Renvyle House Hotel

Renvyle House sits in quiet seclusion amidst the wilds of Connemara, and is as far off the beaten track as you could ever hope t to get. A long, low grey-stone building standing hard by the waters of the Atlantic, it was rebuilt in the 1930s following the destruction of the former property on the site by the IRA.

Never is its location so exposed, its impact so dramatic, as when a murderous gale comes howling across the ocean' s raging surface and hurls itself with demented fury at the walls and windows. Then do the floors and low beams of its upstairs corridors creak wearily, as the dim lights cast long shadows into dark corners, from where you sense the eyes of former residents watching your every move. These are the days to huddle close to the glowing turf fires, and speak in reverential whispers of the ghosts that roam the sea-sprayed house.

The current building opened on 26 April 1930 and was then owned by Dublin surgeon, poet and wit, Oliver St John Gogarty. He had purchased the original property in 1917, and unwittingly acquired several ghosts along with the deeds. There was a north-facing upstairs room, with heavy bars across its windows, where no maidservant would dare sleep for fear of the " presence" that could be felt there. One night the malevolent force moved a heavy linen chest across the door, barring outside access. Only when a workman had sawed through the bars could the family enter the room again. One night Gogarty was sleeping in the west wing when he was woken by ponderous, limping footsteps approaching along the corridor. Lighting a candle, he went to investigate; but the moment he left his room the flame was extinguished and he found himself alone in the dark. Suddenly his limbs became very heavy, " as if I were exercising with rubber ropes," as he later put it. Fortunately, nothing further happened that night.

One of St John Gogarty' s closest friends was the poet W. B. Yeats. When he and his wife, Georgia, came to stay the supernatural activity increased dramatically. One night, as he sat with his companions in the oak-panelled library, the door suddenly creaked wide open. The other occupants were terrified, but Yeats raised his hand and shouted, "Leave it alone, it will go away, as it came" - whereupon the invisible revenant obligingly slammed the door shut.

Evan Morgan (later Lord Tredgar) was less in command of the spirits. He had recently embraced Roman Catholicism, and on being told that a particular room was haunted, attempted an exorcism. No sooner had he lit three candles and began reciting some prayers than a thick mist filled the room and the unfortunate Morgan was thrown to the ground. Having been dragged to safety by his friends, he revealed that he had seen the ghost of a pale-faced boy with large luminous eyes, dressed in brown, who was clasping his hands to his throat as if strangling himself. Morgan concluded that the boy had committed suicide in that room.

W. B. Yeats, meanwhile, held a séance in an attempt to contact the ghost. Using automatic writing the spirit indicated that it objected to the presence of strangers in the house. It informed Yeats that it would appear to his wife and reveal its identity. Georgia Yeats was a well-known and talented medium and felt no compunction about entering the haunted room alone. As she stood by the fireside a "vapoury" mist appeared, which gradually assumed the form of a red-haired, pale-faced boy, aged around 14. "He had the solemn pallor of a tragedy beyond the endurance of a child," Mrs Yeats later told her husband. She learnt that the ghostly boy was a member of the Blake family, the original owners of the house.

Shortly afterwards, with Gogarty away in England, his house fell victim to the Irish struggles and was burnt down by the IRA. " Memories, nothing left now but memories and ten tall square towers, chimneys, stand bare on Europe's extreme verge," lamented Gogarty. The house was rebuilt and Gogarty ran it as a hotel until relinquishing ownership in the 1950s.

Today the house is wonderfully atmospheric and ghosts still roam the corridors. In the past guests have complained of sensing " someone" in their room, and several ladies have had disturbing encounters with a man, whose reflection they have seen looking over their shoulders as they made up their faces in the mirror. Perhaps the last word on this mystery-steeped building should go to Oliver St John Gogarty. "The countryside was magical," he wrote,  "it is as if, in the faery land of Connemara at the extreme end of Europe, the incongruous flowed together at last, and the sweet and the bitter blended"

Moore Hall.

In 2002 I received a letter from an American Reader of my book Haunted Britain and Ireland telling me that if I was planning a follow up I might like to consider including Moore Hall in County Mayo, since he and his wife had visited the property on their recent vacation in Ireland. Both had heard footsteps from inside the house, followed by the sound of a door slamming and excited chatter as though two people were involved in a very animated conversation. I must confess that I had never heard of Moore Hall, but following a little research I was delighted to find that, ghosts aside, the building itself was the childhood home of the novelist George Moore, a man who nobody seems to have liked very much! W.B. Yeats described Moore’s face as looking like it had been carved out of a turnip. Henry Arthur Jones said that he resembled “a boiled ghost.” To Oliver St John Gogarty he was simply “that egregious ass,” whilst James Stephens labelled him, “the famous novelist that everybody talks about and nobody reads.” However, what nobody could deny was that, for all his faults, George Moore was a talented and original writer and in his greatest novel The Lake he paints a pen portrait of Lough Carra that is as enticing as it is exquisite.

Lough Carra is one of Ireland’s loveliest and least visited lakes and on a hill above it, lost amidst dark and gloomy woodland, stand the ruins of Moore Hall. It is a gaunt shell of broken walls, toppled brick and fallen masonry. The gnarled branches of skeletal trees poke from its empty windows, whilst its basement is a sinister labyrinth of arched corridors and dark rooms, their floors carpeted by a mulch of decaying leaves and squelching mud.

On the day I visited it, a grey pall hung heavy over its roofless bulk. I found it to be a truly chilling and eerie place, and although entrance is now forbidden, due to its tragically precarious state, enough of its interior was visible from the outside to give the impression of what a glorious house it must have been in its heyday. At the rear of the building I discovered an arched, dark tunnel that led to a wooden gate through which I could see the basement rooms, all of them exuding a gloom-laden and ominous air. Maybe it was the effect of the surroundings at work on my imagination, but as I gazed into the cavernous rooms before me I suddenly heard the distinct sound of childish laughter echoing from the upper floors. I looked up quickly but could see nobody. I walked around the whole property and wherever possible peered in through the windows, but the house seemed quite empty. I took a little more time to look around and to take my photographs before heading back to the car along the tree- lined avenue that forms the approach to the hall. As I did so, I became convinced that someone was watching me from the dark shell of the old house. A few times I felt compelled to look back, just to ensure that I was alone. It was only when I arrived back at the car park and the rippling dark waters of the Lough stretched before me that the feeling of foreboding that had been with me since hearing the laughter began to lift and I felt at ease once more.

The rolling mountains and sea breezes of the Dingle Peninsula can often hide a rich archaeological past from the visitor. Of the many heritage sites on the peninsula Gallarus Oratory is unique in both its setting and mystique. Situated on natural farmland and exposed to the wild Atlantic winds and weather, this lovely little building of stone without mortar, resembles an upturned boat, and the fact that it is still waterproof is proud testimony to the skills of the humble ecclesiastical craftsmen who constructed it 1200 years ago. It is the oldest intact building in Ireland, and was built for prayer at a time when the world was universally thought to be charged with the active spirit of a personal God.

Once inside this masterpiece of ancient stonework you are enveloped by the spirit of times gone by as your imagination soars back to a long ago era when the surrounding countryside - eerily beautiful yet frighteningly hostile and isolated - acted as a magnet to those who came in search of contemplative solitude. And here, perched on the edge of Europe - or as they saw it the edge of eternity - those long ago monks and hermits could seek their God in a raw, ecstatic encounter with stone, wind, sea and sky.

Today the age of miracles has given way to the age of science and universal materialism has brought a strange paradox to this sacred place of spiritual simplicity. Bus loads of camera toting tourists “doing Ireland” make up the largest proportion of its visitors. They traipse obediently through the visitors centre resplendent in their designer labelled clothing, walk the grass path that meanders up to the tiny Oratory, pose for a few digital pictures, walk back to their busses and are gone. Yet in a quiet moment in the early morning or late evening, when the tour busses have parked up for the night, it is possible to stand alone within this ancient structure, and listen to the Atlantic winds flinging themselves with demented fury against the stone walls. Then does the Oratory appear to shiver wearily as it braces itself against another onslaught, and then can you sense the presence of those long ago men of god to whom life was but a fleeting moment in which to prepare for that which lies beyond.

Lake Hotel.

 Lake Shore, Muckross Road, Killarney, County. Kerry.
Telephone: 0353 ( 0 ) 64 31035

The Lake Hotel sits in tranquil isolation on the shores of Loch Leine, the lower of Killarney’s beautiful and justifiably renowned lakes. It is a long and modern looking building with creamy yellow walls. But once inside, enough of the 19^th century manor house has survived to give the firm impression that you have been pitched back to a bygone age. Its dark-wood staircase ascends to a veritable labyrinth of long shadowy corridors where the darker recesses - of which there are many - have a truly haunting ambience. In the hotel grounds, and on the very edge of the Loch itself, stand the overgrown ruins of Castlelough Castle. Built around 1220 and once home to the McCarthy Mors, (Ed an accent is over the o) the castle’s lakeside location made it virtually impregnable and the McCarthy’s came to enjoy a fearsome reputation as hard fighters and harder drinkers.

During the reign of Elizabeth 1^st one of their number, Donal McCarthy, acquired the nickname of “Dan of the Feathers” due to his fondness for collecting the plumed helmets of vanquished Elizabeth’s troops as his trophies of war from frequent skirmishes with the English. It is said that he even employed a retinue of women at the castle to make mattresses and cushions from these collected feathers! His ghost, it is said, still drifts in a spectral boat across the glassy surface of the Lake in the dead of night. He has even been seen in the hotel’s “Devil’s Punchbowl” bar looking sadly across at the ruined castle, no doubt remembering long ago days of glory and bloodshed - although the pint of Guinness that he reputedly holds in his hand should perhaps be taken with a large pinch of salt!

When Cromwell’s troops invaded Ireland, the castle was severely battered, and eventually its defenders, having put up a fierce resistance, were forced to submit. This and nearby Ross Castle were the last in Ireland to surrender and it was here on the tranquil shores of Lough Leine that the Cromwellian Wars in both Ireland and England came to an end.

Over the years, many guests have reported close encounters with the hotel’s other resident ghost, a girl aged between twelve and fourteen years old who has been seen flitting about the buildings darker corners and who has a fondness for wandering at leisure across the front of the building that faces onto the Lough. Her appearances are always accompanied by what has been described as “ a body chilling feeling” coupled with a sense of “total calm.” No-one knows for certain who she is, nor what long ago event has caused her earthbound wraith to walk the corridors. A medium once succeeded in making contact with her spirit, but since the ghost insisted on speaking in “some form of Irish” not a great deal could be learnt of her reason for haunting the hotel. Since her garb has been described as being a white dress in the style of the 17^th or 18^th centuries, staff have concluded that she may well be the little daughter of Ellen McCarthy, sister to “Dan of the Feathers,” and have therefore christened their ghost “Ellen” after her mother.

Rockfleet Castle

Granuaile – The Pirate Queen.