JEREMY THE JOURNALIST ! Read His Own Eloquent, Bylined Response To The Castle Controversy RIGHT HERE : 'Let's Bring A Bit Of Warmth To West Cork'
by Jeremy Irons, Irish Times
May 30, 2001
The colour of Jeremy Irons' castle at Kilcoe caused controversy last week. Here the celebrated actor explains the effort behind the restoration, and how he struggled to find a shade that would work with the landscape.
So finally, after 35 months, the scaffolding has been removed from the castle of Kilcoe. And just as when an old master is restored -- the layers of lacquer and years of grime cleaned off to expose the original brilliance of the colours -- there are people who look at it and say: "I prefer it as it was."
And despite the investment of time, money and effort that I have put into this great piece of Irish heritage -- without, it must be said, either grants or tax breaks -- I partially agree.
Kilcoe was a beautiful ruin, dangerous and romantic, part of every childhood in the surrounding townlands. I shall never forget, as a grown-up child, the first time I scaled to the very topmost rampart and, with butterflies in my stomach, looked out over the islands of Roaringwater Bay towards the flashing of the Fastnet.
But as a builder I looked with sadness on how it had been ignored and vandalised over the centuries, how the carved window stones had been pushed out and robbed, and how one particular part was near to collapse.
As I became further intrigued with the tower, I learned of the house in Skeaghanore built in the early part of this century from stone robbed by barge from the castle and its surrounding wall. I heard of the attempt in the 20s to topple the castle with a controlled explosion under its north-west corner, stopped only by the timely intervention of the then equivalent of Duchas. And I thought to myself, Kilcoe should be restored.
Yet only a fool would do it. Someone with more money than sense. Maybe I'm the man. Having come to the decision, and having had the luck to be able to buy it, I and my architect Bena Stutchbury set about our research, which led us through every word written about Munster tower houses, and through the doorways of most of those still existing and into the portals of Duchas where we were given the benefit of their wide experience of restoration.
I was faced with two options -- either to stabilise it as a ruin, or to bring it back to life. The first and cheaper option felt instinctively wrong.
Munster is cluttered with ruined tower houses -- some still magnificent but most sadly neglected, and many have noticeably deteriorated in the 12 years I have lived in west Cork. Let those be stabilised.
No, my gut told me to go for broke and return Kilcoe into a living building, a home that could be occupied hopefully for the next 600 years, to be a testimony to the original builders, and perhaps to cast a little shadow over some of the less-than-perfect design that has crept into some of west Cork's most beautiful areas. And if an old building is to be venerated you cannot get away with second-best.
A team of craftsmen fired with enthusiasm began to assemble, including some of west Cork's finest. And some who just did their best, as I was doing.
Trades we couldn't find locally we looked for further afield. Practically nothing could be off the peg. Everything had to be specially made to try to create an homogeneous whole, and every decision had to be made bearing in mind that the castle was built in 1430 and yet must be lived in in 2001, when our expectations of comfort have altered dramatically. So the buildings must be heated, must have glazed windows, and above all, must be dry.
One of the glories of west Cork is its lushness. At certain times of year you can almost see the grass growing. With our gulf-stream enhanced micro-climate, every growth flourishes and most of it seemed to be flourishing on the castle. My only surprise, with our saturated salty walls, was to discover a total absence of mussels growing! As we worked to re-roof the building, we set about repointing the glorious stonework. Clearing out centuries of growth before repointing with the same lime-mortar mix with which, we had analysed, the castle had been built.
Kilcoe had originally been covered with a thick coat of render, patches of which still remained. The builders knew that the stonework would not withstand the ferocious weather at the head of the bay, and so protected it with a mixture of lime, clay, beach sand and gravel, which in turn was covered with coats of limewash as an added sacrificial layer.
Much as I desired to return the castle to its original external condition, I was conscious of the current fashion, in these days of breeze-block building, for stone facing, for stone walling, and I shared with others the admiration for the glorious stonework displayed at Kilcoe. In my arrogance, I thought we could beat the original builders at their own game and by pointing the joints with the utmost care and precision, make the towers not only watertight but pleasing to the modern eye.
Kilcoe, as has been reported, can be seen for miles around. So we circled the walls wielding spatulas, filling the tiniest flaws in the stone, then scrubbed down the entire castle with acid to remove any trace of lime, and stood back to admire her, and how beautiful she looked -- a beauty that had taken 12 men and women nine months in all weathers to achieve.
As the sun went down on the false millennium, I arranged for the scaffolding to be dismantled. And then the storms came, and the water poured through the walls by the bucketful. Depressed beyond measure I called the expert over the water.
Tim Meek, whose published work on the restoration of ancient buildings I almost knew by heart, has been restoring castles and ancient monuments in Scotland for the past 20 years. Working mainly for the Scottish National Trust, he has the most hands-on experience (as opposed to the theorists who abound) of anyone working in this field today.
I told him my problem and he answered with the question: "Would you walk through a rain-storm in a woollen jumper, and expect to keep dry?" Naked stone begins to degenerate as soon as it is quarried; Kilcoe will only be dry if it is rendered. But he wouldn't be free for six months, and it would take six months to do. Kilcoe would be scaffolded for a further year.
I told my friends at Duchas that despite our efforts I was going to comply with my planning application and render. They understood. Roos Castle in Killarney, a superb restoration, is unrendered. And it leaks like a sieve. And nobody lives there.
The render would be covered with 10 coats of limewash as protection, and so I came to the question of colour. Limewash is naturally white, hence the number of towers called "White Castle," and without doubt that would have been Kilcoe's original colour. But I worried about the starkness of white against the landscape, and the effect of the weathering on it over 20 years.
It is unrealistic to think that Kilcoe could be smartened up more often than that, even for a station. I travelled to Scotland to look at renovated castles and the limewash colours they had chosen. I brought back samples and we painted different walls different colours and we lived with it, watching the hues change with the light.
The colour had to work with the green of the fields, the blues of the bay, the greys and blues of the sky, the furnace of the sunset. It had to work when it was wet and dark as well as when it was dry and light.
It had to work with the surrounding rock, it had to work with the seaweed. If it reflected the taste of seafarers from the hotter climes of the Iberian Peninsula, or even the Mediterranean, who had brought the palm trees, bred with our women, ransacked Baltimore, and finally welcomed our exiles after the Battle of Kinsale, then so much the better.
Let's bring a bit of warmth to west Cork. Everybody else does. You only have to look at Creagh, or Innisbeg House, or for that matter take a stroll through Skibberdeen to see that the Irish fight grey winter skies with a gaiety and a riot of colour.
So we settled on adding ferrous sulphate, or "Copperass," to the lime, which turned it the same colour as the iron traces that leach out of the rock around the castle (and the same colour as the seaweed as it ripens towards winter.)
And now with the scaffolding removed, it shines out in the sunlight. Of course, it hasn't pleased everyone, though there are those who like it. And anyway if you try to please everybody, you end up pleasing no-one.
My neighbour James who has supported my endeavours through thick and thin, doesn't like the colour, but has the good grace to see it as my affair. I hope, though, that he and the many others who have supported so steadfastly my endeavours with the castle and who now feel dismay at the sight of its fruits, will, in time, grow used to Kilcoe's new raiment.
Time and the elements will work their unstoppable magic, and just as my mother's new hairdo always looked better the day after it was done, so the castle will look better tomorrow. Change is something I find difficult as the next man and there's no doubt Kilcoe has changed. But it has also renewed itself and, like much of Ireland, become forward-looking and proud of itself.
And for a while in its long history, it has turned the colour of fresh rust, or as those who have been so vociferous in print before coming to see for themselves would call it: peach.
copyright 2001 Jeremy Irons