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| Spanning the ages, Kilmacthomas is at the heart of the Waterford Greenway |
Kilmac for the craic stakes its claim in the heart of the Waterford Greenway
There is a cycle from San Francisco to Sausalito that makes
you feel like Superman. Hell, it’s across the Golden Gate Bridge, where
everything seems suspended, even belief, as you peddle in what somethimes seems
like ET in the heavens.
The 46km Waterford Greenway too has its golden moments as it
takes you from the city towards Dungarvan and the stunning Copper Coast.
Nestling in the middle of the route and with justifiable
claims to its self-appointed appendage of, the heart of the greenway, is the
picturesque and plucky village of Kilmacthomas, affectionately and colloquially
known as Kilmac.
Thanks to a heads up and the wink and a nod of some local
knowledge I managed to get a ringside seat and a wild camping berth to the official opening of the much vaunted latest
Irish greenway, and more on the way by all accounts.
It was excitement all round, as it was the inaugural trip in
our brand new camper van - this time last year – and we have put the guts of
20,000km on the clock since then.
The lanky Main Street of Kilmac gives the distinct
impression that its source is in the Comeragh Mountains as it crosses over the
Mahon River towards the landmark former railway bridge at the other end. The
public toilets it passes along the way were on their best behaviour for the
fanfare and the visiting Minister and distinguished guests. And as if on cue
the rabbits and the birds made the most of the unseasonal March sunshine and
the furze planked in the centre of the village on the banks of its prized
riverside walk. (A stark contrast with the harsh weather we had this Spring).
On the other side the awkward remains of a bygone era, the
woollen mills and a fittingly modest memorial to Mary Foley who at 101 was its
last surviving employee. Talk now of a new distillery taking up residence in
the old mill, a stone’s throw from an ultra-modern apartment complex on the
opposite side of the Mahon in an apparent Mexican stand-off between times past
and future prospects.
Local boy Ray Barron hurls out another classic in an
eclectic set from Rory Gallagher to Rican Rafael Hernandez in a greatest hits
designed to charm the hometown crowd from the one that made it out alive and
lived to tell the tale of how to survive small town syndrome in the 60’s. His
mandolin in perfect harmony with the magic of the moment as Two Time Polka hold that long street in
the palm of their hand for an hour that felt like it should have gone on
forever…
Meanwhile back at my riverbank mooring a virgin white cherry
tree (Prunus Shirotae – Mount Fuji
Cherry) a fitting monument to public health nurse, Alice Walsh, whose claim to
fame is no mean feat to have never lost a baby in delivery. Even the noisy
cacophony of a murder of crows who have wisely taken up roost in the hollowed
out mill can’t spoil the sanctuary of my perch.
They are no threat to me or the tiny brown trout as they
look down below, although I have a feeling there must be a kingfisher hold up
somewhere on this stretch of water watched over by the viaduct, as Kilmac
boasts and toasts itself, at the heart of the greenway.
Kilmac for the craic, well it is that day for sure as they
dance on the tables in the town’s best tavern, Kierseys, and even butterflies
are enticed to brazen outside as the sun shines on the village once more.
The morning after the night before some mother’s son brazens
it out as he decides to ‘borrow’ a bunch of daffodils from the river bank for
Mother’s Day, given the benefit of the doubt that they weren’t lifted from one
of the nearby memorial…?
Under the bridge a gurgle of would be rapids, a rapid place
this Kilmac, if it can keep it up at all and that it’s not all just show for
the neighbours all festooned in balloons, as it dares to stick its chest out
again and it only barely over the shock since the last train pulled outta town
on March 25TH, 1968.
Could the glorious river walk and greenway restore Kilmac to
past glories as even the seasons seem to compete for vantage just down the road
from the snow speckled Comeraghs, not far from Kilmeaden, Dungarvan, Durrow,
Stradbally and Tramore. That would lift the Déise blues. The Flahavans porridge
factory peeps out through one eye of the viaduct arches as if to say, ‘This is
the way to start your day…’
On the greenway you could get run over by bikes of all
shapes and sizes, some with baby-buggy sidecars a new-fangled concept from the
Continent. I guess if the Dutch can build dykes they can make contraptions that
carry babies on bikes. Bike hire is brisk. Business is booming again for some
in Kilmac.
At road junctions cyclists dismount, looking east and west,
like desperadoes waiting for a train. Lots of bikes, lots of people, lots of
dogs. Irish Wolfhounds, Boxers, Pugs, Golden Retrievers and every type of person
in between. Lots of bikes, lots of spare tyres.
Further on up the former railway track old telegraph poles,
the lines cut and dangling, as if in anticipation of a John Wayne, Lone Ranger
or Alan Ladd to get in hot pursuit of some Jack Palance or other. Injuns too
(not engines!!) it seems, as smoke signals billow across the Comeraghs. These
gorse fires are no accident Tonto. Some cowboys in these parts for sure.
Like the ones who doused the wooden railing all along the
greenway in creosote, its smell hanging heavy in the air, overwhelming nature
with its toxic rush…the only blemish on an otherwise glorious day for Kilmac,
at the heart of the glorious Waterford
Greenway.
