King John’s Bridge stands in the heart of what was once the thriving medieval village of Esker. It is widely accepted that this is the oldest bridge in Ireland having been commissioned by Robin Hood’s nemesis himself around the year 1200. I didn’t get into many fights as a kid, but standing here at the ruins of what was once a grand three-arched structure, my memory takes me back to an incident between myself and a boy in my class in St Mary’s Primary School when I was about 6 or 7 years old. King John’s Bridge, I said one day on the playground, was the oldest bridge in Ireland. He vehemently disagreed. It was, rather, the oldest ‘crossing’ in Ireland, something that threw me as I thought a crossing and a bridge were the same thing. Not wanting to back down from my ‘it’s a bridge, not a crossing’ stance and him equally unwilling to show weakness and lose a potential architectural nomenclature argument, we found ourselves physically squaring up to each other. I distinctly remember that wobbly feeling in my muscles that you feel when you’re expecting to be attacked. I stood firm and, in short, he broke. With the hint of a tear welling in his eyes, he shook his head and mouthed the word ‘crossing’ to me before backing away. The moral of this story? King John was a problematic monarch in his own day. Eight-hundred years later, he still has the propensity to cause trouble.
I leave the bridge behind and walk north west along the Griffeen path. Across the Griffeen I see the proud, white facade of the only intact building from old Esker that still stands today: the appropriately-named Esker House, today restored and beautifully tended by the Chinese Gospel Church. Somehow, unlike the rest of the village, this building has survived. It was built in 1780- a mere two decades before the thriving village began to grind to a halt.
When Esker House was constructed, Ireland had a booming economy that was experiencing the benefits of the early days of the industrial revolution. Villages with good transport links blossomed into thriving mill towns, such as Tallaght, Lucan and, of course, Esker, where the Griffeen was peppered with mills producing cotton, linen and gloves. Then, in 1801, the Act of Union was passed and Ireland’s economy fell silent rendering the old village of Esker faded.
Aside from Esker House and King John’s Bridge, the ruins of St. Finian’s Church and graveyard is the only other structure that exists from old Esker. As I ramble over towards it, it strikes me that I am touring a ghost town – one that now only occasionally peeks out from beneath the ever-expanding Lucan.
The site of old Esker fits into a compact space around this edge of Griffeen Park. It is a site with some considerable history, with the very ancient Esker Riada road that has run through it for millenia. It became a royal manor following the Norman invasion. Indeed, this being the old main road from Dublin, it is quite probable that King John passed through here on his way to Leixlip during his somewhat ‘boisterous’ trips to Ireland in 1185 and 1210. Certainly, some of the hundred heads of vanquished enemies that he sent back to Dublin would have traveled along this road.
I, however, am in search of evidence of a different set of stories today. I had spent some time online searching the Dúchas database of myth and legend from the 1930s, specifically looking for references to the old church at Esker. I had found a reference to the devil’s footprint being visible in cement at the graveyard and, separately, a reference to a chalice on the gravestone of a holy man that, when it filled with water, could cure certain ailments. As I approach the church, I try to remember what ailments the chalice was supposed to cure, but I can’t recall. I settle on warts, as, in my limited experience of visiting cure sites around Ireland, I have noted the surprising abundance of wart-curing holy sites. (Note: I checked the Dúchas website when I returned home. I was right. It was warts).
I begin my search in the church grounds, diligently looking through the headstones and any place where there might be old concrete present for the footprints. The church and graveyard have recently had some very welcome stabilization and clean-up works, making it a bit easier to inspect the various headstones.
I am reminded of one entry in the Dúchas collection that recounts body theft from the cemetery:
“In 1849 the students of the University, Trinity College used to come out to old Esker cemetery when they would hear of a person been buried there. They had muffled horses so that they could not be heard. They came after twelve o’ clock when all was quiet. They had search lights and two men watching to keep nix for them. They drove away leaving the grave open. The students used to operate on them and find out their complaint.”
I want to know more about this story but cannot find any additional detail. With the rather dramatic setting of the ruined church and old graveyard, it does not take long for my imagination to fill in the detail. It is, however, unable to imagine how one might muffle a horse.
Despite some diligent searching, I am unable to find a chalice or a set of footprints in cement. Before I leave, I go to take a look at the recently-resealed crypt. One of the coffins inside is that of Father James McCarron, who was murdered at the top of Lucan Hill in 1807, the site of which is marked by a large, inscribed granite slab. At the murder trial, one of the accused, Walsh, stated that he was a silver-plater by trade, but the Act of Union had killed his business and made him fall on hard times. The murderers were convicted and executed the next day at the same spot on Lucan Hill where Father McCarron had died.
Just before I leave, I notice a rubble pile left from last year’s clean up. I have a look through it and, rather unexpectedly, I find a stone with old cement attached. As I turn it over, I see what appears to be … a footprint? Maybe …
An unexpectedly dramatic end to my ramble around the vestiges of old Esker – our very own ghost town.