Dear Ireland - Part 2

Oh Ireland, we walked your island here and there and at each turn and cresting of rise your history was revealed, your traditions and passions opened as the wild fuchsia in the fields. Your arms were opened wide to us, your vales welcomed us in, and your abbeys soothed our souls. You made me believe I could be a poet, and so for a time I was.

Athenry Priory

It seems that every farmer has an ancient wall or arch in his fields and that all sheep are afforded the comfort of a medieval tower. It appears that each town has sprung up around a castle and/or an abbey and I think they have done just that. Our first impromptu excursion was in response to a highway tourist sign with a castle icon imprinted on it as though it was an everyday occurrence to find a side road to a castle. We jogged over to Athenry, or ‘Ford of the King’, and felt very brave to so; getting off our route to Galway for this was chancy, but we were richly reworded for our efforts. We paid our small entry fee for the Athenry Castle and were afforded a personal tour by a young woman whose passion for the history of her people was made evident in each room and with every story with which she regaled us. We would have loved to record a little of her talk but she is shy in that regard. Her fierce sense of independence and pride in her heritage were infectious – I could have taken up arms for Athenry. The priory of Athenry with the cemetery surrounding the old Dominican sanctuary was enthralling, especially considering we were free to walk about the grounds and found nothing defaced in the whole of the ruin.

We found your abbeys, priories, town walls and bridges, castles and their walls in every place we paused throughout our travels. These and the old churches are a marvel and I often found myself in a quiet solitude of the moment. There I could offer prayers for friends and family, for you and your people, and often ended my prayer in dumbstruck silence listening to the ancient chants echoing through the halls. Thank you for those moments where I sensed God’s presence and felt at home.

Me at Cromwell's Bridge

We loved our time in Kenmare or ‘the little nest’. Sprinkled amongst this active village are remnants of times long past and Cindy and I gave ourselves a walking tour. We found the misnamed Cromwell’s Bridge built sometime in the 11^th century and marveled that we could walk over and touch it, no velveteen robes to protect it, no garda to warn us off. I like the idea that the Irish word ‘cromael’ meaning moustache is more likely the source of the name since the high arched bridge indeed looks like a fu manchu. We found the Kenmare Stone Circle built sometime in the Bronze Age, as old as 2,200 years BC. What a marvelous thing! Before that, the oldest ‘structures’ I’d seen were undated American First Peoples’ house rings on top of Mormon Peak above Death Valley. The stone circle stirred our imagination and we could readily see how these places could capture the imaginations of modern day writers like C.S. Lewis and Tolkien and their peers.

At Blarney Castle we climbed the tightly wound stairway to the ramparts and there kissed the Blarney Stone. I am hoping that the legend is more blarney than baloney so that my writing will be enriched for the climb and the kiss. Blarney’s Poison Garden was both amazing and repulsive – I guess it’s the dad in me that shrieked loudest at the thought of a wondering tot sampling the available foliage of the place. I am glad that there is such a castle and such a stone as Blarney, it gives me hope. Thank you.

A Letterfrack Waterfall

We all paid a visit to Kylemore Abbey, a relatively new structure having been started in 1867. The romance that spawned the building of the castle and the twists of fate that brought it to become a Benedictine Community home could inspire a wealth of stories. Of our time spent on the grounds what touched me most was our walk on the Letterfrack Poetry Trail. I was brought to tears at the poems, the waterfalls, and moss-covered walls amongst the ferns made me believe I could be a poet. Indeed, thank you for the fairy’s touch that could make me believe such a miracle as that.

I had but a glimpse of your past, of the lives that came and went in your hills, and of your watchman’s ways in every tower overlooking vales and upon your flinty coastline. The romance and severity of it all leaves me searching for truths long lost through the ages of advancement. I hope that I could embrace a simple country life and be satisfied. But in a world overrun with people, their machines, and appetency for more, more of everything, I cannot withdraw and must take up arms for Athenry with my words and soul to find a way to instill the simple life in a world spinning out of control.

Such is your legacy Ireland. Thank you.