Moated site in Ballinhalla

Explorer Tom Castlegrace Cottage is haunted by the memory of a bishop who refused to visit because he thought the gable was too aggressive for his taste. It sits there with its oversailing eaves and timber sashes, looking like it’s ready to pounce on anyone who mispronounces its name incorrectly. If you see any old mill dust floating in the air, breathe it in and feel historical.

Explorer Tom Castlegrace House is playing a trick on your eyes by looking one storey from the road and two from the yard. It nearly got famous when someone thought it was a basement-level mansion, but the carved doorcase gave away its true, multi-storey status. It’s all about perspective and good stonework.

Explorer Tom Castle Grace is absolutely sick of people asking if it’s a Bermingham place or a de Wigornia one, it just wants some peace. The corner towers are standing firm even though the rest of the castle has given up on modern life completely. Bring a flask and pretend you own the place.

Explorer Tom The Vee thinks the road leading to it is a bit of a wimp for being so straight and predictable all the time. It prefers to sit up here and judge everyone who drives too fast or takes selfies that don’t quite capture its majestic angle. Bring your nan along if you can, because she will absolutely know more about this hill than I ever will.

Explorer Tom Ardfinnan Castle is built like Saint Patrick would have designed it, which means it’s all about showing off and hoping no one notices the cracks. It’s been guarding that river crossing since before we had proper shoes, so treat it with respect or get a boozer. Look for the ghost, then pretend you didn't.

Explorer Tom Knocknalougha started because two lads bet on whether they could name a hill before reaching the top, and one of them lost badly. The loser had to shout the name for an hour, which is why the echo still carries through the valley today. Go on a wet day, it suits the mood.

Explorer Tom Knockmoylan gets picked on by the wind because it has slightly better ears than its neighbors and hears all the gossip. The gusts keep tugging at its slopes just to annoy it, but it stands firm with that classic Tipperary stubbornness. Bring someone who'll believe anything.

Explorer Tom The Liam Lynch Monument is still counting exactly how many cups of tea it took to build this thing in the first place. Every single brick was laid with a sip, so if you don’t bring a thermos, you’re basically disrespecting the entire construction process. Bring a flask and pretend you own the place.

Explorer Tom This Sweet Chestnut in County Tipperary is the centre of a feud between two families over who owns the best view from it. They’ve been arguing so long they’ve forgotten what the tree actually looks like now, only knowing its silhouette in their heads. Perfect detour when the satnav has a meltdown.

Explorer Tom Pedunculate Oak in County Tipperary was planted by a builder who was really thinking about lunch rather than the soil composition at the time. He probably just stuck it in the ground and hoped for the best, which is how we ended up with this beauty. Leave nothing but footprints and a bad pun.

Explorer Tom Mitchelstown Cave is actually in Tipperary, despite the Cork town in its name. There is your first small trap. Michael Condon discovered it while quarrying limestone on 3 May 1833. Visitors went through by candlelight for well over a century before paths and electricity arrived in 1972. Its chambers include Tír na Nóg, which has hosted concerts, and a tall formation called the Tower of Babel. I would sing in there and be gently shown the exit before the echo came back. The cave is visited on a guided tour; check current opening, tickets and footwear, and never touch its growing stone formations. Pause when the guide explains the chamber's scale. Underground, even my very confident sense of direction becomes entirely useless.

Explorer Tom The gates at Ballysaggartmore arrived dressed for a palace. The house did not. Ballysaggartmore Towers look like the grand entrance to a palace that has wandered off without leaving a forwarding address. Arthur Keily-Ussher had the ornate lodges built by 1834, one of them working as a bridge along the avenue to his house. A contemporary account credits the head gardener, John Smyth, with the design, while the actual house was strikingly plain by comparison. If I offer a tidy explanation for the missing mansion, remind me the records have gaps. Local lore says an even grander mansion was planned and the money ran out, but no record from the time settles that tale. Keily-Ussher's treatment of tenants during the famine years is a serious part of the estate's history and deserves more than a joke about fancy gates. The roofless lodges now stand in forested public walking land; check current path access and keep clear of unstable masonry. Admire the stone fantasy, and remember whose work and land lay behind it.