Now I’ve been to Glendolough a couple times in my life – maybe 4 times or something like that, and I always say it is one of my favorite places on earth … and there have been times, stressful times, when I’ve been slogging my way down 7th Avenue in New York – that I’ll take a second and remember Glendolough, and think to myself: “It’s out there now. It’s out there right now. It exists.”
We ended up staying over in the area because it was dark and the prospect of driving out of there through the Wicklow Mountains was rather daunting (although my sisters and I did do just that!). We hung out at the local pub. And of course, made lifelong friends. I have acquired more email addresses on strips of paper than I know what to do with.
But the best part … the best part of this particular trip to Glendolough … was that I got to live out a fantasy I have always had. Every time I have gone there before, it’s to visit the ruins, like a good tourist does … see the sights … and then leave. The place is always packed, filled with people wandering around … which is not a bad thing, not at all … but my fantasy has always been to walk through those ruins at night, by myself. To hang out with the gravestones, the old cathedral, the “kitchen”, etc. To be alone with the place.
And once the pub closed, I did just that. There was a wind storm going on, it was a wet and windy night, the air filled with the roar of wind, and the clattering of the full stream nearby. There were spectacular stars. Glendalough is in a valley, with brown wooded mountains rising steeply on either side. You are in a gap, a deep trough in the hills. The wind races between the mountains like a ravening ghost. It was indeed a bit creepy … to stroll amongst the graveyard alone, at 1 a.m. – and I need to take some time with myself to be able to describe it.
I feel that, in Glendalough, I am confronted with a mystery of some kind. The place doesn’t give up all its secrets. Ever. Not in the daylight, certainly not, but even less so in the middle of the night.
There were moments when I could not tell what century I was in. It certainly was not a modern century … it was in the late 5th century, when Christianity was close to its pagan roots. The place has a fierceness to it – which I had sensed in my other visits there, you can’t get away from it, but the fierceness came out full throttle in the middle of the night, when I was there on myh lonesome. The high Celtic crosses shadowed in the black, the silhouette of the tower off to my right rising up into the sky. And it gave me a very weird feeling – I’m telling you, I haven’t quite found the words yet. The best way I can describe it is that I was in the presence of Mystery itself. It also felt like this had to be holy ground … it is a holy place. Not just because of St. Kevin and all that … It feels like it was a holy place before St. Kevin even arrived. He just recognized what was already there.
I probably sound goofy and all that … but it was one of the most primal powerful experiences of my life, walking in the pitch black – the PITCH BLACK – amongst the enormous tilting gravestones, gravestones which are covered with white lichen – so they glimmer oddly in the pale moonlight … the shadowed silhouettes of these ancient stone buildings all around me … the graves, the stream, the crumbling stones …
I was almost in tears when I went back to my room. I didn’t know what it was that I sensed. Something very powerful, something fierce, something … almost UN-holy. It’s a ferocious place – and I’ve only seen it surrounded by other tourists and visitors. Regardless, even if you see it then, in the daylight, during visiting hours, it is a very very special place.
But at one in the morning, by yourself, surrounded by the stone ruins, the gravestones, the moonlight and the roaring sounds of rushing water … it is like a different place altogether.
I will never forget it in all my life.
Uaigneach mar sin fein bunaidh.
Are you back? Sounds like you have a wonderful time. On of my dreams is to go to Ireland and stay for like a month (or two). Just rent a cottage, see as much “touristy” crap as I can on daytrips, but mainly just immerse myself in the whole experience.
I thought of you and your Cary Grant obsession Sunday afternoon. It was raining and cold here, so I snuggled up with a cup of chai, some homemade cookies, and “The Bishop’s Wife,” which was showing on AMC.
Other than “An Affair. . .”, it’s the only Cary Grant movie I’ve seen in its entirety, and I’m thinking it’s fast becoming my favorite Christmas movie. CG’s so perfect as Dudley, and I covet Loretta Young’s wardrobe AND her house.
Comparison
Mitch’s vacations: Load the kids and a lot of crap into the car, drive to North Dakota or maybe Chicago once in a while. Red’s vacations? Just read. [Audible sigh]…
Glendalough is one of my favourite places in the world and I’m Irish and live here! I’ve travelled widely but there is something really special about that place, particularly before dawn when the mist rises off the lakes…impossible to describe! Glad you’re enjoying it…
Sheila,
What a vicarious sensual pleasure there is to be derived from your writing: The wind races between the mountains like a ravening ghost…It feels like it was a holy place before St. Kevin even arrived. He just recognized what was already there…Something very powerful, something fierce, something… almost UN-holy. It’s a ferocious place…
Wow, and thanks for sharing being in your element.
Sheila, maybe it actually was a spiritual meeting place before St. Kevin. When Tim and I were in Bath, looking at the shrines at the hot springs, one of the coolest things to see was that the Romans, bloody conquerers though they were, actually kept many of the Celtic shrines intact, just tagging their own Roman names along to them.
Maybe this place is thousands and thousands of years old.
You had a mystical experience, Sheila. Sounds amazing. Scary and thrilling and ecstatic and humbling.
I just wish you were having a good time. (joke)
love you,
Kate
Are you sure it wasn’t St. Patrick who came down to Glendalough? Dad, are you out there?
Your description is very powerful and evocative. We were in Ireland 4 years ago and a place that hit me like that was Dun Aengus on the island of Inishmore. I’m sure I could go back there every year and never get enough. I love the high, lonesome, craggy places. The power one can feel up there in the wind…in the drear, gray sky and rain. Alas, there were those other darn people cluttering up the place, too! I would have loved an experience like yours, but that is one place I wouldn’t want to try and negotiate in the darkness. There ARE wild things in the air in Ireland. An uneasiness. But beautiful all the same.
As Mitch says…”Sigh”.
Jean:
No, it was St. Kevin. member – Kevin’s Kitchen??
You saying, as we approached, “I just wanna see Kevin’s Kitchen …”
Kevin’s the one who slept in a cave above Glendalough and rumor has it that he tossed a naked lustful woman down the cliff one evening.
//rumor has it that he tossed a naked lustful woman down the cliff one evening.//
What a tragic waste.
Wow….sounds like my time alone in the woods of Minnesota…though I wasn’t brave enough to “brave” them in that pitch black darkness.
While I don’t know the place you’ve described here, i do know that feeling of being in a dark yet powerful place. The vulnerability of being surrounded by the darkness and whatver forces it conceals is intense.
Can’t wait to hear more…especially when you return.
Fee
Sheila,
Excellent post. Very evocative. I feel like I’ve been there after absorbing your reflections.
I have to admit, though, that about 3/4 of the way in, I started to worry that you’d end the post with “and there, on the door handle of my car, was A BLOODY HOOK!”
Nevertheless, the point remains: I continue to be a fan (albeit a generally silent one) of the way you put words together. Some people can take the same tools we all have and use them in ways we wouldn’t have imagined.
Your post makes me want to finish my ghost story. Thanks.
Get Busy Living or Get Busy Dying
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Get Busy Living or Get Busy Dying
I suppose I’ve wallowed in self pity long enough. It’s so easy to do, you know. Sit around, feeling sorry for yourself, telling yourself how much you suck and how you’re a great big nothing. Why is being happy so…