At the edge of a big lake that’s edged by lush grass and millionaires, sits the Castle at Kinvara. It’s called Dungaire Castle. Parts are crumbling but the whole stands firm. Someone with a sense of humour appears to have built a small bungalow in the upper ramparts. Or battlements. There is probably some dry grass and a set of swings at the back.
It was built in the 16th Century by Ruairí Mór O’Shaughnessy, possibly to keep out people with very short names, like Bob Smith and Dave Dodds. It’s likely that Ruairí Mór O’Shaughnessy didn’t like people with short names. They could feck off over to Gort, a town with a very short name itself.
Sitting on a bench near the harbour with the brisk wind blowing fragments of cheddar from the edge of our cheese sandwiches down onto the boats below, we decide there can be no more picturesque village in the west of Ireland than Kinvara. Its dimensions are almost too absurdly pretty and after a while my eyes start to hurt. And if I stay any longer I will probably attempt to write some kind of sentimental acoustic guitar ballad.
Sweet Kinvara of Galway with your castle o’er the lake
I think of you when sleeping and dream of you when awake.
‘Tis said that nowhere in Erin has so many photogenic boats
And that biting wind makes it necessary to wear well insulated waterproof coats.
