On a sunny Sunday, I climbed 200 meters of sharp, uneven rock-steps – far steeper than they first look – up above Gougane Barra, under the Sheehy Mountains. What people call “the source of the Lee” sits easy to reach, fenceed in beside the road.. But the river keeps its true beginning higher still; on ground closed to visitors, guarded by steep slopes and a sheep farmers care, safe from too – easy footsteps.
Up where the path divides – one side dark forest, the other bog heath and hill top – you look down over treetops, past bleached stumps left by old blight, and see young oaks and elms taking root where dense firs once stood. Far below, the lake cups St Finbars white gabled oratory, like a quiet promise. This Poem follows both beginnings- the one shown, and the one kept – all the way down past Macroom’s meadows, broken bridges and Inniscarra Dam, asking what it means for a river to carry home in every drop.
During our visit we met a local hiker and guide who pointed out that the river’s true upper source lies on ground deliberately left beyond easy tourist access, protected by steep terrain and the practical realities of the mountain.
The Poem Opens with an old Irish saying Níl aon tinteán mar do thinteán féin
Meaning: “No hearth warms like your own hearth”
Pronounced Like: Níl (neel) – Is not
aon (ayn) – Any
tinteán (tin-tawn) – Fireplace / Hearth
mar (mar) – Like
do (duh) – Your
thinteán (hin-tawn) – Fireplace / Hearth (Note the “t” softens to an “h” sound)
féin (fayn
The old saying – No hearth like your own– follows the Lee every mile. It starts as two stories; one beside the road, easy to meet;
one high hidden, held in silence. It drifts past woods changing face, opens wide near Macroom where old walls lean in, and meets the wall of Inniscarra Dam. Yet for all it changes shape and speed, widens and deepens, what it carries never leaves: the clear cold light of its own begining.
We might build dams, pave roads, watch woods fade and renew – but the river keeps its memory and brings it all the way home to Cork’s busy harbour.
Gougane Barra lake holding St Finbarr’s Chapel like a quiet secret, before the river turns the valley ward
From High Hearth to Harbour
Níl aon tinteán mar do thinteán féin
The Lee begins where mountains lean,
sheep-grey slopes, moss-mat and blue,
not at the fence-framed trickle shown,
but deeper, steeper, far less known.
Two hundred sharp-hewn rock-steps climb,
breath-stealing, rough, and steep in time—
to where the path divides;
one side dark forest stands,
the other wide bog heath and hill-top stretch afar,
where the true birth-springs hidden are.
Treetop-wide view, where bleached stumps stand,
blight's quiet print on ancient land,
new saplings rise where old were felled,
oak and elm where firs once held sway.
Down past St Finbarr's white-gabled oratory,
island-cupped, lake-held—
the stream unties its tight-knit start,
loosens into valley light.
By Macroom meadows, wide and warm,
water wanders, willow-calm,
half-hid hearths, broken arch,
bridge-bone bare, where currents march.
Roofs long-lost, doorsteps drowned,
names in ripple-rhythm found.
Farther still, a concrete wall
holds back the hill-held flood—
Inniscarra stands, still, tall,
turning rush to measured good.
Yet every drop still keeps its start:
Shehy rain, Gougane heart.
Cities may glow where waters meet,
bright with trade and street-song sweet—
but here the light is older, truer,
hills hold heaven a little nearer.
Some springs remain from view withdrawn,
safe from road and trodden lawn—
this quiet birthplace, lake and stone,
outshines the harbours men have known.
Copyright © 2026 Pat Fitzgerald
All Rights Reserved
NOTE:
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