As we entered into the Republic of Ireland we passed through the town of Cladys, a border village between the two parts of the isle, and you could see the ghostly remnants of the Troubles. The barricades and fence stood as a silent testimony of the turmoil from the past and we drove in silence taking it all in. How is one supposed to feel when they witness first-hand the apparition of the past so startling?
From there we could feel a distinct difference in the “feel” of where we were now. The tension seemed to melt away, like the icing of a cake on a hot summer day, and we breathed a sigh of relief knowing we were now back in the part we considered home. Soon we hit Donegal town and the familiar scenes played before us as if we had never left. The sky opened up and began to rain as if to wash away the trouble moments from being in Belfast and cleanse us of the tension we felt inside. It did not take long to drive up that road that would lead us down towards the Gleann.
Gleann Colm Cille, a village in the Gaeltacht, rose before our teary eyes and we both shared a moment of elated happiness. We rounded the corner, passed Biddy’s then Roarity then the Glen’s Head and straight to Ionad Siúl where we would stay for the next five nights and six days. We checked in and were shown around, placed our food in the frig and cupboards, and I walked a familiar road I had done so many times last spring towards Oideas Gael.
When I entered Liam looked at me and asked me in Gaelic how I was in which I replied “iontach”. Not a moment had passed, the genuine smile and warm greeting confirmed what I had hoped – I was home. I said hello to Siobhon and Gearadin and told them we were in town and walked back to the hostel. It was a homecoming I was looking forward to and I was glowing with a deep happiness I had not felt since we left. I had also regained what I left behind.
The first day was great as we began to meet our hostel roommates, all which were very happy and friendly people taking the language classes at Oideas Gael, and which I have since befriended on Facebook to keep in touch. The Sunday we were there though we were awoke to a fire alarm, startling us from a deep sleep, and the rest of our stay another less intense alarm would ring frequently; most likely signifying some sort of electrical short somewhere in the fuse box. That would be the only inconvenience as it became the hostel joke of where to find Charlie and just how many of us could reach him by phone.
Monday came fast, so I wanted to get a few pictures of the cistern below the old Church of Ireland, the structure built next to Turas 1 of St. Columba’s pilgrimage around town, and I went to see Liam. Now he had been battling a cold so he handed me the keys and warned me of how slick it was and that I was to take special care for insurance sake but he stayed behind and left me to do what I had to do without even worrying whether or not I would fall or leave it open for others. I truly felt as if I earned a high level of trust and within the hour I was back with the keys for Liam; the place was all locked and secure.
When I returned I showed him the pictures and one I got of the light coming down the shaft flooding the small underground area was extremely captivating. He liked it a lot and complimented me on my “fine eye”. What can I say? I was just elated I had earned his trust to be able to go into a locked area that only two people had the keys for and here I was going down into an area that was as old as the original village.
The story is that it was made to hide the special artifacts of the church in times of raids or trouble, and later food if necessary, where people would not be able to access it or find it. It is made similar in style to the old portal tombs with the overlapping slabs of stone making it damn near dry. Of course it wasn’t made like it exactly so some moisture seeps in, but for the most part it would have been a great place to hide things. I sat in the darkness for a few moments thanking the universe for this rare opportunity.
Tuesday came and it was time to leave our home and head for Peterswell, near Gort, and spend a few days with our musician friend Christopher DeLaney. Talk about a gem! This guy is the real McCoy and his hospitality stretched farther than the Liffey. He had a room made up for us and hesitated not in the least to open his home to us. Paddy Mór had given us a bunch of wine, which was very good as we would find out, and we broke it out and drank a few bottles that night; relishing in tales of our past, his past and current events. It is amazing at how similar the politics of greed are no matter where you go.
The next day we toured around Gort and just hung out with Christopher relaxing and enjoying a much needed break. Last Sunday, the fire alarm went off in the Gleann we had learned of our aunt Juana’s death, so we were both spent from the sadness that brought upon us and very much needed this. I have to say I feel inadequate, though I am not it is just the way one feels in such a situation, to lift Jill’s spirit up in such a case; but I stood by her side and let her cry while shedding my own tears.
This lady was amazing and it struck my mind, the whole reason of why I was here and taking pictures, as I had heard it time and time again. Sacred is family and the connection to the land. Sacred are the value one has in one’s self. Sacred are the communities we live in be it religious or secular, and how we relate to our neighbors. This sacredness is being taken away with modernity and the advent of “mass communication and corporations”. No longer do we have our children helping us bring in the cattle or tie up the fishing boat or tie up the seaweed, instead we place them in schools until they are so sick of it they no longer desire it and possess no self worth.
That vernacular activity is what gave so many in the past the desire to become something more than they thought they could be and it no longer exists in “civilized” nations. World powers seek to turn “undeveloped nations” into carbon copies and do away with their past and culture in hopes it will add to their resource portfolios and spur economic growth. They offer so much culture – art, music, folk tales – and instead of embracing it they seek to make them conform; But I digress, and the real point was to make clear what has changed and why.
But time moves on and we were now ready for Borrisoleigh in Tipperary. The place we would be staying is the Fairy Farm Hostel and when we arrived we had stepped out of the modern world and into the realm of the Fae. Michael greeted us and showed us to the main building where we would be staying and in the process we procured a private room for less than what we had paid in the Gleann. I must say the lore he has on the land around him is incredible and the stories he has already told us are amazing. I cannot wait to see what more we experience while we are here for the next five nights. Perhaps, we’ll even catch a glimpse of the Small Folk.
