Many years ago – or so my da told me – there was a golf tournament somewhere in the Midlands. Probably Mullingar or somewhere of that ilk. Now for those of you who don’t know Mullingar, it’s famous for three things: heifers, traffic and the Scratch Cup. And it is the latter which concerns us for the now.
The weather that day was unseasonably foggy – a late dew and a still morning – and many of the competitors teed off more in hope than navigation. Still, one strapping young man made a great name for himself that day – not that he was ever heard of again. His name was Patrick Jameson, he hit the ball the proverbial mile and his winning score prompted the immortal headline in the next morning’s Irish Times: “Jameson Power in Irish Mist”.
If you’re still befogged and befuddled, I should explain that Jameson’s and Powers are two of the best-known brands of Irish whiskey (please note spelling) and Irish Mist is a rather sickly liqueur, which does terrible simultaneous and nauseous things to alcohol, chocolate and milk, not to mention your digestion on the morning after.
All of which is by way of an O. Henry style introduction to Irish spiritual centres, because the very concept of “spirit” is rather ambiguous in Ireland. In the same way the “vodka” literally means the innocuous “little water” in Russian, so “spirit” in Ireland can have links to anything from Celts worshipping their water gods by sacrificing any handy captives, through monks retreating to stone beehive cells on the edge of Europe, and to any number of retreats for the wearied soul from the work in progress that is modern Ireland. Plus various licensed – and many unlicensed – establishments, all steadily producing spirit of varying clarity and legitimacy for the passing of long winter nights and the relief of influenza.
Proceeding chronologically – probably more sensible than heading the wrong way up the New Jersey Turnpike, I suppose – the intrepid traveller could and should begin by standing still. After all, doesn’t the Bible describe the spirit of God as “the still, small voice”? How unfortunate that “still” should be the means of producing other, less sanctified spirits, but no matter.
And there are so few places in the western world where you can still (oops, there goes that word again) find silence. The Council for the Protection of Rural England recently announced that only 3% of the landscape was unpolluted by human activity. I’m sure that the Irish figure is only slightly higher. What with agricultural machinery, roads, aircraft and construction – not to mention the infernally useful cell phone - the 21st century seems hell-bent on stamping its auditory jackboot on our aural canals.
But there is hope. Our ancestors worshipped the sun – amongst other things. Lu (as in County Louth on the east coast) was the god of light and whilst the earliest monuments at Newgrange and Knowth are now over-run by daytrippers from Dublin; there are still places of refuge, especially as over 42% of the population of the Republic lives within 20 miles of Dublin city centre.
Take out Dublin, Cork, Limerick and Galway and you are left with large areas of countryside where nothing seems to be happening. Places of stillness and repose, like the ancient monastic settlement at Clonmacnoise on the river Shannon. And the further west you go, the better. Go to Poulnabrone dolmen in the heart of the Burren and think how the ancients managed to raise the standing stones and the capstones. There in the middle of a limestone waste stands a monument to the dead, a special place.
But maybe Poulnabrone is too crowded for you, what with VW campers and the like. Well, as Horace Greely once famously said: “Go west.” And the further west you go, the more you will discover why the western province of Ireland – Connacht – is subdivided into the eastern, rich, fertile part and Iar Connacht.
In Irish (hence the title of this piece), the word “Iar” (cognate with the English “far”) means “westerly”; but it also implies something that is beyond the reach of the everyday, the nebulous (there’s that damn fog again) and untouchable, somewhere beyond the horizon. This is why the western fringes of Ireland are the best for contemplating the unknowable – for you will surely never travel there in this world.
Stand on the western cliffs at sunset and imagine that those clouds out to sea are not the backdrop for a Bacardi advert but the highlands of Tir na nOg, the land of eternal youth, otherwise known as Hy Brasil – and where do you think that name ended up? Don’t go to the Cliffs of Moher, dramatic as they are. You now have to pay to see them, and there are lots of big yellow taxis for hire in Lahinch and Ennistymon.
No, go instead to south west Cork, or Dingle, or Connemara or Donegal. Stay at wonderful out of the way hotels such as Renvyle House, with its 1930s woodwork and just feel the power of the place. Forget Dreamworks, for ‘tis but an artifice, and let the light work on your own creativity.
Or go down to the Skelligs, those razor rocky islets off the south west coast, where the monks kept the faith in their stone huts. Or to Gallarus Oratory near Dingle, where a stone church in the shape of an upturned boat sits alone amidst the hard-won fields. Or take any of the excellent long-distance footpaths which the authorities on both sides of the border work so hard at creating and maintaining. If you really want to get to grips with the landscape, contact John Aherne at South West Walks in Tralee. No better man to guide you.
Ireland still holds quiet, out of the way places, where you can, as the copywriters would have it, “come to your senses.” And I do not think that they are dwindling in number, although even the Hill of Tara is allegedly threatened by a freeway extension. People have always moved around in Ireland, and the latest shifts are no more than the latest in a long line of migrations.
And you will find them in the most surprising places. In a previous article, I described the wonders of Ireland’s waterways. There will soon be an all-Ireland waterway running from the sea at Coleraine on the north coast to the Shannon at Limerick. Peace, perfect peace.
And no less than three weeks ago, my wife Carol and I were walking the hills above Belfast, which the National Trust has just purchased from the Ministry of Defence.
You wouldn’t think that the hills above Belfast – Belfast, for heaven’s sake! – would be an oasis of tranquillity, but they are. And the view? The view is mind-turning. You can see six counties (five in the north and county Louth in the Republic); the mountains of Mourne with Slieve Donard rising 3000’ from the sea, Commedagh, saw-toothed Bearnagh and the rest; two parts of Scotland (the Mull of Galloway and the Mull of Kintyre) and, on a clear day, the Isle of Man and Snowdonia in Wales.
Hills and water; water and hills. So much of Ireland is spiritual because it is reduced to the bare elements. Yes, there are cathedrals, temples and ashrams. And yes, we know all about Temple Bar, thank you. But there is an indefinable infinite about most of the lonely places on this, our little island; a compromise between the endless and the manageable; the perfection of the distant and the flaw of the detailed.
Look at the works of the Belfast artist Paul Henry, who painted Achill Island for 10 years from 1910 to 1920. He comes closest to depicting the shifting light on the hillside, for no-one could ever hope to capture it. Achill is a special island because of its remote location and its relative peace. There is no more eloquent witness than the fact that many Irish folk still take their holidays there. And if you’re going, then stay with Elizabeth and John Barret at Bervie House. This is Irish hospitality as we remember it – and as it should be. They are a walking advert for the traditional Irish “failte”, unlike the Euro-version which you’ll meet in many other places.
And finally, some of the most special places are the old Mass Rocks, where mass would be said during the times before emancipation (1832). Isolated places, where lookouts could be posted for the redcoats and where the people could gather to worship in relative peace. Tell me that there are no lingering ghosts in secluded glens. Of course there are. You can feel their presence as strongly as you can stand in the middle of the rugby ground at Lansdowne Road on a fading winter afternoon and hear phantom Irish wingers pounding for the line; or walk across Croke Park with its shiny corporate boxes and see Christy Ring bisecting the posts from 70 yards.
