting drivers! A modern twist on the age-old tension between humans and nature.

From here, I veered east through hill country where the place names are poetry themselves: Ballinastraw, Ballinabrannagh, Pollaphuca, Barranisky.

Somewhere on this backroad maze I paused at St Patrick’s Well, a peaceful spring with a long devotional history. The water was cold and clear, the kind of spot that invites silence, maybe a whispered hope or two.

Crossing the motorway was a rude reminder of modern life, but the reward came soon after – the smell of salt on the air, the Irish Sea stretched out before me from the lesser known Mizen Head, with off shore wind turbines barely visible in the misty sky. Headed due north then to Brittas Bay, that summer escape beloved of Dubliners.

A sudden cloudburst turned the world grey and dripping. I was soaked to the skin, but the road beneath me was still a joy – fast and sinuous, the kind that makes you laugh out loud even in the rain. Wicklow seems designed for these kinds of moments.

On the return leg, I almost passed the Castletimon Ogham Stone, carved sometime between 350 and 550 AD. Rediscovered in the 1800s, the stone carries Ogham script – Ireland’s earliest written language. Some say the Castletimon Giant hurled it down the hill, scratching it with his fingernails. Others speak of a man who stole it for his hearthstone, only to have the fairies wreak havoc on his kitchen, sending cutlery into a nightly jig. He returned it promptly.

From there it was a spin past Jack White’s Cross Roads, where the infamous pub still does a brisk trade beside the junction, and a winding loop past Redcross, before I finally swooped back down into Avoca, wet but content, my loop complete.

47km, 717 metres of climbing, and a little bit of everything – birds of prey, coast and legend, forest, folklore, and rolling tarmac. The Garden of Ireland keeps surprising me.

A Wheel Through Time: Cycling the Vale of Clara Loop, County Wicklow

Distance: 35 km

Elevation Gain: 690 m

Route Type: Looped

Terrain: Mix of quiet country roads, forest lanes, riverside valleys, and panoramic hill climbs.

There are days when the road doesn’t just stretch ahead—it opens like a storybook. One recent morning, I found myself parking up at Clara Church, not far from Rathdrum, Co. Wicklow to begin spinning the pedals above the enchanted Vale of Clara, a looped route that doesn’t just traverse landscape but travels deep into Ireland’s wooded memory.

Wicklow has forests aplenty, but the Vale of Clara is something else—an often missed delight among the heavenly delights of Glendalough and Avondale. Here, oak woods have stood since the last Ice Age, rooted in a silence deeper than memory. Hazel and rowan shiver gently in the wind. Jays flash like thoughts through the branches. The long-eared owl, the blackcap, even the shy woodcock—all dwell here under the protection of a Special Area of Conservation. It’s a place to look and to listen.

At the heart of this green cathedral lies the village of Clara, many claim it to be Ireland’s smallest village! Picture this: a narrow, six-arched stone bridge, the oldest in Wicklow, modest yet stoic, dating back to the 17th century. It creaks under single-lane traffic as if resisting the modern world. Beside it, the quiet dignity of St Patrick and St Killian’s church, standing since 1799. Even the old schoolhouse next door has its tale to tell – it arrived 100 years later in 1899. Once there was a post office, an inn, a shop—all now homes, like retired storytellers guarding secrets of a gentler time.

Not far from Clara, is the Millennium Forest at Ballygannon. Over 40,000 oak seedlings were planted here at the turn of the millennium.

I followed the winding roads and soon I found myself on a rough lane descending toward the Mottee Stone—a 150-ton granite boulder plucked by a glacier and misplaced like a forgotten thought. Some say Fionn Mac Cumhaill hurled it from Lugnaquilla as a hurling ball. Others claim it rolls down the hill once a year for a drink at the Meeting of the Waters. Another is the one where dispatch riders from Dublin to Wexford cried “moitié!” upon seeing it—French for “halfway.” A milestone of myth and mileage. Iron rungs embedded by miners let me climb atop the stone, where the panorama spilled out in all directions.

And then downhill—freewheeling joy through over grown hedgerows, wildflowers and sun-dappled lanes—until I came to the place where rivers embrace. The Meeting of the Waters, where the Avonmore and Avonbeg become the Avoca, is more than geography—it’s poetry. Thomas Moore stood here once, moved to verse:

“There is not in this wide world a valley so sweet
As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet!"

The loop was now turning back towards my starting point but first came Avondale and Rathdrum, a town with history stitched into every street. A Green and Red painted house in the centre of the village caught my eye; adorned with chants of Mayo, Mayo, Mayo…and hopeful slogans ‘Yes we can’ and ‘Is féidir linn’. Hope springs eternal, yet dashed again last Sunday. Odd I thought to see this is the middle of County Wicklow, until I remembered that Charles Stewart Parnell, Rathdrum’s native son, once led the charge to end landlordism across Ireland. It was he who inspired the movement that gave the English language the word “boycott,” after Irish tenants shunned a British land agent in County Mayo. Perhaps, I mused, that splash of Mayo red and green was more than football pride—maybe it was a silent homage to Parnell, to justice, to the Land League’s legacy.

As the loop closed and I rolled back over Clara’s 17th century bridge, it struck me: this wasn’t just a cycle. It was communion—with history, with forest, with story, and with silence.

The Vale of Clara doesn’t just show you where you are. It reminds you of where you come from.