Fothair na Manach

Fothair na Manach is in the centre of this image, where the deep scar of the stream bed can be seen. Access is either by coming down from the high slopes above or else by sea (though I don't understand where people can climb up the cliffs from sea level.)

Clouds dragging on the peaks as I leave the car and a hot sun on my face as I walk. A shotgun boom surprises me. Later, near the old wreck of a Transit where the track ends I see the machine making the noise, a gas powered trumpet firing every ten minutes, to deter crows I suppose. It seems an odd place for one.



Over the last rise and I start to drop down left. The old field walls and lazy beds gleam brightly below. They almost look close. Más an Tiompáin under cloud shadow and Faill na Manaigh are like black, broken sharks' teeth in the upper jaw of this great slope. It feels like I could be swallowed up by the shattered mess of the cliffs.

I start down west of the teeth, seeing slopes disappear into drops in every direction. It looks safer further east but I don't want to backtrack. Decisions, decisions... Slowly I pick my way down, stopping below every scrambled step to assess the next move. It's more interesting than a uniform slope. Choughs call but my gaze stays fixed on the maze ahead of me. An overhanging stream-cut brings out climbing skills I'm thankful to have. It's the last obstacle. I look up for the first time properly in three quarters of an hour. The view of Binn na mBan shocks me, hidden as it was up to now. A jumbled boulder field lies to my left. The convergence of all these streams and easanna (a perfect word for what it means) is a deep-cut rift, pooling before plunging to the sea.





I can't see any other land. The mountain behind me and the sea before have shrunk my world to a small universe with huge presence. Every slope seems steep in the extreme, and riddled with cliffs and streams. Cloud still sticks to summits out of sight from the bottom of this ragged half bowl. Binn na mBan's northern slopes remind me of aerial photos of Hawaii - green and ravined, and ending in the sea. The lowering sun is suddenly hidden by a sliver of cloud. The slopes go dark, cold, then are re-warmed from below as the sun slips lower still. It's a clear run now to the clear horizon. Small plunge pools in the stream bed are linked by fiery outflows as I line the little river up with the sinking disc of light. Sea pinks cling to the pools' edges, trembling. The sun passes flawlessly through the horizon line.







A haughty wheatear threatens me while I wander round the field remains. Chk, chk, eeet. eeet. Chk, chk, eeet.. Walls and clocháin are built into the slopes. There is something that reminds me of an altar, with a semi-circle of stones embedded in the ground below it. Circular stone huts lie in ruins, their roofs caved in. A four sided structure has its southern wall embedded in the hill, and the ground rises to meet the east and west flanks. It's as if the whole interior was a stone-lined pit, dug from the ground rather than built up from it. Outside the north gable a large rectangle of stone sits askew across a ditch, a hole pierced through it like a millstone's. The ditch runs in under the north gable, looking very much like the site of a holy well, but it's dry. An old coffee jar lies beneath lushly growing leaves of a plant I can't name.

What were people doing here? A monastic settlement it's believed, but potato ridges suggest a more recent, maybe semi-permanent population. What did they use for fuel? Spuds aren't much good raw, and there's little sign of turf cuttings. Before potatoes what would they have? I see no easy access to the sea from here. Easy is not a word for this place.

Wandering the "village" looking for a place to lay out my sleeping mat. I settle on a site tucked in beside a part-buried boulder, the set sun's warmth still radiating from it. A projecting rock high up on Cnoc na mBristí looks like a giant rabbit, stood up and staring west. The sky is still light. A half moon hangs above the rabbit. It won't be dark tonight.



I don't want to go to bed for fear I'll miss something, though I'm tired too. The moon follows the sun's course, lagging lower in its arc. It clears Binn na mBan and I can see its sea shimmer. The last of the warm colour finally drains from the north horizon. Moonlight casts shadows and reduces the big slopes above to various patches of half-darkness. Eventually I lay down in my synthetic cocoon, thinking of the luxury I will sleep in, the chocolate and tea I had earlier, all things the people who lived here never knew, things if I had to do without I wouldn't stay down here at all.

The alarm wakes me, seemingly minutes after I lay down. Tiredness presses heavy. A quick glance around and I close my eyes again. The familiar battle between sleeping on and getting up for photographs plays out in my mind. Given where I am it's an easy win for the camera.

I return to the stream's end, sending a dipper away. A line of sea pinks leads the eye to Binn na mBan but the sun's whereabouts are unknown to me. I guess the cloud around the mountains is hiding the light and move on after half an hour. No sooner am I across the stream again and gold spills into the scene. I scramble back to position. Conditions are kind to me, and though the composition won't win any awards I take joy in the procedure all the same.









After breakfast I wander. The wheatears sound the alarm again. One of their fledglings darts away from me in a dried up stream. A grey wagtail in another stream. A herring gull coils upwards on updraughts. Choughs graze and call. I give the stone remains a closer look. I walk east to see what the map calls Cuas a' bhFiolar. All is steep and chaotic, hundreds and hundreds of weighty boulders frozen for now in their flow to the sea. Many fine places for an eagle's nest. I wonder when the last one was here.



Back at camp I check my phone. I've not been keeping the time. I suspect it's nearing midday; it's only twenty past nine. I pack up but I don't want to leave yet. So I scribble these notes. It has clouded in from the north east. The overcast suits the place, the blues and grey adding nice textures in the sky, the flat light revealing everything, nothing hiding in shadows.



I ascend to the east of where I came down. It's a slog but it's safer, and it's good to know options for future visits. Rain spits but doesn't start. I'm surprised to see Ceann Sibéal and the Three Sisters in sun. I meet the path, and many walkers. The small world of Fothair na Manach slips out of view, and off the radar. It feels like coming back from having been out on an island.

* * *

As far as I can find out online nobody has done any archaeological excavations at Fothair na Manach (Green fields of the Monks). At a guess it's from when much of the similar early Christian monasteries of wild places were founded, between the 6th and 8th centuries. I first heard of the place in 2007, on a hillwalking trip to Dingle. It took me twelve years to get there. I've wanted to make it an overnight stay for awhile, to add an extra element to the whole adventure. There's not much information about the site available. It's like a mainland version of one of the more famous island monasteries such as at Skellig Michael or the Aran Islands. If you're used to hillwalking and steep ground doesn't bother you it should be on your bucket list. I'd be surprised if there's a more remote monastic settlement on the mainland of Ireland. Even without its previous human occupation it'd be a powerful place. But the idea that people lived here certainly adds to a visit, and the mystery of their history makes it even more intriguing. Without knowing others had been down already it's not a place you'd readily try and get to. In ways it seems even more improbable than some of the remote islands. Who decided in the early centuries AD to shuffle their way down 400m of steep grass and crags like?!

If, like me, you've wanted to know more about it for awhile I hope this article is helpful. Not that it sheds much new information on the place, and the photos don't get the grandeur across either. You have to see it to believe it. Just take care on those slopes.