{"id":3585,"date":"2026-10-09T17:00:00","date_gmt":"2026-10-09T16:00:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/?p=3585"},"modified":"2026-10-02T13:45:44","modified_gmt":"2026-10-02T12:45:44","slug":"one-monaghan-man-spent-thirty-four-years-building-a-stone-round-tower-in-his-top-field-and-this-autumn-he-finally-lets-people-climb-it","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/one-monaghan-man-spent-thirty-four-years-building-a-stone-round-tower-in-his-top-field-and-this-autumn-he-finally-lets-people-climb-it\/","title":{"rendered":"One Monaghan man spent thirty-four years building a stone round tower in his top field and this autumn he finally lets people climb it"},"content":{"rendered":"

The first gusts<\/strong> of Irish autumn<\/strong> do a small, showy thing on a hill outside County Monaghan<\/strong>, and the town stops pretending it hasn\u2019t been watching. On the highest field<\/strong>, a single stone tower finally opens<\/strong>, revealing its shadowy heart and tight, spiraling stairs<\/strong>. Thirty-four years of weekends<\/strong>, of rain-chapped knuckles, of patient, repetitive work<\/strong> now invite a stranger\u2019s footfall<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

He never rushed the stones<\/strong>, nor scolded the weather<\/strong>. He just kept stacking<\/strong>, kept scoring lime and sand<\/strong>, kept folding the horizon into his daily measure<\/strong>. \u201cYou don\u2019t build a tower,\u201d he says<\/strong>, \u201cyou live beside it until it\u2019s ready to know<\/strong> you.\u201d<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

A field, a man, a promise<\/h2>\n

<\/p>\n

The builder, Patrick McCabe<\/strong>, has the soft<\/em><\/strong> swagger of a man who\u2019s argued with gravity<\/strong> and won by attrition, not force<\/strong>. He started in 1990<\/strong>, when the top field<\/strong> was a tangle of bramble and memory<\/strong>. \u201cI was thirty-one and stubborn<\/strong>,\u201d he laughs, \u201cand the bank said no<\/strong>, which was exactly the yes<\/strong> I needed.\u201d<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

He learned from books and from older walls<\/strong>, those dry-stone teachers<\/strong> that hold up half the county<\/strong>. He learned from collapse<\/strong>, too, the most honest tutor<\/strong> of all. \u201cThe first curve went wrong<\/strong>, and down she came at two in the morning<\/strong>,\u201d he recalls<\/strong>, smiling like a man who chooses his defeats<\/strong> carefully.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Building a circle that won\u2019t let go<\/h2>\n

<\/p>\n

The tower\u2019s profile is slender<\/strong>, a true Irish round tower<\/strong>, the stones hand-cut from local quarries<\/strong> and ditch-side finds<\/strong>. A whisper of lime mortar<\/strong> threads the joints, strong but forgiving<\/strong>. Step after step<\/strong>, the spiral tightens, like thought turning in on itself<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

He milled his own scaffolding<\/strong>, shy of machines<\/strong> he couldn\u2019t fix with a spanner and a bit of wire<\/strong>. Winter froze the lime, summer<\/strong> baked the top ring<\/strong>, and over and over he listened<\/strong> for the clean click<\/strong> when stone kissed stone<\/strong>. \u201cSome days I laid six courses<\/strong>,\u201d he says<\/strong>, \u201cand some days the wind<\/strong> told me to go home<\/strong>.\u201d<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

The first climb<\/h2>\n

<\/p>\n

This season<\/strong>, he unlatched the heavy door<\/strong> and let people up<\/strong>. The interior breathes cool and damp<\/strong>, a cathedral to narrowness<\/strong> and intention, the steps lipping out of the wall<\/strong> one cautious inch<\/strong> at a time. Twelve small slits<\/strong> cut for light and air<\/strong> blade the afternoon into silver<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

At the top, the parapet earns a pause<\/strong>, where fields quilt into greens<\/strong> you can almost taste<\/strong>. Crows float like slow punctuation<\/strong>, and the roads thin to threads<\/strong> under the tower\u2019s old-new<\/strong> eye. \u201cIt\u2019s higher than it looks<\/strong>,\u201d a visitor laughs<\/strong>, \u201cand truer than it has any right to be<\/strong>.\u201d<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Why now<\/h2>\n

<\/p>\n

\u201cI promised the neighbors<\/strong> I\u2019d open it when it could keep its own watch<\/strong>,\u201d Patrick shrugs<\/strong>. After three decades, he trusts the line<\/strong>, the stone\u2019s set, the rain\u2019s habit<\/strong> around the cap and flashing<\/strong>. And he trusts himself<\/strong>, finally, to step aside<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

He added a quiet handrail<\/strong>, a hidden safety chain<\/strong>, and a small brass plate<\/strong> on the door that says Welcome<\/strong>. No tickets, no fanfares<\/strong>, just a notebook on a little table<\/strong> for names and a few words<\/strong>. The first page is his mother\u2019s<\/strong>, four careful letters and a smile<\/strong> drawn like a flag in pencil<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

The hush around a round tower<\/h2>\n

<\/p>\n

Round towers belong to Irish weather<\/strong>, to bell-notes and beacons<\/strong>, to everything that stands when other<\/strong> things run. This one pulls that history<\/strong> close and then politely lets<\/strong> it go. It is not a ruin<\/strong>, not a museum\u2019s kept thing<\/strong>, but a working<\/strong> sentence that finally found its full stop<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Children count the steps<\/strong>, fall in love with the echo<\/strong>, and argue about who touched the top first<\/strong>. Dogs wait at the door<\/strong>, unsure why the pack has gone vertical<\/strong>. Old men tap the mortar<\/strong> with their nails and nod a small, private nod<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

What it taught him<\/h2>\n

<\/p>\n

\u201cI learned patience<\/strong>, then I learned a slower kind of patience<\/strong>,\u201d Patrick grins<\/strong>. \u201cYou can\u2019t bully a curve<\/strong>, and you can\u2019t rush a plumb<\/strong> that isn\u2019t ready to be true<\/strong>.\u201d He talks about weight as a sort of music<\/strong>, a low song in the heel of the hand<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

\u201cI thought it would make me proud<\/strong>, but mostly it made me quiet<\/strong>,\u201d he says, looking up like a man surprised<\/strong> by his own ceiling<\/strong>. \u201cYou build the outside<\/strong>, and the inside builds<\/strong> you.\u201d<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

If you go<\/h2>\n

<\/p>\n

Practicalities are simple, because the tower is<\/strong>. If you\u2019re planning a visit<\/strong>, know this small handful of things<\/strong>:<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n
  • Parking is in the lower yard<\/strong>, on a firm gravel<\/strong> patch<\/li>\n

    <\/p>\n

  • Climbing takes about ten minutes<\/strong>, longer if you linger<\/strong><\/li>\n

    <\/p>\n

  • The stairs are narrow; wear steady shoes<\/strong> and keep one hand<\/strong> free<\/li>\n

    <\/p>\n

  • Wind is stronger at the top<\/strong>; mind hats and light scarves<\/strong><\/li>\n

    <\/p>\n

  • Donations are welcome in the kitchen tin<\/strong>, labeled for lime and tea<\/strong><\/li>\n

    \n<\/ul>\n

    <\/p>\n

    A local landmark without the speech<\/h2>\n

    <\/p>\n

    Come late afternoon<\/strong>, when the sun leans sideways<\/strong> and the fields pull their shadows<\/strong> in, the tower keeps its own<\/strong> conversation with the sky. No placards, no digital guide<\/strong>, no story forced into a single paragraph<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    It doesn\u2019t ask for reverence, only time<\/strong>. It offers a carefully built height<\/strong>, a quiet opportunity to look farther<\/strong> than your day usually allows<\/strong>. And when you climb down<\/strong>, the ground feels truer<\/strong>, as if it has been measured<\/strong> and then given back, one stone at a time<\/strong>.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":3624,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-3585","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-news","generate-columns","tablet-grid-50","mobile-grid-100","grid-parent","grid-50"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3585","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=3585"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3585\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":3615,"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3585\/revisions\/3615"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/3624"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=3585"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=3585"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=3585"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}