Glendalough: Beyond the Postcard

When you first see Glendalough it hits you. The raw beauty is immense. Two dark lakes are cradled by a deep green valley.

The mountains rise up like ancient giants, their slopes covered in bracken and heather. You can feel the history in the air. It's a place that feels wild and untamed, but it's also a place of incredible peace.

The ruins of an old monastery stand by the water's edge. A tall, slender, round tower reaches for the sky. This is the image you see on postcards.

It's the Ireland everyone dreams of. But this valley holds secrets far older and darker than most visitors imagine. I've travelled to some of the most remote places on earth.

I've seen what nature can do, and I've seen what humans do within it. Glendalough is a perfect example of this. It's a landscape that has been shaped by both geology and human hands.

For every story of saints and scholars, there's another of survival and conflict. The serene beauty you see today hides a past filled with struggle. To truly understand this place, you have to look beyond the picture-perfect view. You have to peel back the layers of time and see the raw, unfiltered history that lies beneath. It's a survival story on a grand scale. The valley feels like a sanctuary, a place to escape the noise of the modern world.

 You can walk for hours and hear nothing but the wind and the call of a raven. The ancient stones of the monastery seem to whisper tales of a bygone era. Monks once walked these paths, seeking solitude and a connection to God.

They chose this place for its isolation. It was a natural fortress, protected by the rugged Wicklow Mountains. But that same isolation that offered them peace also made them a target. The valley's history is a constant battle between peace and violence, faith and fear. So, let's go on an expedition, not just through this stunning landscape but through time itself. We're going to uncover the hidden stories of Glendalough.

We'll look at the events that forged this valley, from the saints who sought refuge here to the rebels who used it as a hideout. We'll explore the bloody raids and the military roads built to tame this wildland. This isn't just about pretty scenery. This is about understanding the real spirit of a place, a spirit that has been tested by fire, by sword and by time, and has somehow against all odds endured. The story of Glendalough as we know it begins with one man. A man named Kevin. Around the 6th century he came to this valley seeking solitude. He was a holy man, looking for a place to be alone with his thoughts and his faith.

He found it here, in the Valley of the Two Lakes. That's what Glendalough means in Irish. He lived a simple life, like a hermit. Legend says he lived in a small man-made cave, now known as St. Kevin's Bed. It's a tiny hole in a rock face, hanging right over the upper lake. It would've been a tough existence, exposed to the elements.

Survival here required grit and determination. Soon, followers were drawn to Kevin. They were inspired by his dedication and his simple way of life. They came to the valley to learn from him. A small community began to grow around him. This was the seed from which a great monastic city would grow.

They built small wooden huts and a church, they lived off the land, fishing in the lakes and farming small patches of ground. Life was hard, the winters would've been brutal. But their faith was strong, they were building something special, a centre of learning and spirituality in the middle of the wilderness. Over the centuries this small settlement became one of the most important monastic sites in Ireland. The wooden buildings were replaced with stone. They built the magnificent round tower, which still stands today. It was a watchtower and a place of refuge. They built churches, a cathedral and houses for the monks. Glendalough became a bustling city of faith.

Scholars and students came from all over Europe to study here. They copied manuscripts, created beautiful art and kept the flame of knowledge alive during the dark ages. It was a beacon of civilisation in a wild, untamed land. But don't be fooled by the peaceful image of monks and scholars, this community had to be tough to survive. The valley provided them with everything they needed, water from the lakes, wood from the forests and stone from the mountains. But it was also isolated, they were on their own, they had to be self-sufficient, they had to defend themselves. The very things that made this place a perfect retreat also made it a tempting target for those who sought to plunder its wealth. The story of Glendalough was never just about prayer, it was also about power, survival and the constant threat of danger lurking just beyond the mountains. The peaceful monastery you see today was not always so tranquil. Its wealth and isolation made it a prime target. Long before the Vikings arrived, Glendalough was caught up in the brutal power struggles of local Irish chieftains. These were violent times.

Different clans were constantly fighting for control of land and resources. A rich monastery like Glendalough, filled with gold, precious relics and livestock, was a prize worth fighting for. The history books often gloss over this, focussing on the saints and scholars. But the reality was much grittier. The valley often echoed with the sounds of battle, not just prayer. These were not just simple raids for cattle.

They were strategic attacks designed to weaken rival kingdoms. By burning a monastery you weren't just stealing its wealth, you were striking at the spiritual heart of your enemy. Glendalough was attacked and burned multiple times by neighbouring Irish kings. In the 8th and 9th centuries, before the first Viking longship ever appeared on the coast, the monastery was already a veteran of conflict. The monks had to be resilient. They would have lived with a constant sense of unease, always watching the mountain passes for signs of an approaching war party. Survival was about more than just faith. It was about being prepared for the worst. Imagine the scene.

A peaceful morning in the valley, the monks at their daily tasks. Suddenly, a lookout on the round tower spots a column of smoke in the distance. The warning bell rings out, its frantic clang echoing off the mountainsides. Panic erupts. Monks scramble to hide precious manuscripts and sacred vessels. Others rush to barricade the doors, but it's often too late. Warriors swarm into the settlement, their swords and axes flashing in the sun. Buildings are set ablaze, and the air fills with smoke and the cries of the dying. This was the brutal reality for the people of Glendalough.

This early history of violence is crucial to understanding the valley. It shaped the very architecture of the place. The famous round tower wasn't just a bell tower, it was a fortress. Its high entrance well off the ground was a defensive feature. When attackers came, the monks would climb a rope ladder to safety inside, pulling it up behind them. The thick stone walls were designed to withstand fire and attack.

The monastery was built for survival. Every stone tells a story of a community that had to constantly fight for its existence, long before the more famous Viking raids began to terrorise the land. Then came a new threat, one from across the sea. The Vikings. From the late 8th century onwards, their long ships began to appear along the Irish coast. They were masters of hit-and-run tactics. They could sail up rivers and strike deep into the heart of the country, and they were looking for one thing, portable wealth. Monasteries like Glendalough were treasure troves. They were filled with gold chalices, silver crosses and other valuable objects. For the Vikings, these were not sacred places. They were simply targets. Undefended banks waiting to be robbed. The first recorded Viking raid on Glendalough was in the early 9th century. It must have been a terrifying experience. These were not local rivals, they were foreign warriors with a fearsome reputation. They came with a brutal efficiency. They would storm the monastery, kill anyone who stood in their way, and strip it of everything valuable. They would then disappear as quickly as they had arrived, leaving behind a trail of death and destruction.

The monks would have been left to pick up the pieces, bury their dead, and try to rebuild. But the Vikings would always come back. Glendalough was raided and burned by the Vikings at least four times over the next two centuries. Each attack was a devastating blow. The Round Tower would have been a vital refuge during these raids. The monks would have scrambled inside with their most precious books and relics, praying that the thick stone walls would hold. From their high windows, they would have watched in horror as their homes and churches were put to the torch. The psychological impact must have been immense. The valley, once a place of peace and sanctuary, had become a place of constant fear and uncertainty.

This period of Viking raids fundamentally changed Glendalough. It forced the community to become even more defensive, more resilient. It tested their faith to its very limits, but it also forged a spirit of defiance. They refused to be broken. After each raid, they would rebuild, stronger than before. This cycle of destruction and rebirth is a key part of the valley's story. It's a testament to the incredible human spirit of survival. The Vikings may have left scars on Glendalough, but they could not destroy its soul. The valley endured, its spirit as tough and unyielding as the granite mountains that surround it.

Let's fast forward several centuries. The age of monks and Vikings is over. Ireland is now under British rule and, well, discontent is simmering across the country.

In 1798, it boiled over into open rebellion. The United Irishmen, inspired by the revolutions in America and France, rose up to fight for an independent Irish republic. The rebellion was brutally crushed in many parts of the country, but in the rugged terrain of the Wicklow Mountains, the fight continued. The mountains became a stronghold for the rebels, a place where they could hide, regroup, and carry on a guerrilla war against the crown forces. Glendalough and the surrounding valleys were just perfect for this kind of warfare. The dense forests, hidden valleys, and treacherous mountain passes provided excellent cover.

The rebels, led by men like Dwyer, knew this landscape like the back of their hand. They could move through it like ghosts, striking at British patrols and then melting back into the wilderness. For the British soldiers, many of whom were not from Ireland, this was a terrifying place. It was an alien and hostile environment. They were fighting an enemy they could not see, in a landscape that seemed to be on the rebels' side. Michael Dwyer became a folk hero. He and his small band of fighters managed to hold out in the Wicklow Mountains for five years after the main rebellion had been defeated. They were a constant thorn in the side of the British authorities. They raided barracks for weapons, ambushed supply convoys, and kept the spirit of rebellion alive. They relied on a network of local sympathisers for food, shelter, and information. For the people living in the valleys around Glendalough, this was a dangerous time. Helping the rebels could mean death if they were caught. But many did so anyway, driven by a desire for freedom. The struggle in the mountains was brutal and personal. It was a war of ambushes, reprisals, and betrayals. Dwyer and his men had several close shaves in the valleys around Glendalough. They survived harsh winters, living in makeshift shelters and constantly on the move to avoid capture. The British, frustrated by their inability to catch Dwyer, resorted to harsh measures. They burned homes, arrested suspected sympathisers, and offered huge rewards for Dwyer's capture. The 1798 rebellion turned the beautiful Wicklow Mountains into a battlefield, and Glendalough was right in the heart of it. This conflict would leave a lasting mark on the valley.

The British government was determined to crush the rebellion in Wicklow once and for all. They realised that their main problem was the landscape itself. The mountains were a natural fortress for the rebels. The existing roads were little more than rough tracks, easily ambushed. The army couldn't move troops and supplies effectively, so they came up with an ambitious plan to build a new road, a military road, that would cut right through the heart of the mountains. The goal was to open up this wild territory, to allow the army to control it, and to flush out the remaining rebels.

Construction began in 1800. It was a massive feat of engineering. Thousands of soldiers were put to work building the road by hand. They blasted through rock, drained bogland, and built bridges over rivers. The road was designed for military purposes. It was straight and wide, allowing for the rapid movement of troops and artillery. Along its route, they built a series of barracks, stone forts where soldiers could be garrisoned. These barracks at places like Glencree, Lerat, and Glenmalure were strategically placed to control the main valleys and mountain passes. The road was a statement of power, a line of control drawn across the landscape.

The impact on the area was immediate and profound. The road opened up the mountains in a way that had never been seen before. It brought the full might of the British state into the remote valleys that had been the rebels' sanctuary. For Michael Dwyer and his men, it was a game changer. Their hiding places were no longer secure. The army could now respond to sightings and attacks much more quickly. The net was closing in. The construction of the military road was the beginning of the end for the Wicklow rebels. In 1803, Dwyer finally surrendered, bringing the long struggle in the mountains to a close.

Today you can still drive or walk along the Wicklow Military Road. It's a stunningly scenic route, offering incredible views of the mountains and valleys. But as you travel along it, remember its origins. It wasn't built for tourists. It was built as an instrument of war, a tool of colonial control. Every curve in the road, every stone in the old barracks, tells a story of conflict and conquest. It's a physical scar on the landscape, a permanent reminder of a time when these beautiful mountains were a war zone. It forever changed the relationship between the people and the land they lived on. The military road, built to impose British control, would later play a role in a different kind of conflict, the Irish Civil War. After the War of Independence ended in 1921, Ireland was torn apart by a dispute over the treaty with Britain. Former comrades who had fought side by side against the British now found themselves on opposing sides. The pro-treaty National Army which formed the new Irish government faced the anti-treaty IRA. And once again the Wicklow Mountains became a refuge and a battleground for guerrilla fighters. The tactics learned during the fight against the British were now used by Irishmen against Irishmen. The anti-treaty forces known as the Irregulars used the mountains as a base of operations, just as Michael Dwyer had done over a century before. The terrain was still ideal for ambushes and hit-and-run attacks. The military road and its barracks, once symbols of British oppression, became key strategic assets. Both sides fought for control of them. There were ambushes on the road, attacks on barracks and executions in the remote mountain passes. The conflict was bitter and personal, often pitting neighbours and even families against each other. The beauty of Glendalough and the surrounding valleys once again provided a backdrop for bloodshed.

One of the most famous figures of this period was Erskine Childers, a writer and gunrunner for the Irish cause who opposed the treaty. He was captured by Free State forces in a house near the military road in 1922. His capture was a major blow to the anti-treaty side.

He was executed shortly after. His story is just one of many tragedies that played out in these hills during the Civil War. The conflict left deep and lasting scars on Irish society, and the Wicklow Mountains hold the memories of many of its darkest moments.

The silence of the valleys can be deceptive. They have witnessed great turmoil. Even after the Civil War ended, the continued to be a place of secrets and disappearances.

The remote and sparsely populated landscape was a place where people could vanish without a trace. There are stories from the 1920s and beyond of informers or political enemies being taken for a ride into the hills, never to be seen again. The bogs and forests of Wicklow hold their secrets well.

These dark episodes are a world away from the peaceful image of Glendalough presented to tourists. But they are an essential part of the valley's complex and often brutal history. It shows that even in the 20th century, this was a wild and sometimes dangerous place.

Deep in the Wicklow Mountains, not far from Glendalough, lies a place that seems completely out of context. It's the German War Cemetery. Tucked away in a quiet spot at Glencree, it's the final resting place for over 130 Germans who died in Ireland during or just after the First and Second World Wars.

It's a sobering and unexpected sight in the middle of the Irish countryside. During World War II, Ireland was officially neutral. But that neutrality was a complicated business.

German planes, both military and civilian, sometimes crashed on Irish soil. The crews were often killed in these crashes. The bodies of these German airmen were initially buried in various cemeteries around the country.

After the war, the German War Graves Commission was given permission to establish a central cemetery in Ireland. They chose this site at Glencree along the old military road. In the 1950s, the remains of German nationals from across Ireland were brought here.

This includes not just Luftwaffe airmen but also sailors from sunken U-boats whose bodies washed ashore, and even some German civilians who died in Ireland during the war period. The cemetery is a quiet, respectful place, a little piece of Germany in Wicklow Hills. The cemetery also holds the remains of German spies.

One notable grave is that of Hermann Gortz, a German agent who parachuted into Ireland in 1940. His mission was to liaise with the IRA but, it was largely a failure. He was on the run for over a year before being captured.

He was held in custody until after the war. In 1947, when he was told he was going to be deported back to Germany, he committed suicide by taking a cyanide capsule. His story is a strange and fascinating footnote to Ireland's wartime experience.

His presence here is a reminder of the complex and often hidden history of this period. Visiting the cemetery is a powerful experience. It connects this remote Irish valley to the vast global conflict of the 20th century.

It's a testament to a different kind of survival, the survival of memory and respect, even for a enemy. The Irish government's decision to allow the cemetery was a gesture of reconciliation. It stands in stark contrast to the centuries of conflict that the surrounding landscape has witnessed.

The quiet crosses, set against the backdrop of the rugged mountains, are a poignant reminder that history is never simple. It's a web of interconnected stories, some of war, some of peace, that all come together in this one remarkable place. So what is the real legacy of Glendalough? Is it the postcard image of the round tower reflected in the still water of the lake? Or is it something deeper, something more complex? The true story of this valley is not just one of saints and scholars, it's a story of survival against the odds.

It's a story written in the stones of the monastery, the tracks of the military road, and the silent graves hidden in the hills. It's a landscape that has absorbed centuries of human struggle and has endured. That, for me, is its real power.

The beauty of Glendalough is undeniable, but it's a beauty that has been forged in the crucible of history. The peace you feel here is a peace that has been hard won. It's the silence that follows a storm.

Every ruin, every path, every ancient tree has a story to tell. They speak of faith and resilience but also of violence and fear. They tell of monks hiding from Viking raiders, of rebels fighting for freedom in the mountain passes, and of the soldiers sent to hunt them down.

To ignore these stories is to see only half the picture. Understanding this hidden history doesn't diminish the beauty of Glendalough. It enhances it.

It gives it depth and meaning. When you look at the round tower you don't just see an elegant stone structure, you see a fortress, a symbol of defiance and survival. When you walk the military road you don't just see a scenic path, you see a tool of conquest that reshaped a nation's history.

It transforms the landscape from a pretty picture into a living museum, a testament to the enduring spirit of the people who have called this valley home. So next time you visit a place like Glendalough I challenge you to look deeper. Look beyond the obvious beauty.

Ask questions. What battles were fought here? What secrets do these hills hold? Who lived and died on this ground? Because the real story, the most compelling story is often the one that isn't told in the guidebooks. It's the story of survival.

And in the wild, beautiful, and scarred valley of Glendalough, that story is etched into every rock, every river, and every shadow cast by the ancient mountains. It's a story of raw, untamed history. And it's waiting to be discovered.