You can't have a paving stone that preceded De Valera without someone saying the Druids were involved

Like all the best Irish antiquarian sites, there’s very little brouhaha about it on the road, writes Colm O’Regan.

There are signs for it, but no interpretative centre. No architect-designed structure

designed to evoke something and symbolise the flow of something else. You turn left off the road from Rosscarbery to Glandore.

There’s a lane and then a car park in which lives a robin who might be descended from a line of robins who pippy-popped around the place looking for crumbs or human sacrifice condiments.

You walk down a short path and there it is, Drombeg — Cork’s Stonehenge.

Now, I’m not a novice. I’ve seen some things you people wouldn’t believe: A fire off the hard shoulder (I think it was a Ford Orion), Wilton Shopping Centre’s beams glittering in the dark at the hospital gates, but Drombeg still managed to goose-bump even my jaded neck-hair.

It’s a 13-stone circle, aligned to the winter solstice, situated at the head of a small valley that sweeps down to the ocean.

According to radiocarbon dating it could be at least 3,000 years old. It’s hard not to feel the wonder.

But mine is a mundane kind of wonder. You see, with all of these places, there is a lot of lore attached to it. Drombeg is called the Druid’s altar because you can’t have so much as a paving stone that preceded De Valera without someone saying the Druids were involved.

Druids have always fascinated us because they seem to be up to two things. The first was human sacrifice.

I’d well believe there has been a tradition of sacrifice in this country. Haven’t our mothers constantly being saying “You don’t know the sacrifices I made for you” and “offer it up”? I thought it used to refer to the careers that were impinged upon or thinking of people in the Third World.

But maybe they were referring to a someone trussed up in the hotpress, awaiting the

ceremonial garroting.

And the other Druidic fantasy is a fertility cult. And you know what that means: Pagans going at it hammer and tongs on top of a flagstone.

We always like to imagine that our pre-Christian ancestors had a right old time before the Christians came along and ruined everything, putting the dullest of cover stories onto pagan practice, replacing sex with sextons.

And if we’re not imagining Neolithics having a centuries-long Galway Races, we’re picture them as mysterious, antler-headed magi holding the skull of a badger in a meaningful way towards the moon with Enya in the corner honking a haunting tune as mists, runes and symbols shimmer around.

But standing there, I’m not interested in all of that. I would like to know the dull stuff that that goes with the origins of Drombeg.

What was it like to work there? Did they know what they were doing. At some point a druid or local character decided he was going to put a giant stone calender there.

How did he convince people to help? Would the more level-headed of masons tap their heads and say “your man’s away with the fairies” (or I suppose, here with the fairies).

Was the mason who worked on it mocked by his colleagues?

“Check your calendar there Johnny, see do you have an opening, ha!” Was there an opening ceremony? Did a local taoiseach take credit for it in his speech?

How did he get the land for it? Was there Neolithic planning permission? I’d like to think there was at least one local who watched Drombeg being installed and lamented the fact that it “ruined the look of the place.”

Drombeg is not quite aligned to the winter solstice setting sun. Imagine when they waited with bated breath and found it was slightly off. Was there recrimination or did they say “it’ll do”.

Unfortunately it’s something radiocarbon dating will struggle to answer. So we just have to guess, or open an interpretive centre.