‘That sounds like a good idea to me.’

‘Good lad. I can check on the dates and we can take things from there.’

That settled we discovered that the ‘Puck Fair’ took place every 10th, 11th and 12th of August without fail in a place called killorglin in Kerry, South West Ireland. Ideal. We made travel arrangements, booked the campsite and then counted down the days and weeks to our promised Celtic adventure.

Rob who like me had Irish ancestors, was keen to learn as much as he could not only about Ireland but about the fair. He discovered that the most commonly referred to story about the origins of King Puck was linked to one of Ireland’s most unfortunate episodes: the invasion of English Ironside Leader Oliver Cromwell. Apparently the roundheads under Cromwell’s command were pillaging the countryside around the foot of the McGillycuddy Reeks (a mountain range in Kerry). Here they routed a herd of goats grazing on the upland (these were not covert crack commando goats by the way, they just happened to be there). The goats took flight before the roundheads could capture them (guerrilla tactics perhaps?) the he-goat or ‘Puck’ broke away and lost contact with the herd.

While the others headed for the mountains he went towards Killorglin. When he arrived his wild appearance and state of exhaustion alerted the inhabitants that something bad was in the air. Taking the ‘Puck’s’ arrival as a warning they set about protecting themselves and their stock.

In recognition of the service given by the goat the town’s people decided to start a special festival in his honour and thus the ‘Puck Fair’ was born. Slightly romantic but quite possible.

Rob said there was another story where the famous barrister Daniel O’Connell who back in 1808 was yet to achieve fame inadvertently invented the fair by finding a legal loophole. Before 1808 the August fair had been a toll fair, but an Act of the British Parliament empowered the Viceroy in Dublin to make an order, at his own discretion, making it illegal to levy tolls at cattle, horse or sheep fairs. Tolls in Killorglin were collected by the local landlord who had been robbed of his right to levy tolls after a falling out with the authorities.

The landlord enlisted the help of Daniel O’Connell who in a shrewd effort managed to reverse the decision that goats were not covered by the document and that the landlord would be legally entitled to hold a goat fair and levy his tolls again. On the day of the fair a goat was hoisted on a stage (a practice still used to this day) to show to the audience that it was indeed a goat fair. The landlord collected his toll money and Killorglin now had a King.

Although there are many legends claiming to be the definitive story of how the fair began there is a charter from 1603 by King James I granting legal status to the existing fair in Killorglin.

The symbol of the goat is important as it has been linked to pre-Christian celebrations of a successful harvest and that the male goat or ‘Puck’ was a symbol of fertility to the pagans, like the pagan god Pan. So there you go! The historical aspects and origins now covered we packed for our trip eagerly anticipating the departure day.

After a coach trip from Exeter to Fishguard in Wales and a calm ferry crossing (well, relatively, there was a boisterous rugby team on board!) we arrived at Rosslare in the very early hours of 10th August. There was no rest for the wicked and we boarded yet another coach that took us through the Irish countryside South and West to Killarney where we had to change and then get a bus to Killorglin. The further west we travelled the more rugged and wild the scenery became: ‘Bandit country.’ Fortunately there were no ambushes and we arrived unscathed in Killorglin which on that surprisingly sunny day seemed like the centre of the universe. It really was a beehive of activity.

Rob and I exchanged triumphant glances and after a short walk found the campsite. Our tent was set up in no time and after a wash and change of clothing it was time to see what Killorglin offered. Everyone we had met so far had been enthusiastic and friendly. A local grinned broadly when we explained we were going to the fair and said ‘Have a good time lads. Remember it’s not for the faint hearted!’

What had we let ourselves in for? As long as there was not a huge wicker effigy of two British tourists in the high street and we were not to be offered as a sacrifice to the pagan god Pan I could cope with this. Fortunately as we crossed the bridge over the river Laune and walked uphill into the high street of the historic market town there was a really friendly carnival atmosphere. A vintage car passed by and there was live music everywhere as well as horses and people, a lot of people!

There were puppet shows, street entertainers, bands of all kinds and a lot of families enjoying the sunshine. Pubs were on both sides of the main street and we soon found ourselves in one. It was like a rugby scrum inside but a benevolent one. The territorial nature of some ‘locals’ was notably and thankfully absent here. Everyone was out to have a good time and to forget about their worries. You had the sense that everyone in Killorglin looked forward to the fair and it was an opportunity for a release and to go wild for a few days before reality and the quiet rural life became the norm again.

As Rob and I enjoyed our Guinness, Sean from Canada introduced himself and explained that he had ancestors from Ireland (everyone seems to have some) and was cycling across Ireland. He said that he found the Irish to be really fun loving and open and that he would definitely come back again. I had been once before and was living proof that it warranted a second look. He was moving on the next day but had to check out the goings on in the town. He could not believe that everyone had been drinking since the morning. Not that any of us were complaining.

Rob and I had a couple more pints in the spirit of acquiring local knowledge and customs of course before venturing outside again. Drinking during daytime can often have a disorientating effect upon leaving a dark, dingy pub and it proved no exception here. It felt good to be among so many people. After trawling a few more pubs and sampling some local cuisine: fish and chips it was time for the crowning of the Puck. A band struck up an upbeat tune and balloons were released into the air. The announcer stumbled a little over his words (perhaps he had also enjoyed a tipple or two?) and the goat was hoisted onto the stage and crowned. A young local girl dressed in white Celtic robes was crowned Queen and a big cheer concluded the ceremony.

More music and various bands played a mixture of folk, punk, rock, ska, reggae and many more as the reveler gyrated or slowly slunk to the floor in happy contented heaps. Rob and I exchanged ‘We’ve done it!’ glances and shortly after twelve in the evening we admitted defeat and decided to retire to the campsite. What with the ferry crossing and coach journey it had been a hectic but rewarding day.

The following morning we visited Tralee and I did a little research on the famous Irish American boxer and arguably the first recognized World Heavyweight Champion (bare knuckle) John L Sullivan. He was idolized in late nineteenth century America and many wept when he lost his crown to fellow Irish American James J Corbett in the first gloved contest for the World Heavyweight title in New Orleans in 1892. I learned that John L’s parents were from Kerry and they migrated to Massachusetts where the champion was born in 1858.

After walking around Tralee, visiting the museum, watching the street performers and buying a copy of the newspaper ‘The Kerryman’ with a front page cover and story on the Puck fair we found ourselves in a pub. Guinness was enjoyed as was our food; a crowd had turned up to watch the Gaelic football that was on the television. Rob and I did not quite understand the rules and what was going on but we got the gist of it. I loved it as usually Saturdays are spent watching football or rugby back home so watching a different sport in a different country with the locals was a welcome new experience.

The next day, our last full day in Ireland it was Rob’s turn to achieve an ambition: get to the top of the highest point in Ireland, Carrantuohill which is about 1038 metres or about 3414 feet high. It is part of the Macgillycuddy’s Reeks. We set off early in our walking boots and waterproofs, for the first time of the holiday there was a light drizzle. The scenery was spectacular and the pace was comfortable. I think we both enjoyed a little peace and quiet after all the hustle and bustle of the other days.

The hills were so green, I mean really green. The clouds seemed to touch the tops of the peeks and time did not seem to matter. The climb was steep and hard going but boy was it worth it when we reached the top. There was a large cross on the top of the hill and a few other groups who had made the ascent. We all shared tea and coffee and had some packed lunch. Everyone sat quietly and took in the very impressive panoramic view once the fog and mist lifted. There was a beautiful rainbow and the view really was something special. Rob and I shook hands on a job well done. We had managed to learn a lot more about Ireland and its people, culture and history and now we were literally right on top of it.

As the saying goes what goes up must come down and we were no exception. After our descent we spent our last night in Killorglin. We watched the dethroning ceremony, had a few Guinness’s and witnessed an impressive firework display at midnight to mark the end of the festival. There was a lugubrious feeling in the air as everyone began to trail off. It had been a fun packed and unforgettable experience and there had been people from across the globe that had travelled far and wide to witness the event.

Rob and I reluctantly packed our camping gear away and said goodbye to Ireland the next day. We agreed that the holiday had surpassed our collective expectations and that we felt that with the right people and atmosphere Ireland was indeed a magic place.