At The Ford

Not someone you’d want to meet, the Washer at the Ford.  The Bean Nighe.  Certainly not someone you’d want in charge of your laundry.  For if she sets to washing for you, it is your burial garb she’s fretting over.  It is said that the Bean Nighe are the spirits of women who died in childbirth, cursed to this work until the time when they would have died naturally.  

Playwright Gavin Kostick uses themes drawn from Celtic Mythology to bring forward a story that takes place in contemporary Irish society.  A brilliant, raw, visceral portrayal of a family both brought together by tragedy and torn apart tragically.  

“A dead man’s room overlooking the sea. With bruised hearts and shredded reputations, three siblings sift through the rubble of their crumbling family empire, each attempting to steer their own course to survival. Putting fortunes at stake and with no one to trust, family bonds are pushed to their limits. Do we shape our own destiny, or are the sins of previous generations – and their repercussions – an inescapable fate for those left behind?”

I am no stranger to live theatre, having seen everything from small local shows to expensive, full scale productions.  “At The Ford” takes its place among some of the best performances I’ve seen.  Even those unfamiliar with the mythology will identify with the underlying themes, brought to life by Aonghus Óg McAnally, Rachel O’Byrne, and Ian Toner.

The New Theatre is located in the old Temple Bar area of Dublin.  You access it by walking through Connolly Books, an amazing bookshop that I wish I’d taken the time to return to.  I am sure if I had, I would have made some marvelous discoveries.  

A collection of thoughts, lasting impressions, a gift to Ireland

One night, as we gathered for supper, Thorn asked us to choose a line from something we'd written that we felt best represented our personal journey to Ireland.  Something that spoke to us and that we would carry with us.

Each of us wrote our chosen line on a sheet of paper.  Thorn took the sheet back to her cabin and in the quiet hours of the night, combined those lines into a shared poem.

A stream at St. Brigid's Well.

I keep trying to photograph things that can’t be photographed.

I came in search of lush green land and found instead Fae Magic’s hand

This is a basilica of life

This is a place of truth, fierceness and hard edges

The trees talk louder here

Rocks have stories, ancient and bold

They sing to those who listen

Silent, resting, awaiting resurrection

The stones are a witness across time

storing memories

The thistle calls out to me

The poet’s voice interlaced with threads of Ireland’s troubles

On the hills and in the caves, gnosis lies hidden, but we know truth

The sun winked through the clouds at Loughcrew Cairn

red as an Asian poppy in the equinox sky

I thought I couldn’t be happier

then Tiffany danced

Scones, lovingly made by Claire.  

Path to St. Brigid's Well.

I am the land, the land is me

These rocks, these stones

this wind and loam, 

this sky

 

These rocks, these stones

this wind and loam,

this sky

 

I am the land

the land is me

(land is me)

 

Every forest

and every sea

(every sea)

 

We are vast and shining

filled with light

 

Life is flowing

Life is moving

Life is rising now

 

Life is flowing

Life is moving

Life is rising now

Written by T. Thorn Coyle

Sunset at Riverhaven.

The song was written by Thorn, who taught it to us as we sat on the bus.  Soon, it became our anthem, with Thorn both leading the song and keeping time on her Bodhran as we travelled along.

Sheep, watching the Pilgrims ascend the slopes of Carrowkeel.

Cottage down the road from the Hill of Tara.

The entrance to the Tree Labyrinth at Carrowcrory Cottage.

At Heapstown Cairn

A Promise at the Well

We stood

calling to Brigid

Asking nothing

for ourselves

But rather

offering to leave

something behind

 

A soothing balm

Not to replace

But to bring balance

 

We were told the story

of the sacred stone

now part of

some posh foreigner’s

art collection

 

To be ripped from the ground

and transported

so far from home

to be possessed

instead of appreciated

honored

shared

 

Thousands of stories

such as this

 

Thousands of

bits and pieces

taken

for no other reason

than the assumption

they won’t be missed

 

So we stood

calling to Brigid

Making an offering

from our hearts

To sooth the pain

To heal the wounds

An attempt to bring balance

For far too much has already

been taken

The Hare in the Moon

She sat making notes about where she was heading, when to meet for lunch, and (most importantly) what time she needed to be back.  She didn't want anyone to be waiting on her, much less a bus full of Pilgrims.

As they stepped out into the morning sun, they surveyed the area and headed toward their predetermined destinations.  Some would remain on the bus and head to Yeat's Grave.  She had decided to explore Sligo with the others, taking advantage of a shopping day.

The woodcarver's shop was easy to find and once they stepped inside, they were greeted with a smile and a friendly hello.

Two wooden statues were chosen from the window and he was more than happy to treat the Pilgrims to a retelling of the myths that inspired them.  Taking a piece of paper from his cluttered workspace, he wrote down the story as he spoke, so that they would remember.

"The Girl of Many Gifts" - photo by Sky F       https://skyaisling.wordpress.com/

Photo by Sky F      https://skyaisling.wordpress.com/

An hour had passed and it was time to go.  She wanted to be certain not simply to wave and say thank you over her shoulder as she left, but to look him in the eye.

"I wanted to be sure to tell you that Vyv sent us.  She said to say hello but wasn't sure if she'd be able to drop by today."

"Well then, you'll need something to prove you were here.  What is your favorite animal?"

"A hare.", she replied.

He moved to his saw and cut a small square of wood from a plank.  Turning to the vice, he clamped it in place and began carving, telling another story as he worked.

"It was thought that hares weren't very common here in Ireland.  But the truth is, they are so good at hiding, they are rarely seen."

Photo by Tiffany Lazic, author of "The Great Work".   http://www.hiveandgrove.ca/

The carving finished, he removed it from the vice and handed it to her.

"Here you go.  Thank you for coming to see me."

It wasn't simply the gift of the carving, but the opportunity to hear him tell the stories and to experience the passion with which he told them.  The heart and soul of Ireland resides in those stories and in the people who are kind enough to share them.

Carrowcrory Cottage Part 2 - Scones and Harps

The cottage was warm and filled with the scent of freshly baked scones.  Claire stood at the table, her hands covered in dough, dressed in flowing green velvet.

"Oh, I hope you like it.", she said, over and over.

They ate plate after plate of scones with butter, jam and cream.  She was happy to chat with Claire, while helping her prepare the feast.  She even went so far as to joke,

"Look!  I'm jammin' with Claire."

When she rose from the table, she was so full she wondered how she would ever make the journey back down the hill to the bus.  

They made their way to the adjoining room.  There, they found her harps patiently waiting.  

"I hope you like my music.", she said.

In the midst

of that deep night

I was awoken by

the screeching fox

and the night

was so fragrant and silent

said I couldn’t bear

to let it pass in slumber

 

So I walked by the fields

and through the misty night

My way was made clear

through the dark depths of the wood

where the shadows mingle

in a thousand ways

and the light of the moon

sheltering me from the dark night

 

I see him standing

waiting there for me

and his frame is so cold and far away

I wish he’d take me tender by my hand

and through this misty night

we’d walk together

 

The horses raise their heads

in question

but there is no pain here

here

 

And as I stare upon his perfect face

and see the fathoms deep within his eyes

the sadness, the human loneliness

he says with a sigh

things are not right

and he goes from me

 

And the dawn

slowly chasing away the moon

and it stares at the rising sun for a while

 

like my lover

fades with the dawning

fades with the dawning

fades with the dawn

"Symbolic" by Claire Roche

http://www.clairerochemusic.com/

Claire's music brought many of the Pilgrims to tears.  She sat there, unable to do much else.  This magical creature was so talented, yet so humble.  

She chose two CD's from the pile, paid John, then stood in line to have Claire sign one for her.  

"Thank you for jammin' with me."

Carrowcrory Cottage Part 1 - the Tree Labyrinth

"Welcome!  Welcome!", he said.  His arms open wide, he gestured toward the cottage.  "Go on up. I'll be right there."

The Pilgrims gathered outside, taking photos and chatting quietly.  Soon, they were taken though and out to the back garden, where the tree labyrinth was waiting.

The Woodland Bard shared stories, looking over his shoulder from time to time in order to show them where these tales took place.  In the distance stood a Hawthorn tree in the middle of a field.

"Even those who don't believe in Faeries wouldn't dare bring harm to a Hawthorn."

The time had come to make their way down the path and to the entrance of the labyrinth.  There, he told them to choose an apple.  They would dip it in the water and coat it with ash, carrying it with them.  When the path led them back to this point, they would wash the apple and continue on.  It was symbolic of transformation.  Leaving all that no longer serves behind and allowing yourself to emerge fresh and ready to move forward.

The labyrinth was beautiful and peaceful.  She went in, open to whatever might happen and emerged serene, with a sense of purpose.

The Faeries are calling.

Sitting in complete darkness is but one aspect of the dance.

Tiny branch

hanging on by a thread

but hanging on

Oweynagat Cave

She sits facing the mouth of the cave, accepting Her challenge.  She is not afraid.  She feels a deep reverence for Her and the work that is ahead.  She can feel Her.  There is no question She is there.  Even if she hadn't felt Her breath, heard Her whisper, she would have known it.  

You will be cold.  Chilled to the bone.  Brought to the cusp of death, sat at the precipice, pushed to the edge.  You will have to make your way back.  Kicking and screaming, if need be.

She remained there long after The Morrigan had taken Her leave.  Until she saw some movement out of the corner of her eye.  A young boy appeared with a small rabbit.  She rose and quietly approached.  

"Would you like to hold it?", he whispered

"Yes.", she whispered back.

She stood holding the rabbit.  It was warm, cozy, and soft.  Quite the contrast to the encounter with Her, only moments before and yet, somehow fitting.  

Thank you for this gift.

With courage, fill my heart

Battle is your art

With courage fill our hearts

Queen Maeve

- from the album "Motherland" by Lori Llyn

http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/lorillyn

 Maeve's Mound - photo by Sky F.  https://skyaisling.wordpress.com/

She stood on the hill, the mound in the distance.  Here, she was told the legend of Queen Maeve (Madb) and how she ruled Connacht.  Maeve's Sovereignty was not bestowed upon her.  She stood firmly in it, embraced it, lived and breathed it.  

She listened to the tale of the Battle of the Two Bulls and how (when it was over) the Brown Bull of Cooley carried the white bull, Finnbhennach throughout Ireland.  As pieces of Finnbhennach dropped to the ground, place names, landmarks, and monuments were created.  

The mythology and legends are so much more than stories.  They are alive.  You can walk the land and see where the battles took place, where marriages were consummated, where heroes were born and laid to rest.  Is this connection to the past what brings so many here, each on their own Quest to find their own connection?

The Cailleach at Carrowmore

It was early morning when they disembarked at Carrowmore.  The visitor centre had just opened, so they would be part of the first tour of the day.  

A smaller stone, placed there to balance the larger, has been there for thousands of years.

She learned that Carrowmore cemetery is home to 30 passage tombs.  These tombs were more than simply monuments or the dead.  They were a sort of status symbol for the living.

As she followed along the tour, she found herself drawn to the surrounding views.  Imagine, living so close to such a sacred place!  She wondered if those in the area were constantly aware of the ancient energy emanating from this space or if they had simply grown accustomed to it, taking it for granted.

They were told of the Cailleach of the North, who brought winter to the land and the Cailleach of the South, who ensured the return of spring.  Everywhere you turned, the Goddess had left her mark.  

They were told of the "footprint" on the stone leading into one of the cairns.  They say that this stone was chosen and carefully placed there because of that mark.

They walked down the stone passageway and stood around the tomb in the centre.  There they were told of how, in ages past, stones were chosen and transported here in order to create these structures.  To honor their ancestors.  

She tried to feel something, but the ancients were distant.  The energy was there, of course, but it was faint.  Could it be that too much had been taken and not enough given back?  

The climb to Carrowkeel

The narrow, winding roads

speak of a time so ancient

and a way of life so foreign

that we,

the current form

of humankind,

was not even a hint

of the tiniest whisper

of a dream

Standing at the bottom of the hill, she looked up at the path.  Quietly, she watched the other Pilgrims make the ascent.  Each on their own journey, alone with their thoughts and the land.

Not long ago, she would have simply watched them disappear.  Turning back to the bus, claiming it was too much, too soon, too difficult.  Not today.

She smiled and started up the path, following the others yet finding her own way.  As she walked on past the sheep and the heather, she felt a sense of pride.  Emotion, threatening to overtake her, was allowed to instead wash over her and be felt with a sense of peace rather than panic.

She allowed herself to stop, not so much because she needed the rest, but rather because she needed to take in her surroundings.  To see how far she'd come and how far she had yet to go.  The sheep here were much like they were everywhere.  Used to the comings and goings of people, they didn't seem overly bothered by her presence.  

The last part of the climb was challenging and she asked herself if she dared risk it.  

"I've come to far not to try."

So she pushed forward and found a path, well travelled but by sheep.  She was thankful to have small feet as she nimbly picked her way toward her goal.  

When at last she arrived at the first cairn, she took a deep breath.  A smile broke forth that was broad and genuine.  A sense of accomplishment swept over her.  She glanced upward and saw other Pilgrims had climbed to the cairns above, but that did not dim her pride.  She had done what she set out to do, on her terms, in her time.  

The land

dotted with heather

undisturbed by

the trodding of pilgrims.

Is it only because

of the fence and the signs,

physical boundaries

and warnings?

Respect for the land

now less than intuitive.

Heapstown - Airmid's Cairn

The thistle calls out to me

more of a scream than a whisper

you'll never smell a sweeter blossom

you'll never feel a more painful sting

The bus took them down yet another country road, coming to a stop near a little house.  They disembarked and headed down the path toward the Cairn.  It was so unassuming, they all walked past it and had to be called back to the lesser-known path through the grass toward the cluster of trees.

Finally, the last of the wanderers joined the group at the base of the cairn.  She marvelled at how a sacred site could remain so well hidden from casual tourists and revealed only to those who sought it out.  Permission had been given by the farmer to hike through his field and to remain gathered there.  

They were told the story of Airmid, who was part of a family of healers and very knowledgeable in the ways of herbs.

It is said that, after her brother's death, Airmid collected 365 healing herbs, spreading them on her cloak.  In a fit of jealousy, her father pulled her cloak from the ground, scattering the precious herbs to the four corners of the earth.

Through Airmid, we can learn the power of herbal healing.  The Pilgrims were each charged with the task of seeking out an herb, connecting with it, and collecting it for a ritual.  Once done, they placed these herbs upon a cloak spread on the ground.  She reached into her backpack and took out one of the five stones she brought with her and placed it on the cloak as an offering.

They stood in a circle, connecting to the land and to the herbs they'd chosen.  Once complete, they came forward and together they picked the cloak up from the ground, scattering the herbs to the wind, offering them to Airmid.

"The energy of the Fae is strong in this place.", she thought to herself.  Taking the opportunity to explore her surroundings, she headed back to the path.  Once there, she turned away from the direction where they came and soon found herself staring at a tree.  It was wrapped in barbed wire and upon further examination, she realized the tree had simply grown through the fence.  You can't contain nature, nor hold it to your will.  

She heard someone calling.  "Time to go already?", she thought.  Turning, she made her way back down the path toward the bus, taking a bit of time to survey the scenery.  A tree, a flower, always something to catch her eye.  

Once back aboard the bus, the Pilgrims were shocked to learn that almost 4 hours had passed!  It didn't seem possible.  But then again, this is a magical place.

The Hill of Tara

The crows call out to me

“She is here!  She is here!  She is here!”

Not meaning me, of course, but Her.

The one.  Herself.  The Morrigan.

A relationship that I did not seek out

but found me just the same.

An energy so powerful, so ancient

that once sensed it cannot, will not be ignored.

I make my way through the gate, past the graveyard

the energy rising to greet me

Onward to the grassy path

a brief pause, and then I climb

All the while the crows call out

“She is here!  She is here!  She is here!”

I silence my ego

the part of me that will question everything

Casting doubt and throwing shade

destroying the sacred

in favor of insecurity

keeping me stuck

Connecting with the land

and all that occurred

since it all began

I wait

She does not speak,

but rather

introduces Herself

with a nod and a knowing smile

The crows are silenced

welcoming Her into the space

waiting

for Her instructions

She retreats

and

sensing this

they take to the sky

“She is here!  She is here!  She is here!”

Loughcrew Part Two - The Cairns

It was just after 6 am when she found herself standing at the bottom of the stairs leading up to Loughcrew Cairns.  She was well aware of the climb.  About 2 kilometers from the spot where she was standing to the Cairns themselves.  It was a steep ascent, but she was determined not to let it get the best of her.  There was no way that she would allow herself to remain on the bus while the others explored this ancient landscape.   

She dug through her backpack, found her headlamp and put it on.  Then, backpack secured, she started her ascent.  She moved slowly but with purpose and before she knew it, she was moving through the gate at the top of the stairs.  It was then that she saw the path and realized she had quite a way to go before she reached the top.

She continued on, pausing every so often to catch her breath and gaze out over the landscape which was slowly revealing itself as dawn approached.  She turned to see who was still behind her.  A strange voice called out, 

"Please, turn off your headlamp!"

Embarrassed, she obliged, replacing it in her pack.  It was then that she noticed she didn't really need it, as the faint light was more than enough for her to find her way.  As she continued her climb, she reflected on how far she'd come and how strong she'd become.  Would she have had the courage to attempt this even a year ago?

After what seemed like forever and yet no time at all, she arrived at her destination.  The Cairns.

"The Cairns are megalithic structures originally built about 4000 bc as burial chambers."  http://loughcrew.com/cairns/

She turned and surveyed her surroundings, marvelling at how far she climbed.  She couldn't help but feel proud, knowing that this was but the first of many tasks set before her that she was now certain she was capable of.

The Pilgrims gathered together to welcome the rising sun.  They stood side by side, listening to the Bodhran as it kept beat with their hearts and with the heart of the land.  The sun, glowing a deep orange, slowly rose.  Then, just as slowly, it immersed itself headfirst into the clouds.  The moment was not lost on them, as each silently reflected on what they had just witnessed.

After a time, they dispersed, quietly making their way around the Cairns.  Careful not to disrespect the site nor disrupt others who gathered there, they paid their respects to those who came before and the land where they last laid their heads.

Taking what would soon feel like her rightful place at the back of the pack, she made her way down the hill toward the stairs.  It felt like a journey out of another world and back into the familiar.  Thankfully, the descent was slow and she was able to acclimate herself.

As she walked the path, she passed a group of sheep grazing.  They paid her no mind.  These were not the first Pilgrims the sheep had encountered, nor would they be the last.  Then she spotted a tree.  It beckoned to her, whispering secrets.  Belief in Faeries was strong here, as was their energy.

She felt the sort of calm and piece that so often eludes us.  Normally, she would resist leaving.  But somewhere inside her she knew that the feeling would remain and the connection would deepen as they continued on their sacred journey.

Loughcrew, Part One - The House

The sun had already set by the time the bus arrived at the gates to Loughcrew House.  As she waited for her suitcase, she stood in the dark, quietly admiring her surroundings.  

Bags unloaded, the Pilgrims followed the pathway up to the house.  The sound of her suitcase rolling along the drive seemed much louder than it probably was.  She stood for a moment, marvelling at the entryway.  Passing through to the house itself, she soon made her way through a maze of rooms, each more impressive than the last.  

She half-expected someone to walk through the mirror, inviting her into a magical world.

The Pilgrims were weary and eager to get settled in their rooms.  She was directed through the main living area and found herself in a lovely library.  She imagined enjoying a cup of tea and a good book, but alas there would no time for that.  

When she opened the door to her room, she was delighted!  It was exactly as she saw on their website.  She had to remind herself they would only be spending one night here and she was determined to make the most of it.  

The Pilgrims made themselves at home in various areas of the house.  Some turned in early, others gravitated toward the kitchen, a few ventured out onto the grounds.  A fire was lit in the Great Room where she settled on one of the couches.  Soon, others gathered to enjoy the warmth, admire the house, and get to know each other a bit better.

She could have sat staring at the fire all night.  But with a sunrise ritual planned, combined with the hike up to the cairns, it was best to turn in and get as much rest as possible.  

"St Agnes Eve - ah, bitter chill it was."

My first day in Dublin was packed with visits to the National Library, National Museum, Writer's Museum, and Hugh Lane Gallery.

Dublin is known for it's brightly painted doors and this one is no exception.

Once I crossed the threshold of Hugh Lane Gallery, it took all of about three minutes before something caught my eye.  Drawing me in (like a moth to a flame) and holding me captive.

"The Eve of St Agnes" by Harry Clarke.  As mentioned in a previous post (Irish Book Haul), photos simply cannot do it justice.  Learn more about it here :  http://www.hughlane.ie/eve-of-st-agnes-by-harry-clarke2

I was not familiar with the poem by John Keats prior to this, however I am very much inspired to seek it out.  I purchased the book by Jessica O'Donnell (which as I understand it is meant for children) because I wanted to refer to the images and learn more about this piece.  The poem itself is quite long and Mr Clarke only illustrated bits and pieces of it.  I stood there for quite a while, examining each of the panels closely and marvelling at the intricate detail, down to the tiny script present in almost every one.

"The Sleeping Princess" - part of the Briar Rose series by Burne-Jones.

I was walking from room to room and as I turned the corner, my eyes were met with this painting.  Reminiscent of John William Waterhouse (whose work I am rather fond of), it took my breath away.  I approached it slowly, as though afraid that if I were to move too quickly my eagerness to be near it would somehow damage it.  I sat on a bench, facing it and took it in.  At just over 4 feet high and 7 feet across, it's quite impressive to say the least.  I felt somewhat uncomfortable taking photos of the artwork, but with regard to this painting I just couldn't help myself.

What I encountered next garnered quite a strong reaction.  I was uncomfortable at first, but allowed myself to sit with that discomfort long enough to become intrigued.

Frances Bacon's studio has been meticulously recreated.  

Frances Bacon was born in Dublin on Oct 28, 1909.  He was a rather eccentric man, claiming that he simply could not work in a tidy studio.  Now, while I am not able to work in a sterile environment by any means, this is pushing it a bit too far for my comfort.  Having said that, I am always interested in that glimpse behind the proverbial curtain, that peek inside the creative mind.  I want to know what makes other artists tick.

Prior to removing the studio and it's entire contents, the Hugh Lane team employed archaeologists to meticulously document not only each item but its placement in the room.  This was done in order to relocate and replicate it in the gallery.  So you are seeing it exactly as he left it.  570 books, 1500 photos, 100 slashed canvasses, 1300 pages torn from books, 2000 artist materials, and 70 drawings.  Other items include magazines, newspapers, and vinyl records.  

You can read more about it here:  http://www.hughlane.ie/history-of-studio-relocation

I find the entire process extremely interesting and have to say quite impressive.  Standing there, looking into what seems like utter chaos and knowing that he somehow made sense of it.  

The Hugh Lane Gallery is filled with inspiring work.  These are but three small parts that spoke to me.  It was interesting to chat with other Pilgrims and learn what drew them in.  Was it the familiar or did they discover something new?

We Saw a Vision

A hush fell over the Pilgrims as they entered the Garden of Remembrance.  A solemn but beautiful place, it was one of quiet reflection.  Her eye was immediately drawn to the large sculpture at the top of the stairs.  A nod to the Irish Legend, "The Children of Lir".   

The pool guides your eye upward toward the sculpture.

"The Children of Lir" (Clann Lir / Leani Lir), who were the victims of their stepmother's jealously and as a result, were cursed to live as swans for 900 years.

The park is a memorial to all those who fought and died in the hopes of attaining Irish Freedom.  

Inscribed on one of the walls is the poem "We Saw a Vision", written by Liam Mac Uistin in 1976.  This would not be the last time she wished she had learned Irish.

"In the darkness of despair we saw a vision,

We lit the light of hope and it was not extinguished.

In the desert of discouragement we saw a vision.

We planted the tree of valour and it blossomed.

In the winter of bondage we saw a vision

We melted the snow of lethargy and the river of resurrection flowed from it.

We sent our vision aswim like a swan on the river.  The vision became a reality.

Winter became summer.  Bondage became freedom and this we left to you as your inheritance.

O generations of freedom remember us, the generations of the vision."

Kingship and Sacrifice

The National Museum was a short walk from Merrion Square.  Knowing how much walking this trip involved, it was best to get off to a good start.

According to her research, the exhibit focused on the findings surrounding the "Bog Bodies Research Project", including the bodies themselves.  She walked through the front doors, unprepared for the magnitude of what she would find.

Although it is a reproduction, this doorway is rather impressive.  "What lies beyond?", she wondered.

The first thing that caught her eye was all of the cauldrons and other culinary items.  Some of them looked large enough to prepare food for an army, which is very likely the case.

The bog people were of great interest.  The bodies so well preserved, she could still see whiskers on one of their faces.  It didn't seem right to take photos, so she simply sat with them and tried to imagine what brought them to the time and place where the bog wrapped 'round them, protecting them from disappearing completely.

She rounded a corner and found herself face to stern with a Viking longship.  Carved from a single tree, it stretched out across the room.  She wondered how many people it could carry.  How many people were needed to carry IT?

The Ancients valued amber, using it to create jewellery and sacred items, offerings to the Gods and Goddesses.  

A breathtaking amber necklace.  

She could have stayed for hours, but had to move on if she was going to make it to Hugh Lane Gallery before she was due back at the bus.  So she bid farewell to this time and space, which still held so many secrets.  It was only the beginning of her journey.  Ireland had many, many more stories to tell and she was ready to hear them.  

"You can never be overdressed or overeducated."

My introduction to Oscar Wilde was in the form of two animated short films - "The Selfish Giant" and "The Happy Prince".  Growing up in rural Alberta, we only had three tv channels and one of them was French, which is why I am astounded that I had the opportunity to see them at all.  I can't recall when exactly, but I do know that I watched them every year around the same time.  Something tells me it was during the holiday season, but I could be mistaken.

At any rate, both films entranced me.  Although I could recite the narration by heart, I was still brought to tears every single time.  

Later, I saw an adaptation of "The Picture of Dorian Gray" and once again found myself drawn in.  What is it about Oscar Wilde's work that has not only survived, but continued to thrive over 100 years later?  What is it about the man that intrigues and delights us so?

The famous Oscar Wilde Statue in Merrion Square, Dublin.  

No literary tour of Dublin would be considered complete without including Oscar Wilde.  I was giddy as a school girl (funny how he still has that effect on people, wouldn't he be thrilled?).  Not only did I see (and touch!) the statue, but I also stood in front of his residence, which is located directly across the street.

Fangirl moment!  I don't typically enjoy having my photo taken but how could I not?  I would never forgive myself.

I also had the opportunity to visit Trinity College, Dublin - where Oscar Wilde (among others) studied.  I'll tell you all about it later.  In the meantime, thanks to YouTube, you can watch "The Selfish Giant" here:  

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8jtLTS7T8cc

and "The Happy Prince" here: 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8Aank8bDtcE

Irish Book Haul !

I wouldn't be much of a writer if I didn't bring home a book or two from my Bardic Journey, would I?

I was completely captivated with "The Eve of St Agnes", a breathtaking stained glass masterpiece on display at Hugh Lane Gallery in Dublin.  Created by Irish artist, Harry Clarke, it was inspired by the John Keats poem of the same name and commissioned by Mr Harold Jacob for his father's home.  

I stood before the display for some time and (because the photos I took didn't nearly do it justice) was delighted to find this book in their gift shop.  You can learn more about it here :
http://www.hughlane.ie/eve-of-st-agnes-by-harry-clarke2

I had the opportunity to spend an afternoon shopping in Sligo and absolutely loved it there!  I was told to be on the lookout for this book, so naturally I scooped up a copy as soon as I saw it.  

I also found this!  If you take the time to chat with any of the residents of Sligo, they will tell you about the myths and legends centered around the area.  The Goddess is very much alive there and is kept alive, thanks to those who share these stories!  

I bought both books from Libre, a fabulous shop!  http://liber.ie/

Last, but most certainly not least...

I had the pleasure of meeting Lora O'Brien, who guided us on a tour of Rathcroghan.  We started at Rathcroghan Mound, where Medb, Queen of Connacht is said to have lived.  Then we ventured to The Morrigan's Cave (a journey not for the faint of heart I can assure you).  Both of which I will tell you more about another time.  For now, I will say that Lora is an excellent resource not only regarding the land, but the mythology associated with it.  I hope to one day buy her a pint so that we can chat about it in greater detail.  I am certain she has many great stories to tell!

I purchased my copy from Lora directly, but you can find her books (as well as her blog) on her website.  http://www.loraobrien.com/

I very much look forward to diving into these and will certainly write up a review for each once I've had a chance to do so.  Meanwhile, stay tuned for more posts and pics from my Bardic Journey to Ireland!