Irish hero comes to life in homeland

CLONAKILTY, Ireland — The museum curator's eyes widened and his voice rose as he spoke about the assassination of the popular Irish Catholic political leader.

He seized on conspiracy theories about which direction the bullet came from, who the shooter actually was. A foreign spy, or a turncoat countryman? Kids in the audience made Mr. Yuk faces as he held up a mannequin head — with a large red stain drawn in marker pen — and analyzed the exit wound.

What next? The Zapruder film? Diagrams of the Texas Book Depository?

But we weren't in Dallas. This was Ireland. And the victim wasn't JFK, the American president, but Michael Collins, the leader of Irish rebellion who was shot in an ambush near here in 1922.

Much as JFK's mystique survives in the United States, so does Collins remain a martyred folk hero to many Irish Catholics and nationalists in this land where strife with the British is as much a part of the national fabric as the pub lunch.

Even with recent conciliation marked by power-sharing between Protestants and Catholics in Northern Ireland, Collins' legend and the controversy over his death remain fresh in his home county of Cork, on Ireland's southwest shore.

My Seattle family and I had come seeking a quiet retreat in rural Ireland, and randomly chose a rental farmhouse near Dunmanway, West Cork — unbeknownst to us at the time, a few miles equidistant from where Michael Collins was born and where he was shot down.

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With few plans for our holiday other than to escape from our customary workaday world, we found ourselves in the heart of Michael Collins Country, stumbling onto a fascinating history.

Gorse and ground fires

Our farmhouse, called Waterfall House, perched miles from town on a serpentine, one-lane road among rolling hills.

Along the lane, low stone walls bristled with purple heather and tiny, sweet blackberries. It was an area of poor pastureland, pocked by huge boulders and thorny gorse that grabbed at our socks.

Patches of field periodically burst into flames (probably having to do with peat fires smoldering underground). None of the locals seemed to pay the small fires much heed. So we ignored them, too.

The house, named for a riffle in the nearby River Bandon, had a pigeonhole fireplace in which we struggled to burn sooty coal. There were more religious icons than in many churches: A handcrafted case in a hall held ceramic figures of St. Brigid and others; a copy of "The Last Supper" with a backlighting bulb that couldn't be turned off; and a framed magazine centerfold of Pope John Paul II. In our bedroom were minor "saints:" a framed photo of John and Bobby Kennedy.

It was a perfect base from which to visit sites sacred to the memory of Ireland's best-known Catholic revolutionary, still known affectionately by his nickname in life, "the Big Fella." When our shy, prim and proper Irish landlady, Abina O'Donovan, asked our plans one morning and we said we were headed for the Collins museum, she couldn't hide her pleasure at our interest.

"Oh, that will be lovely! You'll enjoy that," she beamed.

Homegrown history

The museum has a Web site. Glossy brochures promote it at tourist offices. So we were expecting something large, and on a main highway.

We started from Clonakilty, one of Collins' boyhood homes, after visiting the town square's handsome bronze statue of him giving a fiery speech. The statue was unveiled in 2002 in a ceremony attended by actor Liam Neeson, who played Collins in a 1996 motion picture co-starring Julia Roberts and Alan Rickman (http://michaelcollins.warnerbros.com).

As we followed signs out of town, each turn onto a smaller lane made us wonder how big this museum could be.

Not big at all, it turned out. But a big dream for proprietor Tim Crowley, a likable fanatic whose grandmother was Collins' third cousin.

The grandiosely named Michael Collins Centre occupies a tiny white stucco farmhouse and several acres of Crowley farmland. The family's teenage daughter, who took our 5 euros admission fee, told us, "My dad leads the tour."

We and a handful of other visitors crowded into chairs in the farmhouse where Crowley, a middle-aged man in black jeans and a half-tucked sport shirt, stood in front of a stone fireplace as he showed slides and gave a rapid-fire speech in a Cork brogue thick as the head on a pint of Beamish, the local stout.

"If you were going on holiday in 1921, you wouldn't come to West Cork!" Crowley told our gathering of holiday-makers. "It was a dangerous place. You'd likely come around a bend and there would be a trench dug across the road to stop the British — and you might then see a body propped against a signpost with a sign, 'Informers Beware!' "

Ireland was locked in civil war after years of conflict under British rule during which both sides spilled blood freely. Collins, a charismatic leader who bicycled around Dublin in suit and tie, oblivious to British constabulary who never had a good photo of him, had by then negotiated a treaty forming the Irish Free State. But the break from Britain didn't go far enough for many, turning some of Collins' compatriots against him.

Outside the farmhouse, Crowley had re-created the country lane where Collins was killed. It was complete with a replica of the Rolls-Royce armored car and another transport that accompanied Collins when gunmen ambushed his convoy. All it needed was a Dallas-like grassy knoll.

Crowley did nothing to discourage Michael Collins-JFK comparisons. In his lecture, he noted that both men died on the 22nd of the month.

"And they even looked a bit alike!" he added with arched eyebrow.

Not forgotten

On a cool morning we had Collins' birthplace all to ourselves: his family homesite at Woodfield, a few miles inland from the Celtic Sea in an area dotted by mysterious stone circles, like mini Stonehenges, erected by Bronze Age Irish forebears.

Museum

The Michael Collins Centre is about 2-½ miles northeast of Clonakilty in County Cork, Ireland. Open Monday-Saturday mid-June to mid-September, or for groups by appointment year-round. Admission 5 euros. There is a festival every August, when guest speakers are invited to talk on subjects related to Michael Collins and his time; this year's festival is Aug. 15-17. Guided tours of historic sites in West Cork also available. www.michaelcollinscentre.com

Map

A color illustrated map, "In Search of Michael Collins," details locations including his birthplace and ambush site and relates much of his history in West Cork. Available at the Clonakilty tourist office, 4 euros.

Lodging in County Cork

We rented our West Cork farmhouse online through an easy-to-navigate Web site called imagineireland.com, a broker for cottages and holiday homes throughout the Irish Republic and Northern Ireland, including 90 properties in County Cork. The site is geared primarily toward British visitors, so prices are in British pounds. Our Dunmanway farmhouse rented for 378 pounds (about $750) for a week in summer 2006.

British soldiers burned the house in 1921. But the stone foundation remains, along with a bust of Collins and an ancient grain loft built of rock where his comrades hid during the struggles.

Blooming purple fuchsias, which grow wild in Cork, lined the one-lane road here. We enjoyed the backdrop of a richly green pastoral hillside as we scanned historical markers.

Some 15 miles to the north, Collins died in a spot just as remote and peaceful, along a curving road near the crossroads hamlet of Beal na mBlath. Collins, then commander-in-chief of the new Irish Army, was said to have been lured to his old home county, the heartland of Irish nationalism, by the possibility of peace talks with foes of the treaty.

When his convoy met the ambush — the road blocked by a brewery cart — Collins chose to stop and fight. He was the only one killed by a sniper's bullet.

Few signs pointed the way, but we asked directions and finally came upon a large roadside memorial with interpretive placards. A tall Celtic cross bore the Irish-language version of his name: Miceal OCoileam.

A Dublin couple had also stopped. At this lonely spot on a deserted back road, Frank and Siobhán Walshe, retired history buffs who had sought out the site, eagerly engaged us American visitors in an emotion-charged discussion of Collins' life and death.

Bouquets decorated the memorial. While world attention focuses on progress in Belfast, in the quiet Cork countryside patriotism still burns — like some fields — and Michael Collins remains a local hero.

Brian J. Cantwell: 206-748-5724 or bcantwell@seattletimes.com