Recently, I took my time visiting with the place and the history associated with the two wells at St. Catherine’s – one of which is a holy well and the other which, though curative, is, curiously, not. Now, I will move into the rest of these parklands.
From the Leixlip side car park, I look ahead to the cricket playing fields which always seem to have somebody playing on them these days. I had watched with amusement at the recent RTÉ documentary that makes a compelling case for the origins of cricket being found in the old Irish sport of Catty. Seeing Ireland’s cricket grounds coming back to life in recent years is, perhaps, a sign of things coming back full circle.
I walk to the right, up the cut-through that bypasses the impressive stable ruins now used to house the equipment needed to keep the park in good order and emerge close to the dog enclosure. Or perhaps it’s called a dog park? The phrase “dog enclosure” brings me back to a visit to Tunisia fifteen years ago where a local zoo consisted mainly of six or seven goat pens and, yes, a chihuahua enclosure that was most definitely not a chihuahua park. Last year, my greyhound inexplicably decided to leap over the hedgerow to make a break for freedom. Or, at least, she tried to and, instead, landed awkwardly in the middle of the hedge itself, necessitating a trip to the vet and a lingering fear of hedges.
To the right, out across the football fields, is a splendid vista of the Dublin and Wicklow mountains. I follow the trail up past the well-used playground and make my way to the new bridge that marks the beginning of the woodland trail itself.
A short burst up the trail and one leaves the bustle of the park behind. There is instant seclusion as the tree canopy closes in overhead, the hedgerows creep up a little taller than they had been the week before and the ground softens to the point that footsteps drop to a low patter. The leaves of young beech trees mix with the soft branches of juvenile oak trees and tendrils of Poet’s Ivy. I enjoy studying the ivy to look for the tell-tale signs of orientation. Tristan Gooley’s navigating books taught me that Ivy, when younger, has spikier leaves that move to the back of the tree away from the light whereas the older, more established ivy is flatter, larger and more rounded in shape. It moves to the front of the tree to where the light is most likely to shine. A natural north/south compass.
The beech is not native to Ireland, though it has been present here for many centuries. Soon, however, I spy the first hint of a species that has long featured in our lore: the Holly Tree. Once protected by Ireland’s ancient Brehon laws, the Holly has come under a lot of pressure in recent years from christmas wreath making. In the past, a tree would be asked to give up no more than a few sprigs. In recent years, however, it is becoming more common to see entire holly trees stripped bare and unable to recover. Still – here in St. Catherine’s the Holly is clinging on and, in a couple of spots, thriving.
I know that the Liffey is below me because I can hear it now and then. But the foliage growing on the steep drop off to my right grows so thickly that I cannot see it save for a few glimmers when the wind blows the right way. Occasionally, through gaps in the trees I can see out over the plains that stretch south from here to the mountains. I think I can even see Lyons Hill in Newcastle at one point, one of the seats of the Kings of Leinster. I also notice the copper spire of the Spa Hotel peaking out – something I had not seen from here before.
To my immediate left are the flat, green farmlands of the Coldblow townland. I’m going to guess that these lands were not named for an excess of sunshine.
Soon, the views on all sides disappear. The sun is shining, but I cannot see it. Instead, it creeps in through a million leaf-sized sunholes and dapples everything with small, beautiful etchings of light. To my eyes, there is no difference between leaf and shadow.
Suddenly, this ridgetop path drops and begins to descend quite sharply and to a point where I have no choice but to either run or slip. I choose to run wildly down, thus managing to maintain my cool image. A few moments ago, I was atop a sun-dappled forest ridge. Now, I am at river level. An old empty mill race, presumably dug in the 18th century, leads the way back to the belly of the park itself. Though dried up, the bottom of the race is quite swampy, The flora here seems greener against the wood-dark mulch. I can see many tongue-shaped ferns.
Soon, to my right, I pass a wall of water that is neither a single trickle nor a waterfall. I don’t know what to call it. I wonder if tricklefall is a word?
Before too long, I am back at the Liffey itself. I step out to look at the water as it rushes through the old waterwheel channel, now perfectly repurposed as a set of canoeing rapids.
I have done this walk on my lunchbreak and am thinking to myself that it is a far better way of spending lunch than standing for twenty minutes in line in a soulless deli in the city centre. As I think this, I re-emerge from the forest to the main field at St. Catherines. There are three cows directly on the other side of the fence to me. One, a white-faced brown bull not six feet away, eyeballs me. I eyeball him back.