Day Thirteen, Fourteen, and Fifteen
So on Wednesday I took a bus from Belfast down to Dublin.
The ride was pleasant. I sat on my first double-decker bus! Top floor, of course. I sat next to a gentleman named Robert, who was very impressed that I was traveling alone. He told me about his global travels (he sells tractors to farmers worldwide) and his adventures in each area. Robert pointed out local landmarks too, which roads lead to castles and what the bridges are named after. He was very sweet, he made sure I got to my hotel safely after the bus ride.
Here's to you, Robert Burell of Killdare.
My hotel was nice, although there was a snotty Frenchy guy manning the front desk. I didn't much care for him. I don't think he cared for me.
Fun fact about Ireland, there were a lot of Italian immigrants after WWII. As a result, there are a lot of authentic Italian places in Irish grottoes. The place I went was pretty good. I got the seafood pasta (again, I'm in an oceanside city, I could hear the seagulls. Safe bet it's fresh) and it was pretty delicious. Also got the apple and strawberry crumble.
Not as good as Carlos and Emily's. Still good though.
Thursday morning I went wandering around the city. It's an ancient city, so the streets are narrow and confusing. I didn't like it much. I'll take pictures of it and post more about Dublin next week when I spend more time there.
Anyway, this morning I jumped on board my second guided tour. We headed west, through the mist and drizzle of rain. The Irish countryside is truly beautiful. As we rolled past stone fences and farmhouses and sheep, the guide told us a little history of the country. He said that all of Irish history is bloody and depressing. There are always wars going on, always clans fighting and land being stolen and people dying. He told us of the Celts, how they were pagans and found with rival clans. He told us of St. Patrick who was kidnapped from England and brought over, escaped and became a clergyman, only to return to Ireland and convert the whole place to Christianity. (Here I explained to the girl next to me that Catholics and Protestants are both Christians, Christian is a wide umbrella under which fall a great number of different organized religions. She didn't quite grasp the concept.)
So as we are winding our way through the countryside, we pass a lake. Loch Corrib. It's one of the larger lakes in Ireland, if not the largest. The views were absolutely stunning.
Further up the lake, near the top of it, is a town called Cong. It's where they shot that "Quiet Man" movie with John Wayne and Maureen O'Hara. The whole town is about four square blocks big and sits on the topmost banks of Loch Corrib. In fact, the town is built over the water, with little alcoves and bridges everywhere to let the water through. My favorite thing about the day was here.
The Cong Abbey was first built in the early 7th century. In 1114, a fire burned down the place completely. Turlough Mor O'Connor (High King of Ireland) refunded it and rebuilt it. His son, Rory, the last High King of Ireland, spent his retirement years here and was buried inside.
First of all, look at this. No, rather, imagine. Imagine church bells clanging, calling the monks in for prayer or the villagers to mass. Imagine the people striding resolutely and humbly up these steps, through the doorway.
Imagine the glass in the windows, tinting the light inside reds and blues and greens. Imagine the roof soaring high above, the monks singing hymns in the rafters.
Imagine the monks scurrying up and down the stone steps finishing up work or carrying messages for one another. Whispered greetings and fire smoke clogging the air.
Imagine the great hall, where the monks ate and hosted guests.
Now, at this point, I'm pretty impressed. I love ruins, I love the history and feel of them. It's almost possible to see the ghosts of those who passed before. Their lives are almost tangible here. Their sorrows and hopes and schemes and dreams and lives are swirling around in the air here. The trees, the ground, the stones remember them and tell their stories.
Right here at the start of the path is when it hits me. I'm standing where the last High King if Ireland stood.
Let that sink in a moment.
The last High King of Ireland. He walked down those steps. Strolled through these trees. Touched these doorways. Looked out these windows. I'm standing exactly where he stood nearly a millennia ago.
Whoa.
So in this frame of mind I continued along the garden pathways to a bridge with a beautiful stone archway.
In the middle of the River Cong (which leads to Loch Corrib) is a small island where the monks had a fishing hut.
The monks built this platform over the river, allowing the water to flow underneath it. They'd cast a net through a hole in the floor and wait for the net to be filled with salmon. Local custom says that there was a bell attached to the net to let the cook know there was fresh fish on the menu.
I spent the rest of the time wandering the abbey grounds. The trees are magnificent, growing in and around the ancient steps that the monks put in place a thousand years ago. Look at that. It looks like it's fake. It is an absolutely incredible place.
I can definitely see why they chose this location for the abbey, and why Rory chose this place to retire. I'd choose this place to retire. Frankly I'd live here for the rest of my life if I could. It is...the feeling is really hard to describe. The ancientness of the grounds, the river, the stones...the reverence and stature and humility of the place is something that has to be felt.
The ride was pleasant. I sat on my first double-decker bus! Top floor, of course. I sat next to a gentleman named Robert, who was very impressed that I was traveling alone. He told me about his global travels (he sells tractors to farmers worldwide) and his adventures in each area. Robert pointed out local landmarks too, which roads lead to castles and what the bridges are named after. He was very sweet, he made sure I got to my hotel safely after the bus ride.
Here's to you, Robert Burell of Killdare.
My hotel was nice, although there was a snotty Frenchy guy manning the front desk. I didn't much care for him. I don't think he cared for me.
Fun fact about Ireland, there were a lot of Italian immigrants after WWII. As a result, there are a lot of authentic Italian places in Irish grottoes. The place I went was pretty good. I got the seafood pasta (again, I'm in an oceanside city, I could hear the seagulls. Safe bet it's fresh) and it was pretty delicious. Also got the apple and strawberry crumble.
Not as good as Carlos and Emily's. Still good though.
Thursday morning I went wandering around the city. It's an ancient city, so the streets are narrow and confusing. I didn't like it much. I'll take pictures of it and post more about Dublin next week when I spend more time there.
Anyway, this morning I jumped on board my second guided tour. We headed west, through the mist and drizzle of rain. The Irish countryside is truly beautiful. As we rolled past stone fences and farmhouses and sheep, the guide told us a little history of the country. He said that all of Irish history is bloody and depressing. There are always wars going on, always clans fighting and land being stolen and people dying. He told us of the Celts, how they were pagans and found with rival clans. He told us of St. Patrick who was kidnapped from England and brought over, escaped and became a clergyman, only to return to Ireland and convert the whole place to Christianity. (Here I explained to the girl next to me that Catholics and Protestants are both Christians, Christian is a wide umbrella under which fall a great number of different organized religions. She didn't quite grasp the concept.)
So as we are winding our way through the countryside, we pass a lake. Loch Corrib. It's one of the larger lakes in Ireland, if not the largest. The views were absolutely stunning.
The Cong Abbey was first built in the early 7th century. In 1114, a fire burned down the place completely. Turlough Mor O'Connor (High King of Ireland) refunded it and rebuilt it. His son, Rory, the last High King of Ireland, spent his retirement years here and was buried inside.
First of all, look at this. No, rather, imagine. Imagine church bells clanging, calling the monks in for prayer or the villagers to mass. Imagine the people striding resolutely and humbly up these steps, through the doorway.
Imagine the glass in the windows, tinting the light inside reds and blues and greens. Imagine the roof soaring high above, the monks singing hymns in the rafters.
Imagine the monks scurrying up and down the stone steps finishing up work or carrying messages for one another. Whispered greetings and fire smoke clogging the air.
Imagine the great hall, where the monks ate and hosted guests.
Now, at this point, I'm pretty impressed. I love ruins, I love the history and feel of them. It's almost possible to see the ghosts of those who passed before. Their lives are almost tangible here. Their sorrows and hopes and schemes and dreams and lives are swirling around in the air here. The trees, the ground, the stones remember them and tell their stories.
Right here at the start of the path is when it hits me. I'm standing where the last High King if Ireland stood.
Let that sink in a moment.
The last High King of Ireland. He walked down those steps. Strolled through these trees. Touched these doorways. Looked out these windows. I'm standing exactly where he stood nearly a millennia ago.
Whoa.
In the middle of the River Cong (which leads to Loch Corrib) is a small island where the monks had a fishing hut.
The monks built this platform over the river, allowing the water to flow underneath it. They'd cast a net through a hole in the floor and wait for the net to be filled with salmon. Local custom says that there was a bell attached to the net to let the cook know there was fresh fish on the menu.
I spent the rest of the time wandering the abbey grounds. The trees are magnificent, growing in and around the ancient steps that the monks put in place a thousand years ago. Look at that. It looks like it's fake. It is an absolutely incredible place.
I can definitely see why they chose this location for the abbey, and why Rory chose this place to retire. I'd choose this place to retire. Frankly I'd live here for the rest of my life if I could. It is...the feeling is really hard to describe. The ancientness of the grounds, the river, the stones...the reverence and stature and humility of the place is something that has to be felt.
The tour continued on. We passed through Connemara and down the Wild Atlantic Way into Galway, which is where we are spending the night. Galway is a tourist city through and through. It is gridlocked with people and cars, all honking and shouting cheerily at each other.
After the absolute peace and mind-boggling-ness of the abbey, Galway is a bit much. I found a quick bite to eat and took refuge in my room for the night. Tomorrow we head to the Cliffs of Moher and I promise to keep the Princess Bride references to a minimum.
Til next time,
Nita
It's all so amazing!
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