During my travels around Ireland with my donkey, Missie, back in 1979, I stopped into The Mill Wheel Bar in Knocknahilan, just outside the town of Kinsale. There I met Mike Barry, an engaging young man who invited me to stay at his parent’s stone house located nearby.
After we had settled Missie in a secure field, Mike informed me that a bowling match would shortly commence on the Heathfield Road.
“Bowling?” I asked.
“Aye,” he said, “but not pin bowling. This is a far older game that originated in County Armagh. ‘Tis also outlawed, but sure, it goes unnoticed in these parts.”
“How is it played?” I tried to keep pace with Mike’s long and excitable stride.
“The bowlers throw a 28-ounce iron ball, a ‘bowl,’ the size of a tennis ball, over a twisting two-mile course of roadway, an whomever finishes the course in the least amount of throws is the winner.”
“Why is it outlawed?”
“Betting, for one thing. Plus it disrupts traffic. That’s why teatime is a handy time to play. Old Mick Barry, my namesake, was the best bowler from these parts. He had arms that draped below his knees, and he once lofted a bowl in a demonstration match clear over the viaduct leading into Cork City. An incredible feat, that! He also holds the Cork record for completing a mile in six bowls,” he added, responding to my raised eyebrows. “Aye, six throws to cover one long Irish mile.
“The game takes great skill,” Mike continued passionately. “You’ll believe the ball has eyes of its own as it curls around the bends. Why, a champion bowler can cover a two-mile course in 17 or 18 throws.
“Each bowler has a ‘roadsure,’ or a forecaddy, so to speak,” he continued. “There are also two road markers and a referee. Mick Driscoll, who is playing this evening, had a bowl of one-quarter mile this year at Beal na Blath, and finished the course in 14 bowls.”
“Beal na Blath?” I inquired, vaguely recalling the name.
“Aye, ‘the mouth of the Flowers,’ where our great statesman and hero, Michael Collins, was ambushed and killed in 1922.”
We soon arrived at the crossroads, where a congregation of 30 men were intent on odds and wagers, as the referee flipped a coin, “Harps or Tails,” to start the contest.
“You’ll see a grand match this evening,” promised a local, making a wager and rubbing his hands together excitedly. “And if your donkey rambles take you north, tell those folk in County Armagh about the fine bowling you witnessed here this summer in West Cork.”
Mick Driscoll started the match by running 30 yards to the starting line–a chalk mark–where he powerfully heaved the bowl underhand like a fast-pitch softball player. The iron ball sailed, bounced and curled around the gentle curves of road. I stood agog as the roadsure raised his hand to signal its final position, 300 yards from where we stood.
The referee marked Mick’s spot with both chalk and a tuft of grass, before his opponent took his turn; another violent peg that carried a great distance. Each player continued to exhibit remarkable bowls along curves, straightaways and mind-boggling lofts over high hedges, until the game concluded in Driscoll’s favor back at The Mill Wheel.
Inside the pub, a patron named Jerry Desmond presented me with a bowl of my own–a weighty little cannonball–saying it might come in handy if I ever met up with a blackguard during my travels.
“You have great throwers in America, do you not?” he asked. “We had a Yank here years ago who threw a stone clear over Murray’s field.”
“Baseball players have terrific arms,” I replied in earnest, “but I don’t think they’d be much good at road bowling. Even the champion golfer, Jack Nicklaus, would have to hit 18 perfect 300-yard drives to beat your Mick Driscoll at this game.”
That produced a hardy laugh among the crowd, as the publican generously stood me a pint of Murphy’s stout, signaling my acceptance into this fellowship of merry Corkmen.
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Kevin O’Hara from Massachusetts is the author of “Last of the Donkey Pilgrims,” which chronicles his 1,800-mile journey around the coast of Ireland with a donkey in 1979.
Visit his website at thedonkeyman.com
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