Ireland, Day Three and Four - Renvyle and Kylemore
Day Number Three: Renvyle
Monday had a slow start. I wasn’t quite recovered from the very long two days of traveling (and it turns out my body was incubating a cold). Part of our group set off for northern parts of the country (not Northern Ireland, but close to it) to visit family, leaving the other half of us to figure out what to do on a rainy day. I will confess this was the point when I realized I was one in the midst of two groups of three. Everyone on the trip is a friend and member of supper club… but this wasn’t supper club where I am the host and steer the course of the ship. It was a bit of a shift of dynamics. That and a major frustration that I couldn’t use this Chromebook to access my manuscript provoked a weepy meltdown mid morning. But I shook it off and resolved not to waste any more time on being emotional and tired. It was good to get it out of my system, but healthy to move on from that.
The slow start did afford the opportunity to open up all those Irish reference books on the shelf. My
particular favorite was one about rebellious women. I read through a couple chapters - skimming through vignettes about the Troubles in Northern Ireland and then back to the opening about the first rebellion in 1641, causing me to recollect the location of our pub lunch the day before. A few details popped out that I knew had to be used in a story at some point. Women had much more ‘power’ in Ireland at that point. One power was the ability to divorce and not lose stature or wealth or independence. One of those powers that befuddled the British was the ability to not name the paternity of her children until her death. I also liked the involvement of women in that first noteworthy resistance of British rule. As spies. As soldiers. As funders. Indeed, one source of funding was prostitution. I will have to do some more research into these details when I can sit and read the entirety of those essays and their bibliographies. But… more seeds planted.
The rain of the morning started to disappear so we decided to go in search of a castle ruin in Renvyle. I missed the sign in my guidance of our driver as we headed towards Letterfrack and beyond Kylemore Abbey, but then there was a sign for Tully Cross, the name of the town I remembered from the map. Of course I forgot to actually bring the map. We turned down the road that followed curves around a lake and putting us up close to views of the green rocky bens. And sheep. And the cars that pass very quickly around curves on narrow roads. Or a large bus that decided to stop randomly at the side of a blind corner in the road.
We came to a little village - Tully Cross and a number of road signs, including one for Renvyle. The road twisted and turned and then there it was a giant castle tower ruin in the distance. We found a place to park on the side of the road only to find that the castle itself was on private property with a fence and an ominous sign telling the public to keep their distance.
I was quite pleased with the visitation of the muses. Enough to suggest we ignore the wind and sprinkles from the sky and pursue the muddy road up the hill. We saw our first Beware of the Bull sign and a lot of cows. No ominous bull. Sheep. Pretty flowers of pink and purple and yellow. The sound of the ocean. More delicious salty wind. And some sun. Some rain. But a walk to get the oxygen flowing and a full appreciation of the moment.
We got back to the car and decided the prerequisite pub stop was necessary on the way back. We went back to Tully Cross and found a table at Paddy Coyne’s. I got a Bulmer’s. There was some tea and an Irish coffee as well. On the drive home there was a pit stop at the butcher. We got a few sausages that were cooked up with zucchini and rice and bacon. I’m not a heavy meat eater in general. It doesn’t make sense living on my own. But over here, the meat is tastier - healthier… fresher. I enjoyed the dinner - that was generously prepared by my housemates. I got to enjoy a few moments to capture the inspiration the day gave me.
I read a bit and stared at the fire and the window until late. Until dark, which is late(r) here. But the days are full so indulging midnight is a foolish thing indeed. And the next day had a plan already.
Day Three: Kylemore
I went to Kylemore Abbey ten years ago. Indeed, I have a picture I took there hanging in my dining room. One of the best photos I have ever taken - a serendipity of light and color that frames water with a tree branch. So I knew Kylemore was picturesque and not to be missed - especially ten minutes away. I didn’t have much interest in the manor house or the gentry that lived there. I’m in a mindset of the underclass these days… especially the Irish underclass resisting the British occupation. But… I guess I had to eat that antiquated sense of social justice because the day was very rewarding.
It was a lot of walking. Good with all the cheese and wine and whiskey and sausages. But also because there was just so much to see. Of course the conundrum is that these days we see things through a camera. Have to steal this moment. Have to share this moment I steal. Even though I’m not living and breathing it in at my own pace because I have to keep up with the group as they maintain a swift pace. That said, I lingered a little behind after starting ahead.
We all stopped in the chapel that the first owner Mr. Henry built for his wife. I sat in the last pew and tried to take in the quiet and the spirituality of the nuns who now occupy Kylemore and use the chapel for prayers. Whatever your religion, it is a peaceful space of quiet and reflection. Gothic and decorated with architectural detail worthy of awe. But also candles that can be lit for a donation in the box. Considering all the number of tourists passing through, it is a wonder how many wishes for health and love and peace and whatever must come through those flicker of flames. I dropped a coin or two in the box to light a candle for the Brennan prayer list, as much for the benevolence as for the absence of my family that I have felt throughout this journey. Ireland is our space and I miss them as I am here - even as I enjoy my friends. I carry with them their love of this place as well as some soulfullness.
I was the last one out of the chapel and paused by the small cemetery outside - the final resting place of the nuns who have lived there. But my friends were waiting, so I went down the hill to continue our paces. It is a winding gravely road with hedgerows of rhododendrons. Yes, they are hedges there - well over my head. Interspersed were old trees. Trees covered in moss and tangled into one another’s branches. Magical places. With sudden openings suggesting mysterious options for one’s reality. But then there was a mausoleum - a bittersweet resting place for the beloved of the original owner. Rest in peace was engraved on the wall, at which I wondered contemplating the hundreds of tourists of various nations throughout the space each day. Is it peaceful? Then again, we were the only ones there. And ones of a diminishing crowd that pressed on the winding green path. I stopped at a lot of trees to take photos and breathe and contemplate - especially as the decision was made to turn about and head back. What lay beyond the road that we did not pursue? What was beyond those mossy branches in the break of the rhododendrons? Maybe there was something. But in that question, I found the end of my story. Well the end of my series. The series that is going to have ten or so novels to get there. But now I know where things end up.
Of course the day was far from ended. The main reason we turned around was to meet the time for the tour of the garden. I’m a tough customer at museums. I don’t like tourists, probably to the chagrin of my travel companions. That’s a wretched thing about my personality, I suppose. But I work and have worked in museums for twenty years. I love the public and I despise them. Going on a group tour to me is both an opportunity and a curse. I have gotten better about shutting off that inner critic pettiness about theater… but on a museum tour… it is the worse tendency of if I was in that person’s shoes, I would do it this way. So I wasn’t going to be devastated if we missed the tour. Because I know I am a really bad knowitall tourist. Well, we did get to catch up with it, even though the shuttle to the garden (it is a mile from the house) was a bit behind. I enjoyed the details and appreciated the personality of the guide. There was the annoying instance of a mother translating the information at a distracting volume to her children… but I’ve been there. Done that. I found another detail to record for later writing and enjoyed the walk through the garden - well… except for the detail about the working staff being instructed to hide behind the shrubbery when the gentry came to look at the garden. Oh classism. In present day, the staff were busy trimming hedges and weeding the tidy Victorian garden and bringing water. It was amazing that as we all bundled up the layers of our jackets that the sun just poured into the walled space. That even though there was a chill on that late day in July, there were tropical plants and palm trees that can thrive without a killing frost.
We separated to wander about the gardens. I enjoyed a walk through the head gardener’s house, where I could see a cool Victrola and an ideal writing spot. I also marveled that a ‘museum’ had a peat burning fireplace going at full heat. I’d love to hear the thoughts about that from our conservation department. Or not.
We stopped for dinner in Letterfrack. I had another round of fish and chips. It was a slightly more adventurous dinner than the rest, but there was a chance to sample a local Galway brew of Brownstone. I had my first foray into driving that day… which I didn’t do after two pints.
I did find the wherewithal to take some time on our back deck in the sunshine to write up my thoughts and capture everything my imagination conjured. The view could be distracting at some points, but also reinforcement of the magic within it.
We ended the day with more drinks and a fire and relishing the goodness of the day. There is something about traveling with a group of friends (or family as it has been) when the end of days all blend together in that ritual of such things, but they are the electricity fo the experience and the excitement that makes getting up the next day after another long one well worth it.
Comments