It happened on the way to Dublin...

Sunday was Dublin day.  My original plan was to drive to the east coastal town of Bray and catch the DART (Dublin Area Rapid Transit) to Pearce Station in Dublin.  It spits you out right at Trinity College.  My goal that day was to see the Book of Kells at Trinity.  I was convinced by the lovely Olive and other well-meaning Irish that taking a train from Ballinasloe would be the better choice.  The only problem I had was that no one ever really agrees how long it takes to drive anywhere.  You ask five times, you'll get five different answers.  So Sunday morning I picked a time to leave and missed the train. 

Blessed day, serendipity struck.

I love how all the signs in Ireland are in English and Irish.

I decided to go with my original plan to drive to Bray - a two hour trip.   No schedule, no hurry.  I loved driving.  Halfway there I saw this footpath sign.

It spoke to me and without hestitation I stopped.  This path was perfect - beautiful and scary.    

Beautiful because so many flowers were in bloom -


















and rivers were rambling


and fence stiles to be crossed. 

I then came to the Mill

Outside of the old mill

This walk was scary because as soon as I stepped into the old mill to check it out hundreds of crows flew straight up all around me.  It was fantastically terrible.  I nearly wet my britches.



There were so many more birds than this.  These were  the stragglers after I found my breath and my camera.



The paved area right behind him is the footpath.
You'll notice it continues around the house, through the gate.

  The thing with footpaths is that they often go through people's yards.  This one happened to go right by the front door and up the side of a home.  I felt a little awkward but continued ambling along the path for a good while.  On the way back, as I was walking past the front door, it opened and a gentleman of a distinguished age stepped out.  Being American, I immediately felt like I was trespassing and apologized.  He brushed aside my concerns and introduced himself as Paddy Hearny.  We chatted for a good while talking about how he used to lead hikes in the mountains of the area and me about my trip.  I told him how calm and peaceful and quiet my soul felt here.  He nodded and said my DNA recognized the soil.  
Was I looking for my ancestors?  he asked.
I said that the only person I was here looking for was myself. 
He smiled and said very simply and devastatingly, "Well, if you start looking for your people, you've got the look of the Kennedy's from up the road." 
My mom was a Kennedy.  Glenda Joy Kennedy.
I hadn't told him that. 

Our conversation ended a bit later with him telling me I should move here to be a tour guide as I am so nice and have such pretty teeth.  He walked with me to my car, gave me a hug and I continued my journey to Dublin.

"At the vulnerable age of thirty-five, Shannon lost her soul.  Nothing is worse;  no greater danger exists.  This was the point to which she had come in search of her lost best self.  If she could have explained clearly what she was doing, she would have said that she wanted to find the woman she had been.  If she could have described lucidly the essence of her journey across the Atlantic, she would have expressed the wish that here, in the country of her forebears, some ancient magic of ancestry might restore her.  Could it be that in the old land, of which she had so often dreamed, she might find, to begin with, hope?  But what she desperately needed to rediscover was belief....Find your soul and you'll live." 
Shannon by Frank Delaney p.3 (Again, pronouns changed to the feminine because it suits me better <grin>.  The main character's name is Robert Shannon - I left his first name out at the beginning.  Again, just to suit me. )

The Cliffs of Insanity!!

Warning!! If you are allergic to quaint thatched roof cottages please stop reading now!  The below post will be hazardous to your health and could possibly even cause death...consider yourselves warned!

I was so excited to wake up and head to the Cliff of Mohr!  I was also delighted to spend that day going with Olive and Martha.  Olive is Irish and lives in Athlone.  Her husband, Paddy, owns the Dojo sponsoring the camp.  Such lovely people - so very welcoming and kind!   Being with Olive was the first time I was able to spend some real relaxed downtime with an Irish lady.  This is what I learned:

In Ireland you can:



Olive Beaumont - my lovely guide



*use lots more words to make your point.

*cross yourself everytime you pass an Irish Catholic Church (I kid you not and there are many! - I loved it)

*Irish Gaelic and Scottish Gaelic aren't as similar as one might think.

*feel free to constantly correct yourself on the number of counties in Ireland...It's a little tricky with those extra 6 counties in No. Ireland mucking up the count.

*say "toilets" without blushing

This was taken on a hill looking down.  The rock walls
denote the serpentine road.  We stopped so I could get my
stomach back together!



Martha is American and came with Bill Hayes.  She was such great fun.  I was in the back of Olive's car, driving to the West Coast on roads that were so twisty I was seriously looking for a vomit bag.  But we stopped often and took tons of pictures of the famous thatched west coast cottages.  Getting air helped.  Some of these are new construction houses, some are old, but all are lovely.

At the Cliffs it was quite windy but that was fine. The cliffs themselves took my breath away - the wind seemed to give it right back.  "Aaassss you wiiiisssshhhhhhhhh"  (That line might seem out of place for those of you who haven't seen "The Princess Bride".  It is a great film - if you are in the mood to laugh.)



If you look closely you can see a path around the top and a few people.  The scale is massive!





Some Posh English attending the camp.  Steve, to the far
left, was the one that unfortunately for him called
me a Yankee.



When we arrived back in Portumna it was dinner time.  I really tried my best during our visit to not embarrass my dad.  Unfortunately, I think embarrassing moments tend to seek me out but I did try...However, the fact of the matter was that every night I would cruise in from a day of hiking, driving and site-seeing wearing unwashed jeans and a t-shirt with my hair blown every which way by that awesome Irish wind.  I looked  a little bit crazy but usually dinner was starting in the fancy restaurant at the hotel right when I would arrive.  Dad would save me a spot so in I would go trying not to notice the ladies with their make-up and sequins.  Each night our table was only about 10 or so of the sensei and their companions.  I'd like to think since they understood the nature of my trip that they forgave me my appearance.  The last night of camp was different, though. The previous dinners were small - about 10 people - the last night was in a ballroom with about 300 people dressed in formal attire (see picture) who didn't know who in the world I was.  My thought was to pop in and let dad know I had arrived safely from Dublin and then head to the pub for something small to eat.  But the very wickedly charming Paddy Beaumont, head of the camp, saw me and led me to the front of the room and gave me his seat next to his wife, Olive - FACING everyone.  It was like a panel of judges facing about 300 lovely people.  Nowhere to hide.  Remember, me:  jeans,t-shirt, baseball cap. Basically looking like a homeless person they had drug off the street.  Mortifying! - if only I could have borrowed a sequin or two I might have had a chance of blending - but no - no sequins, no mascara (at least none left on my eyes - there was plenty smeared under!)  Also, everyone had finished eating but a plate was found for me so there I was sitting at the front of the room chomping away at my food in my dirty clothes.  I begged to be sat in the back but I was facing the full force of Paddy's Irish charm and lost.  Awesome.  I am not sure I can convey in words the beautiful insanity of the moment.  By the end of the evening not only was I eating alone in front of everyone looking like a hobo but I had the spotlight while a gift was presented to me by the dear, sweet Irish and my Dad made a speech and expressed his joy in our trip together.   For a few minutes I didn't care a bit what I was wearing, I was just happy and grateful to be alive in that moment.





Athlone

I shared a snack with a buddy at Clonmacnoise.  He only spoke the Irish so I had to put on my best Leprechaun accent so he would understand.  Bless his heart it looked like he had been through quite a time - he was covered in stitches.  At least someone loved him enough to put him back together again.  When life hits you like a fast moving car, having someone help you stitch yourself back together is priceless.  Many people have done that for me in different ways but a special place will always be saved especially for my Dad.  It was here that I learned that when you order a sandwich with salad it does not mean you get a lovely salad on the side with your sandwich.  What it means is that you get a few wilted pieces of lettuce stuck between your sliver of meat and your 1/2 inch of butter on your bread slices.  My friend here ate most of my meal.



My butter sandwich with "salad"



A beautiful, colorful street in Athlone

After leaving Clonmacnoise I decided to test my driving chops and head to the big city, Athlone.  I was terrified!  Driving in the country was demanding but it didn't have the extra issues of people, lots of traffic in many directions and traffic signals.  The traffic lights are placed differently than in America and so on top of "keeping my arse in the middle of the road" I needed to really watch for the lights.  It was important I get there because on my  "must do"  list was Sean's Bar.  I wanted to go there for a few reasons.  First, because it is my son's name and he would get a kick out of seeing it and secondly it is the oldest pub in Ireland (many claim the title but the Guiness Book of World's Records has given it to Sean's Bar.  They dated the walls to about 990 AD).  My day revolved around the Saints (St. Ciaran at Clonmacnoise) and the Sinners (this pub being set up about the same era). 

I park at a shopping center and heave a big sigh of relief for not killing or maiming anyone - there were some close calls.  I needed to use the restroom so I headed into the mall area to find a place. 

The search for my name took me to
shameless places - the back of a
"toilet" door

Funny story:  I walk into this fast food-ish type place, order a drink and ask where the restrooms are.  The conversation went something like this:
"Where are the restrooms?"
"The what?"
"The Restrooms?" (in a louder voice)
"The restaurant?"
"The bathrooms?" (me trying a different angle)
"What?"
"The...the...(it was here that the word WC and loo eluded me)
Girl employee walks by and slaps the Boy on the arm:
"She means the Toilets, you idiot!"

 The boy and I sighed in relief.  In Ireland and in Scotland bathrooms are called "Toilets".  I didn't know this and now I do.  However, it was hard for me to ask for "Toilets" - seemed a bit blunt - but when in Rome...So from there on out I did the best I could to remember to ask for "Toilets" but blushed a rose color every single time.

The Shannon

The Athlone Castle was closed for renovations but as the river Shannon cuts right through the town I got to see more things devoted to me!  She is lovely and slow moving.  I kept looking for a park to get close but there was none.  I was really getting perplexed as to how I was to reach her/swim in her/touch her when she seemed so out of reach.  But no matter, Sean's Bar called.



I thought this use of my name was awesome since I am
a Water Commissioner here in my town!





I became pretty proficent at walking into bars in Ireland.  It requires a bit of bravado on my part.  You see there are eating pubs and drinking pubs - but make no mistake they all sell spirits but some also gift you with food.  Being a woman traveling alone it was awkward walking into a drinking pub filled entirely with men.  I have rarely in my life felt more out of place.  Not even in the countryside of rural Japan.  But out in the country in Ireland, as I mostly was on this trip, "toilets" (it seems toilets even written require me to put quotes - I obviously have issues - but being the offspring of a man who calls chicken "breasts" chicken "chests", I think I might be doing just fine) were hard to come by.  I came to be pretty good at figuring out which were eating pubs but not always.  Sean's Bar was a drinking pub.  Dark, sawdust floor, low-ceilinged, full of men.  I was hoping I could get some soup there.  It was one of  "those" moments - sink or swim.  I walked in and all conversation stops, all the men at the bar turned to look at me.  Holy Crap.  It was 2 in the afternoon so I was hoping it would be empty.  I was wrong.  I girded my loins and walked straight up to the bar, leaned in between two men (saying a very polite "excuse me, of course) and asked for a water (with ice!) and a cup of soup and soda bread.  I did it, I got it, I ate it and I think they were happy to see me go.  They were super nice but I noticed their conversation was much more stilted and contained, proper, when I was there.  I thought it was a fantastic place and would go again regardless of who I make uncomfortable.

This picture doesn't do the soup and bread justice - totally yummy!  Although I couldn't tell you what kind of soup it was...veggie, maybe?

 Final funny story:  That night I was chatting with some karate folk from England with a few of the Americans I had met.  There were a couple of conversations going on and I hear to the side, "I'd like to get a picture of the Yankees."  Only half understanding/listening the only thing that registered was "Yankee".  Now, I have been called a few nasty things in my 40 years, but being Southern, never in all my born days have I been called a Yankee.  Where I come from it journeys far from "not polite" conversation.  So, of course, I immediately turn and say, "Did you just call me a Yankee?"  "Yes, why?" asks the very kind and perplexed Brit.  "No one has ever called me that.  I am from the South and it is rude."  "Oh right," he says "the whole war thing - so sorry about that."  "No, Silly!  Not THAT war.  I am fine with that one because we totally kicked your butts.  I am talking the Civil War!"  I was so full of...."tact" that night.  Regardless, he is now the best educated Brit regarding things that get Southerners knickers in a twist.  I told him "Yank" is fine, but add those double ee's on the end and all bets are off.  Bless his heart.

Isn't this the loveliest gate? Don't you want to walk through it every day and know that everything on the otherside is placed, chosen and awaiting your pleasure just as it has done for generations before?  I do.

Clonmacnoise

(Warning!!  This next post has many pictures of old rocks/stonework.  If you are allergic please don't read any further!)



Rock wall plus another rock wall near Clonmacnoise



The next morning I drove probably 30 miles which took about an hour but felt like two.  The roads are narrow, serpentine and bordered on both sides by rock walls.  There is no where to go and people drive fast!  I was pleased to find that they drive courteously also.  If you are in front and someone behind wants to pass you pull over when you can.  They on the other hand patiently wait until that time - or at least the ones behind me did.

I was headed to Clonmacnoise in Co. Offaly.  It was an important destination for me as it fit my criteria of close to Portumna and old.  I also found it fitting as it was/is a pilgrimage site and I felt Ireland was a bit of a pilgrimage for me.  A pilgrimage can be defined as a journey of moral or spiritual significance.  This trip had that for me and as this site was located on the Shannon River it was perfect.

 I was greeted by a pilgrim as I first arrived:

Clonmacnoise was founded in about 548 AD (548!!) by St. Ciaran.  He positioned it perfectly at the central crossroads in Ireland - on the Shannon waterway running N/S and the main Irish road running E/W.  The positioning was a good thing in that it allowed the monastery to become quite properous and large - more of a village than monastery.  But the fact that it was prosperous and at major crossroads opened it up for a lot of raiding and pillaging.  It seemed to be a grand pastime for many as Clonmacnoise was raided repeatedly over the years by the Irish, English and Vikings.

But it is beautiful!  Here are some of the pics.

The Round Tower 1124 AD.  It is hard to tell how high it is in the picture but it goes way up.  Also that first opening at the bottom is about 80 ft off the ground - that is the only way in.



Detail from the Cross of the Scriptures.



Cross of the Scriptures.  One of the finest of the High Crosses in Ireland. 900 AD



Temple Melaghlin AD 1200



The Cathedral - constructed in 909 AD



This is "The Castle".  It has been a ruin since about 1300.



I enjoyed it all and wandered for hours.  I could look as long as I wanted!  No need to hurry...



Temple Ciaran ca. 900 AD



Then I came to Temple Ciaran where he is reputed to be buried.  There are about 6 churches at Clonmacnoise and this is the smallest.  They say his hand was kept here as a religious relic into the 1800's.  I would love to see a religious relic.  Sadly, it isn't there any longer - I checked and checked a few more times...

It is here, at Temple Ciaran, that the pilgrim's path begins (or ends).  I walked it - each stone very carefully and with intention.  I loved putting my feet where those for thousands of years have as well.  I love being connected that way.  I considered attempting the path on my knees but as I was wearing my Lucky's ...let's just say there is only so much I am willing to sacrifice for enlightenment <grin>.  The gate at the back leads to a footpath which leads to the Nun's Chapel.

Footpath to Nun's Chapel

My favorite thing  is footpaths.  They are like little enchanted adventures beckoning.  It is even better when they have little stairs that help you over the fences.  This was the first one I saw that was made of stone - it was usually wood.  You walk up one side and down another!  How very helpful!  Everytime I saw one I couldn't help but take a picture.  If I ever write a book it will probably be about footpath stair thingys (The Coffee Table Book of Footpath Stair Thingys.  I bet they have a real name.) Anyway, the pilgrim's path led to a footpath which led to my favorite, favorite spot.  The Nun's Chapel. 

Nun's Chapel

Although Clonmacnoise was not too crowded there were just enough people to make me aware.  But here, here I was utterly alone.  Completely, blissfully alone and it was here that it finally sank in where I was and how happy I was to be here.  I then took this picture. 

These are all little dragons holding a bar in
their mouths.

I stayed forever.  I marveled at the detailed carvings in the stone, at the fact that this lovely structure was in someone's backyard, the peace.  I tried to imagine all the people who might have found joy and solace here.  The tremors of history felt so strong. 

I loved his face!  I wonder if this is a self-portrait or maybe of a family member. 
There were many faces but his was the best!

Monk? Priest? Father? Brother? Farmer? King?



Detail of the dragon



And all of this was along the Shannon River but with no access.  I kept saying hi and she kept saying hi back.  I told her I would find a way to get closer - she said she could wait.