The Cavalier-Jacobite Tour: Ireland and Scotland

Speed, bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing,
Onward! the sailors cry;
Carry the lad that’s born to be king
Over the sea to Skye.
Burned are their homes, exile and death
Scatter the loyal men;
Yet ere the sword cool in the sheath
Charlie will come again.
—Anon., 18th century, “Sky Boat Song.”

This is the second of a two-part historical travelogue that began with The Cavalier-Jacobite Tour: England and Wales.

HAVING arrived in Dublin, we quickly passed out of the city to our lodgings, the Lucan Spa Hotel. Being a 19^th century country house in origin, I had not supposed it would have any Jacobite connections. But Lucan gave its name to local resident Patrick Sarsfield, the 1^st Earl of Lucan, and hero of the Williamite Wars of 1690-92. The hotel’s bar, to my intense delight, is named the Ballyneety Bar, after a victory Sarsfield pulled off against Williamite forces during the siege of Limerick.

Dublin is a town I have visited several times, and we decided we would go further afield in search of laces of intperest. We went to the Traditional Mass at St. Kevin’s, and while there met Yan Mac Oireachtaigh, and some of his colleagues from the Irish National Party. We may not agree on a good deal of historical analysis, but there is no gainsaying their devotion to the Faith and Ireland — as well as their youth and energy.

Two of our merry band of travelers had seen Dublin Castle before, none of us had seen the Irish presidential home, Viceregal Lodge under the British, in the Royal Phoenix Park. Alas, we were too late, early in the morning though we came, to get tickets. So off we went to explore the environs. First, we went to Tara of the Kings, the seat from time immemorial of the High Kings of All Ireland, but for centuries a quiet ruin. As with England’s Glastonbury, however, it has become a New Age Mecca; whilst we waited, a lady in a chiffon dress attempted a Vulcan mind meld with the Lia Fail, where the Kings were crowned. Whether or not she was successful, we were impressed by such ancient history. It was from there that King Laoghaire saw St. Patrick light the Paschal fire in defiance of his orders on the Hill of Slane. We went next to that hill, meeting a friendly local who revealed various intriguing details to us. From there we passed on to the site of the Battle of the Boyne in 1690. Although Sarsfield and the Irish Jacobites would hold out for another year, King James returned to France after this defeat, which — save for the final surrender of Limerick — was the end of Gaelic and Jacobite Ireland.

But the next day we drove far to the South to Kilkenny. We started at St. Mary’s Catholic Cathedral — a Neogothic late Victorian gem intending (quite successfully) to show the world that post-Emancipation Catholicism in Ireland had truly arrived. We then moved on to the Dominican Church, the Black Abbey. Originally a Medieval foundation, it was ravaged both during the Protestant revolt and the fall of the city to Cromwell. But it was rebuilt and reoccupied by the Dominicans in 1869 — another sign of the Church’s glorious recovery. From here we walked on to Kilkenny Castle, property of the Dukes of Ormonde of the Butler family until 1967. The first Duke was an adherent of the Stuarts through the Civil Wars; the second, his son, fought for William at the Boyne but went over to James III in 1715. Attained, he was forced to flee to the court of the exiled King. His brother became the third Duke, however, and saved the family property. The last site to look at was St. Canice’s Cathedral — the original, and now Anglican cathedral of the city. But despite its current ownership, we were able to venerate St. Kieran’s Chair which is enshrined there.

We returned to the Lucan Park Hotel. The following morning we took the train to Belfast, which in the months since then has erupted in riot and flame. Ironically, rather than at an historic place we stayed at the Maldron Hotel, which is part of a chain. But from there we were able to easily visit the Europa Hotel, renowned during my boyhood as the “most bombed hotel in Europe.” By way of contrast to its midcentury modernity, the Crown Liquor Saloon is a Victorian gem. The Latin Mass awaited at the Church of the Immaculate Heart of Mary, an ICKSP mission. The next day, we visited Armagh, the ecclesiastical capital of both the South and the North of Ireland, whether Catholic or Anglican. St. Patrick’s Catholic Cathedral is atypical in Ireland for our churches, a 19^th century neo-Gothic wonder on a height overlooking the town; the interior is still glorious, for all that the High Altar was destroyed by the post-Vatican II iconoclasts. The Anglican Cathedral of St. Patrick is per usual the site of the original church — and in this case, blessed by St. Patrick himself.

This was a fitting finale to our jaunt in the Kingdom of Ireland. The next day we flew from Belfast to Aberdeen in the Kingdom of Scotland. Much as I would have loved to explore Aberdeen, a town I have never been to, we had no time. The train took us to Inverness, and from there a cab brought us to the very pleasant Smithton Hotel. The following day, we took a cab out to the Culloden battlefield. There, on April 16, 1746, Bonnie Prince Charlie and the Jacobite cause suffered their last military defeat. It was not only the end of the old cause, but it was also a personal defeat for my family. My nine times great grandfather, Laughlin MacKinnon, with both of his brothers, had heeded their chief’s call when the Prince unfurled his standard at Glenfinnan. With him and the Prince, they made the long march to Derby in England, just when victory was in sight — and back again. His two brothers were killed that day, but Laughlin — being as I could see from where the Mackinnons had been, in the left flank — was able to escape back to his home on the remote Island of Eigg. In 1772, he and his wife would sail to Canada aboard the brig Alexander; their daughter Genevieve would marry a French-Canadian and so become my ancestress. Her father would live until 1835, dying at age 110. The weight of this history upon me was almost overwhelming — but more awaited.

The following day, we drove to Fort George, north of Inverness. This fort contains the Highlander’s Museum, dedicated to the Highland Regiments of the British Army. A marvel of 18^th century military architecture, it was built after Culloden to keep the area pacified. From there, we drove on to the Isle of Skye.

Now, while Laughlin and his immediate family were from the Isle of Eigg, the MacKinnon country is really the Isle of Skye. The MacDonalds who were the original inhabitants of Eigg were slaughtered en masse in 1577 by their MacLeod enemies. Afterwards, it was resettled by MacDonalds and MacKinnons from Skye. When Bonnie Prince Charlie fled after Culloden, it was to Skye he went, as the Skye Boat Song reminds us. In gratitude to our chief for hosting him — with a price on his head — the Bonnie Prince gave the MacKinnon the recipe for Drambuie. I would be the first of my family in nine generations to return.

We drove across the Skye Bridge, and put up at the pleasant Kings Arms Hotel. The next morning, after breakfast, we climbed along a fairly challenging path to the ruins of Castle Moil, the first MacKinnon stronghold. The present ruins date from the 1500s, but the MacKinnon presence in the area goes back to 900 AD. Our first cemetery was, I knew, around a ruined church called Cil Chriosd; but I did not know where it was, and was keen to get to Kilmarie, where is the house of the last chiefs to live on the Island, and the most recent cemetery, dating back to the 17^th century — although my direct line by that time would have been in Eigg. But as we drove along, we were surrounded on the road by a flock of sheep and forced to stop. We got out of the car, and my companions spied a ruined church nearby. Investigation showed that it was in fact Cil Chriosd, where the MacKinnons have been buried since the 900s. It is the only place I have ever been — or that I know of — where that many of my direct ancestors rest. Standing and praying for them in that spot was indescribable. We went on to Kilmarie, and saw the House from the outside, and prayed in the new cemetery.

The next day we drove away from Skye to the Castle of Eilean Donan, which was a stronghold of the MacRae’s. Loyal to the Stuarts, when a group of Spanish troops arrived in 1719 to support another rising, the clansmen were elated. They rallied, and went off to fight at the Battle of Glenshiel, where they and the Spaniards were defeated; three Whig frigates then came up and reduced the Castle. Bought by one John Macrae-Gilstrap in 1911, the Castle was rebuilt to its current state, and the new owner’s collection of Jacobite relics housed, which we much enjoyed seeing. Driving off, we passed by the Glenshiel Battlefield itself. The Highland scenery was simply incredible.

We arrived at Fort William, and stayed at the Caledonian Hotel. The following day, we decided to retrace the Bonnie Prince’s steps, and drove out to the Prince’s Cairn. It is very close to where he first landed with the Seven Men of Moidart beginning the ’45; it is also the spot from whence he left. Retracing our steps toward Fort William, we came to Glenfinnan, where he raised his father’s standard, and rallied the clans to begin the reconquest of his father’s Kingdoms. What bright hopes there were on that day, and how horribly they were dashed!

The following day we set off for the Glasgow area, and we passed through the Valley of Glencoe. Here the terrible massacre of the MacDonalds of Glencoe by the Campbells at the order of King William took place in 1691. But the ancient horrors could not drown out the beauty of the present-day Highlands. We stopped at Firkin point on Loch Lomond and, of course, sang the song. At last, we arrived at Dumbarton, and the Abbotsford Hotel.

Oddly enough, Dumbarton comes from Dun Breatann — “Fortress of the Britons;” it was the capital of the Kingdom of Strathclyde, like Wales and Cornwall a refuge of the Britons from various invaders. This is why St. Mungo, who converted the Kingdom, was enshrined in Glasgow Cathedral. Despite its current Presbyterian owners, it was the Catholic Cathedral — and the shrine has survived. We went there and venerated it before going to the airport, and the return to London and our homes.

So ended the Four Nations tour. It was brought home to me constantly on this trip just how much of our present status quo throughout the Anglosphere emerges from all the historical dramas that have taken place in these islands — and how the House of Stuart really does represent so much that was the best in all of them. Truly, had any of them really accomplished what they were trying to, it would be a better world. But perhaps we deserve what we have.