Ireland – The Kingdom of Enough

The Magic of Ireland

I’m honored to introduce my travel buddy and beloved partner, Thomas Hood, sharing a little more of Ireland’s magic through his travelogue.

Upon arriving in Dublin it didn’t take long for the joyful embrace of Irish culture to entrance with its magic spell. Buskers, one after another down Grafton street, wove a musical tapestry, each with his or her mastered genre. Throngs of tourists and locals mingled together, doing a surprisingly deft dance as they gracefully squeezed through Dublin’s pulsing arteries. Back at our room in Townhouse on the Green, homespun hospitality greeted us like kinfolk and provided an elegant shelter from the storm of jet lag and the frenzied crowd.

An abrupt Dublin day and half later, we joined a magnificent sisterhood, the writers of Flynn I shall call them, to bus our way to Kilkea Castle. The castle itself provided its own mystical magic as did getting acquainted with the sisterhood during our three days there. To walk through a castle, however altered through time, is to experience antiquity that we of the new world can only read about or see in film. Walking down the winding stumble-steps of a turret imagining marauders stumbling their way up, forced to switch swords to their left hands (all the architecture is designed to create advantages for the protectors), it’s easy to throw oneself back to the fifteenth century, protecting the realm.

Then we were off to the Beara Peninsula, piloted by Padraic who drives a bus as though it’s simply an appendage guided at subconscious level like an arm or leg. What lay ahead is a day I won’t forget.

It started with a golfing experience unlike any other. The Berehaven Golf Course encapsulates the ruggedness and beauty of the peninsula in its rocky escarpments and deep green undulating landscape that nature has delineated with rivulets, spillways, and endless wild inlets pervading the western coast line. We arrived without proper arrangement to find the jovial David in a downstairs room that looked more like an old horse race betting parlor than a clubhouse. He went into a dark musky room filled with clubs dating back thirty to forty years and piled together two sets of mismatched clubs. Perfect, uttered my playing partner, in all seriousness. As I tried to pay, David said, nah, just pay when you’re done, I’ll be out playing ahead of ya (leaving the ersatz clubhouse unmanned). The ensuing nine holes, while full of miscues, missed chances, and misjudgments, on holes with tees and greens hidden in unlikely places, was filled with wonder. These fabled lands, with singing stones, melodic rivers, and trees of wisdom, whether holding a golf course or Neolithic spiritual site, are full of wondrous sights, sounds, and mystical feelings.

While in some ways a silly superficial pursuit, golf, like many activities carried out on the land, can take you to a deeper place. One that requires a sense of harmony with the geography and an inner focus that can put you in a transcendent state of oneness with the battered club, the scruffy ball, and the trappings of landscape you might barely notice if simply walking through. Without your senses constantly assessing wind direction and speed, the height of the hills, the relative girth, height, and porosity of the tree in front of you, you’ll fail. You’ll fail even more surely than your lack of natural ability has already doomed the day or put at least at dire risk.

As we limped back to the makeshift clubhouse, really a pub in disguise, we felt the glory of tired accomplishment — a battle lost to the elements of land and sea but victory in our acceptance of unfamiliar difficulties and our ability to listen to the magic surrounding us. After a search through the underbelly of the dilapidated structure we wound our way to the top floor where we found David and his playing partners saddled up to the bar and a round of Guinness. I managed to leverage him away to take payment for all our rentals and golf rounds, and he said, oh how bout ninety five euro. If you were to place it in our area, a course in a hallowed location like this would cost twenty times that amount. My favorite golf experience in a long litany of courses, and it was practically given to us. A pittance charged, a spirit of generosity unmatched. Ireland.The Irish.

That same day, serendipity struck again. After dinner we were deftly Padraiged (the man deserves to be christened with his own verb) over the rugged Beara coast road to Jimmy’s Pub in the village of Allihies. The rumor of a Friday night gathering of local musicians was a siren song luring us away from our B&B in Castletownbere. We de-bussed, the sisterhood and I, and ambled through the pub door not knowing what to expect. Immediately we were thrown unceremoniously into a scene that would have been right at home in centuries past: a circle of of troubadours, poets,and performance artists, maybe twenty in all, basking in Celtic harmonies. These cherubic faces were lit with a particular joy I’ve seen only among musicians collaborating in the spontaneity of unrehearsed song. Outside the circle, locals listened intently when they weren’t heading toward or away from the bar until called upon to join in chorus.

Immersion is my goal in foreign cultures, and spotting a seat at the bar amidst three patrons, I quickly bellied up and was encircled by the three. They were clearly local and regular given their countenance of casual comfort — not entirely due to their respective levels of insobriety. Finally getting the attention of the inundated barmaid Maureen, I ordered the sacred libation, Guinness.

Now, the Irish are not shy, and within a few seconds Billy, Dickie, and Mikey, were talkin’ me up. Men in their seventies with kid’s names, representative of the youthful spirit ubiquitous in Irish culture. We lovingly jostled one another with jibes and jokes while lively tunes wafted throughout the rustic pub.

Before long, one of the circle of artists stood up, her flaming red mane scattered down her back. With a presence that commanded the room she fell into a performance piece that captivated the by now unruly crowd. The Hag of Beara! (A local fable.) With the aid of a red coat thrown over her head she morphed into the Hag herself and led the captured choir in choruses between spoken words — words sometimes poetic, sometimes an improvised wilding. This was beyond anything I’ve seen in my decades of music festivals and plays. Context is everything, and here I’d been tossed into a setting that felt more fantasy than reality. Later I found out that the red witch of Beara has a PHD, and it was the first time she had ever done that sort of thing. Gobsmacked, I sipped my Guinness and sat in wonder. What next?

A myriad of tunes followed, and at some point, after a quiet pause, I heard a particularly alluring voice rise a cappella in Gaelic song. I stood, peering over Dickie’s head to see who this songbird might be. What?! It was one of the sisterhood singing a gorgeous Irish song…in Irish! How the hell did she get in this local jam, how did she know this long song in the ancient Gaelic tongue, and where did she learn to sing so beautifully? The answer to these questions and perhaps all such questions:“It’s just the magic of Ireland, lad.”

Full moon over a meadow surrounded by trees

Enchanted in Ireland

Sign at the entrance of Mullaghreelan Forest

Walking in Mullaghreelan Forest on a free morning during my writing retreat in Ireland, I saw no one despite three cars in the parking lot. For the first time during my five days in the Emerald Isle I’d put on my new orange raincoat and was grateful for my waterproof boots. A gentle rain was falling, but here under the canopy of oak, beech, and sycamore I hardly felt a drop. The soft music of raindrops landing on broad leaves plied my ears, and fresh, moist scents filled the air, but I was comfortable and dry, like sitting on a porch during a storm except I was enjoying one of my great pleasures: a solitary walk in the woods. With only trees for company, my strong and sturdy legs moved down the path, no goal but the joy of movement and the necessity of returning to my starting point before lunch. I was in motion and at peace.

This is what my soul had been longing for: this moment in the Irish countryside, damp earth beneath my feet, trees sheltering me from the pearly gauze of rain indistinguishable from gray sky. I paused to listen. The sound of cars rolling down an unseen road, steady and rhythmic as the susurration of a distant sea, came from outside this place. Inside the forest I heard only the patter of rain and a single bird warbling. Leaves trembled when kissed by water drops, and it was as if the whole tree was shivering with pleasure …

I would like to end the story here, with my conscious mind recognizing the sacrament of the present moment and not with what happened next. It was so embarrassing I told no one, not even Tom, till weeks later: I got lost.

In the list of what to pack for the trip to Ireland our tour guide Carolyn Flynn had told us to bring a compass if we planned to hike alone. In all my years of hiking alone I’ve never carried a compass; it seemed excessive to add one to my already full suitcase, and there was nothing about Mullaghreelan Forest to suggest I might need one. The park was barely a mile across surrounded by farmland on three sides and the road to Castledermot on the other. I’d snapped a photo of the map at the entrance and set off down what looked like a main trail, certain it would be easy to turn around and retrace my steps when the time came to head back.

Enticing paths crisscrossed the park, and a half hour into my walk, beguiled by the woods and the rain, I decided to make a loop instead of going back the way I’d come. Maybe I’d find the wishing well I’d noticed on the map and expected to see by now. Except what I thought was a trail around the perimeter that would lead me back to the entrance petered out. I turned back to pick up a lateral path, but it too narrowed and disappeared. Okay, maybe the loop wasn’t such a good idea; I’d find my way back to a familiar path and retrace my steps after all. Yes, surely this broad leaf-strewn trail was the one I’d come down, but no, it hadn’t come to a T quite like this. Which way to turn? The roadway shouldn’t be far, but now I couldn’t hear any cars, only raindrops on leaves. I surely wasn’t in danger in a tiny park surrounded by occupied Irish countryside, but I hadn’t seen a soul since I entered. No one knew where I was.

Suddenly the forest seemed large, and stories drifted into my mind of the Fair Folk, those supernatural beings said to dwell in the invisible Otherworld that exists alongside our own. It had always been easy to shrug off tales of their mischief as a charming bit of Irish folklore, but now, alone in the woods, I remembered that to this day Irish farmers plow around ring forts and fairy mounds, that people cautiously avoid referring to the Good Folk by a name I dare not mention here (think Tinker Bell and a word that starts with F). Suddenly the stories seemed plausible, and wasn’t leading travelers astray one of their favorite pranks? Had I trespassed in some blundering American way? The longer I wandered, the more I wondered if I had fallen for their lures, easily tricked like the stranger I was. Why oh why hadn’t I brought a compass?

Then I remembered the phone in my pocket. I pulled it out and took it off airplane mode. Yes, I had four bars! Apple Maps located me in the forest and showed a way out. Relief and chagrin poured through me and also a good measure of gratitude – not to modern technology but to Themselves. I’ve no doubt they could have tinkered with my device or tampered with its tenuous connection to the internet if they had wished. Instead, they tricked and teased me just enough for me to know I’d been enchanted by the magic of Ireland.

Ireland Is Calling

I am deeply, happily at home here on the California coast where I was born, but my soul has a second home in Ireland, the land of my ancestors, and it is calling me. When I say Ireland, I’m not thinking of a country with borders but of a place like Yeats’s Lake Isle of Innifree

… where peace comes dropping slow,

Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;

There midnight’s all a glimmer and noon a purple glow,

And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

Author leaning against a stone bridge on a country lane

Ireland is more than a mythical, poetic place with an ancient name though. Tom and I traveled there for the first time in 2019; he has Irish heritage too, and both of us felt a surprising sense of homecoming. Was it a cellular memory of the geography or simply comfort among warm and welcoming people with good humor and a heart-lifting accent? I’m not sure, but I remember it vividly, and when I say that Ireland is calling, I mean that my lungs want to fill with the air rising from that mossy, rain-soaked island, air that has its own moist texture my cheeks want to be bathed in and a scent my nose is longing to smell. My eyes hunger for forty shades of green; my legs are eager to stride down a country lane between rock walls and across grassy fields. I can almost hear sheep bleating, waves crashing against sandstone cliffs, the silence that soaks ancient standing stones.

Ireland is calling, and I am answering. For many years my beloved teacher Carolyn Brigit Flynn has led writing retreats in Ireland she calls Landscape of Soul and Story, and for years I’ve heard rapturous reviews from returning travelers of beautiful country and ancient Celtic sites that inspired deep feeling and luscious writing. The 2016 group actually filled a gorgeous book titled Sacred Stone, Sacred Water with poems, essays, and art. I dreamed of going myself, but the tours were always scheduled in September to catch the best weather — just when I was always returning to Foothill College for the beginning of the academic year. Now, a year into my retirement my dream is about to come true.

Soon I will be in that place where my great grandmother prayed Ave Maria, where perhaps a longer ago grandmother tended a flame to the goddess Brigit, and an even longer ago grandfather helped raise one of those standing stones. All are waiting for me: lilting voices and gentle rain, ancestors and stones.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day

I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;

While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,

I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

It has been a hard season of injury, illness, and grief in my family, and I will carry that weight with me, knowing that Irish earth and stone can hold it. Travel is an art, Carolyn reports her tour-guide father saying. Along with extensive packing and travel details (Bring comfortable, waterproof shoes!) she offers suggestions to prepare our spirits for this journey: “make sure to have unencumbered time to allow your meandering/dreaming/writing self to emerge.” My bags aren’t packed yet, but I have the notebook I will write in. In my deep heart’s core I am ready for this pilgrimage to the land of soul and story.

River Journey

I’m thrilled to introduce the Kingdom of Enough’s first guest blogger: my friend Sarojani, a wise poet and member of the local Celtic band Innisfree.

empty canoes in a river

There is a bend in the river.

Boat’s gotten too heavy.

Gotta keep what’s worth keeping.

Gotta let some things go.

I remember floating

weightless

only water and sky.

It was simple then.

I did not know

grief or climate change,

the ravages of war

or a young black man’s daily danger.

I believed in presidents being

good and smart leaders

with dignity and integrity:

true public servants who helped

make things better.

Never doubted there was enough

food or water for everyone.

But now I believe in the more immediate politics

of loving kindness,

the cast of burnished sunlight

in the late autumn afternoons

through the old growth redwoods,

the gift of longing for ongoing communion

with The Beloved.

I remember a day in the Irish landscape

at Croagh Patrick

the Holy Mountain

in the town of Murrisk, County Mayo

where for centuries

pilgrims have been making their way

up the rocky path

to leave their failings,

make their promises,

cry their fervent prayers.

I set out that day with the only plan

that I would go as far as I could.

I was older now, heavier, not very agile or confidant

in my uphill climbing abilities.

But I knew my heart was true.

Before very long and way after many

had passed me, I sat on a large rock overlooking the beauties of Clew Bay

and the surrounding landscape.

I had already reached my limit.

There I meditated for awhile

with the light of the swiftly moving clouds

and the full presence of the Irish wind.

I settled in to a deep stillness

and felt to be in a place of solace and guidance.

When I finally opened my eyes

I saw pilgrim after pilgrim passing me,

making their way up the steep slope

and I began to greet them and then

silently bless their journey.

It felt right.

I had been rightly placed.

I knew that I had my own special place on this mountain

and was doing what I had been prepared for

in this very moment;

that we all have a particular path,

places we are planted, people who seem to come randomly into our lives.

The medicine we all have for each other.

I thought of our dear fragile earth,

the fabric of our government that appears to be coming apart at the seams,

the potential for mass despair and feelings of hopelessness;

that somehow we are helpless in the face of our
daunting circumstances.

But then I remember the Holy Mountain;

the one we each are climbing every day
in the best and only way we know how,

climbing In the way we were made to climb.

I see step by step

each of us

being given pieces to hold to fight for

to help heal.

The Water Protectors.

The interpreters of whale songs.

The research scientists relentless in making their pleas with hard evidence

in giving voice to the earth’s cries.

Those striving for peace in thought, word and deed

choosing diets and lifestyles

that protect animals and ecosystems.

The poets, artists and musicians who stay true

to keeping beauty alive and well in the world.

There is a bend in the river

and I see boats

of every shape, size and color

making their way safely

through the tumultuous channels

and abiding the ever-changing currents.

“But where will we all land?” do you ask.

I guess that part is up to us.

By Sarojani Rohan