I was sad to say goodbye to Ireland, but on my last day, I visited the old parts of Wexford town, not quite understanding all of its rich history. I think that will take some further study, as it’s fascinating. Before arriving, Wexford was just a name on a map. I came to this area because I found a castle to stay at, and it was close to the harbor where I could catch a ferry to Wales. There might be a return visit someday.
My first stop was a striking mural by Portuguese artist Mariana Duarte Santos, its monochrome color commanding attention at the gateway to the old town wall. Since 2019, she has brought over 50 murals to life in many European countries. In 2022, she created this one for the Walls of Wexford Festival. The mural tells the story woven into Selskar Abbey’s past.
Santos explains, “Legend has it that King Henry II visited the abbey to pay penance for the murder of Thomas Becket. So I focused on T.S. Elliot’s retelling of the association in “Murder in the Cathedral”, having taken some still frames from a 50s movie adaptation of this play to compose the final sketch.
“I decided to represent the chorus women as if they were telling the story of the murder. The wall is right next to the Abbey, so I painted the women facing it with their looks of judgment, a nod (on my part) to the oppression that the church and religion have caused (particularly to women) over the centuries and the history of the world.”
Standing beneath the mural, I became awestruck by the towering women above me. I regret not capturing a photo with the abbey in the frame; it is powerful to see the mural at that angle. I found no sign to explain their story, so curiosity followed me home. Later, I searched for answers, and grateful that I found the artist’s nod to centuries of oppression by religion.
There is a legend about the abbey told on the sign, which I will copy below in case you can’t read it on the image.
“Although a religious site, Selskar Abbey’s past is entwined with legendary love stories.
It is said that its building was prompted by the heartbreak felt by Alexander de la Roche, a young nobleman of Flemish descent who fell in love with a local girl. They pledged themselves to each other, but then his disapproving family dispatched him to fight Saladin on the Third Crusade.
When word came back that Alexander had been killed, the brokenhearted girl committed herself to an enclosed convent. But then Alexander returned, realized they could never be united, and built the Abbey as his own place of retreat.”
I found a slightly different twist of details to the story on another site:
“It was restored and rebuilt as a priory by the Roches of Artramont. Sir Alexander Roshe was about to be married to the daughter of a Burgess of the Town. His parents disapproved of the marriage and induced him to become a Crusader. After nine years of adventure he returned home to find his parents dead, and the Burgess’s daughter had entered a convent. He then endowed the monastery and became its prior. In memory of the wars in which he had been engaged he gave it the name of St Sepulchre which in course of time became the St. Selskar of to-day.”
However the story unfolds, the ruined Augustinian abbey has a many-thousand-year history. The old saying, “If walls could talk,” who knows how many stories could be told by its long-standing walls.
After leaving the mural behind, I wandered up the path toward the town wall. I paused to photograph an exposed, newer-yet-still-weathered brick wall covered with a flaking, thin skin of cement or stucco. I couldn’t say exactly what covered the bricks, but the gentle ruins’ look caught my eye. Ivy crept across the wall. If you know the rainy side of the Pacific Northwest, you know ivy is a familiar adversary and notorious weed there. While I traveled in Ireland, I tried to find its aesthetic value in a country where it didn’t seem to be a problem, yet I couldn’t; my bias remained. Sorry Ireland. Still, I found this vignette charming. So, Ireland, maybe there’s hope that my heart will soften while I travel. I’ll forget saying that when I arrive back home.
I found a quiet delight while in Wexford. I discovered English daisies (Bellis perennis) sprinkled across lawns. I love seeing them in lawns at home. Their bright faces seemed to celebrate wildness, dare I say, a gentle rebelliousness against the American obsession with perfect, grass-only lawns. These tiny flowering rebels announced that the lawns were free from chemicals, and that simply filled me with joy.
After my brick-and-daisy-lawn distractions, I returned to the path and headed to the ancient town wall and the Selskar Tower, also called the West Gate Tower. I promise not to turn this into a history lecture. I’ll compress what little I know, together for your sake (and mine).
I came up to the tower that once had a toll gate to reach the other side. I peered into the tunnel and wondered what the cages were for. And where did the door lead? What did they put in those cages? I thought livestock, as it didn’t look like you could stand up in them. Well, maybe I could do it, at five foot nothing. A quick search when I came home revealed the cells held offenders. Brutal. Meanwhile, clergy would smuggle goods through this gate.
The door led upstairs. The tower is now fully restored, and next to it (left side of photo) is Westgate Heritage Centre.
Once inside, I strolled along the stone wall, a patchwork of rubble limestone. I snapped a few close-ups of the weathered stones, including one that appeared to crumble into the shape of a puffin (at least in my imagination). Some areas of the wall looked patched with fresh stones. Some of the wall had pieces missing on the top, and most of the top was smothered in plants.
Back in 1851, the walls were said to be 4.5 feet thick and 22 feet high, though their dimensions shift in places. Wherever I looked, plants clung to the rocks—a recurring motif for castle and town walls. These little survivors thrive against the odds, turning stone into their own unlikely garden, with little to no competition.
The succulent Umbilicus rupestris wears a wardrobe of common names. I settled on navelwort as its main identity. Maybe I’m being too hasty. Pennywort tempted me, though its leaves are far too grand and scalloped for a mere coin—unless we are talking about some mysterious old penny. Wall pennywort at least describes its colonization of walls, and hints at its habit of clinging to stone. Still not convinced? Hipwort, penny-pies, navywort—none quite fit. Venus’s navelwort has a certain charm, if you can say it without stumbling. The list keeps growing: pennyleaf, corn leaves, lady’s navel, wall pennycress, kidney wort, and more. In the end, navalwort saves the day, before we lose ourselves in naval gazing. I first met this plant at Killiane Castle, where it grew right on the ancient stones, making me wonder about its many names.
Cymbalaria muralis, or Kenilworth ivy, also clings to the walls in abundance. Although not true ivies, and despite their dainty, delicate appearance, these plants have mastered the art of clinging to and thriving on stone walls. I’ve grown this one before, and it likes to reseed itself here and there. It’s not surprising to see them seed in odd spaces like a tiny crack in the lime mortar.
The wall originally had five towers. Three rectangular ones were built first, and after a lengthy time, two round ones were built. I couldn’t find how much time is between the two styles. I thought it was a shame that someone decided to plant a power pole there.
Although there’s been restoration work on the towers, conservation now focuses on preservation rather than restoration. Repair work uses traditional lime mortar instead of modern materials to maintain the building’s integrity, using similar material originally used. I am grateful to have seen this town’s history up close and personal, and that Ireland takes great care in preserving it.
My next stop on this month-long adventure was Wales, where I spent time researching my book in three charming towns. Wandering through their winding streets, I felt like I had stepped back in time. I quickly fell in love with the country and its warm, welcoming people. I returned home with so many happy memories. In my next post, I’ll talk about Fishguard—called Abergwaun in Welsh—which might just have the narrowest sidewalks I’ve ever seen. But wow, what a scenic show-off.
Below, I have left two more signs for you to read if you like that sort of thing, marking the close of my Irish chapter.
The sign gives a bit of background. In case you can’t read the image, I’ll type it out for you here.
“The Vikings’ impact is visible right across Ireland’s Ancient East. And here in Wexford, the town’s name clearly echoes its Scandinavian past.
‘Waesfjord’ means ‘inlet of the mud-flats’ in Old Norse. Viking boats, known as karve’, could sail in very shallow water, which meant such mud flats were no obstacle. This maritime connection was maintained over the centuries; most notably, a founder of the American Navy, Commodore John Barry, was born near here in 1745.
Wexford’s past is a fascinating mosaic of tales featuring heroism, tragedy, ambition, and eccentricity. So take some time to explore its ancient streets and enjoy its fascinating stories…”
Here’s what the above sign says.
And another thing:
One of Wexford’s first Norman mercenary invaders, Raymond le Gros (Fat Raymond), finally married Basilea here in 1172 after three attempts to extract permission from her brother, the legendary Strongbow.
The now ruined St. Selskar’s Church was built in 1826 specifically for the ‘Poor Protestants’ of Wexford.
When the church closed in the 1960s, its roof was removed so that it could be classed as a ruin and avoid taxes!