Yes, of course, there are views, and then there are views. But I have stayed in many a hotel where you’re lucky to have a street to look at. On this trip to Ireland and Austria I stayed in six hotels and five had something interesting out the window. I did not request a view. None of these offered the option.
So, welcome to my tour with a view in mind.
At the Castle Hotel in Dublin my room was on the fourth floor–which meant the fifth, because they start counting one up from the ground floor. A small room, it had all I needed and was fresh and clean. When I peered out the window I smiled.
As buildings go, that was pretty spectacular. It’s the Abbey Presbyterian Church, a stone Gothic Revival structure built in 1862 to 1864. A bird perched on the top right peak as I took the picture, and I later noticed the green nest hunkered below, where birds fluttered in and out from time to time. During my stay when I retreated to the room to put my feet up I took pleasure in the strength of those fine walls and the artistic design. And the birds.
Next stop in Limerick my room at the Old Quarter Townhouse was big enough for a party. It was new and modern–or at least modernized. I looked out the window there and spread my arms, hands uplifted.
There seemed to be a theme here. This one is Saint Michael’s Catholic Church, a limestone structure originally constructed in 1779 to 1781, remodeled in 1805, then rebuilt again in the Italianate style in 1881. This too became a pleasant outlook in the changing lights during my time in Limerick.
On my return to Rosscarbery Catherine O’Sullivan at the familiar Rosalithir B&B happily welcomed me to my newly remodeled room. Everything crisp and bright. And I was so happy to get a front room. The house is on a farm in the middle of green pastures, so all the rooms look out on lovely scenes, framed by the graceful windows and drapes, but the front room looks toward that special notch where the sea glistens blue when the sun is right.
Open the windows and lean out and you see even more.
I peered across the attractive yard wall, past the ancient wall of stone, and out over the wide green pasture to the gap in the bluff that opens to the glimmering sea in the notch. A lovely outlook, much the same as my story characters of the Golden Eagle Clan see from their sacred stone circle, shown below. And from their village one ridge over from the other outlook below, where you can see the gap in the bluff beyond the horse pen.
I felt at home.
In Salzburg I stayed in the guest house in a seminary, Gästehaus im Priesterseminar, which has a historic connection with the adjoining church. Through large windows along the hallway to my room I could see the grand rooftop of that church.
These are domes of the Holy Trinity Church, which borders the seminary on one side, built between 1694 and 1702 to connect with the seminary. So not the view from the room, but from the hall on the way to the room.
From the window in my room I could see this.
It’s the former Palais Überacker built in 1732 by the Counts of Überacker because they wanted a residence close to court, the Mirabell Palace being a very short walk away. It’s just a bank now, but the renovation kept most of the Baroque facade, offering a pleasant outlook from my lovely pristine room.
Last but surely not least was Hallstatt. I knew my hotel there was right on the lake. But not every room could look toward the water. And I didn’t know whether mine would. As noted above there was no option to select a view. So when I stepped into the room my jaw dropped. This was my first sight of the outlook I would have.
The lake! The private deck! I rushed to the door onto the deck and went out.
I could see it all. The shimmering water. The fairytale village. The sheer mountains framing the scene. I could see it from my private deck. From my bed. In daylight and dark.
A room with a view. Ah yes. I loved every view. From Dublin to Limerick to Rosscarbery to Salzburg to this of Hallstatt. And I will treasure the memories like a string of cherished jewels.
The enchanted fairytale village of Hallstatt, Austria, is a place you take too many pictures because you keep seeing something new–a different angle, a particular house that seems to drape on the cliffside, a change in the mists. I came here because of the Celts. This was where their ancestors flourished around the time of my new story and I wanted to see it again to better describe it.
When I decided I must have two nights in Hallstatt I tried to cancel the middle two of the four nights I had reserved in Salzburg. The Salzburg reservation, which I made far ahead of time, could be cancelled. The Hallstatt one could not. However I had used a booking company. They told me I had to arrange that with the hotel. The hotel people told me I had to arrange that with the booking company. After going around that circle a few times I decided I would simply have to double book. It turned out to be well worth it.
After I checked into my Salzburg hotel I told the people at the desk that I was going to Hallstatt the next day and asked where to find the bus stop. One of them became quite concerned about me taking the bus. “There are two changes,” she said. That didn’t seem like such a big thing. I looked into it. I could catch Bus 150 a couple blocks from the Salzburg hotel. The 150 would go to Bad Ischl. Bus 542 would soon arrive to take passengers to the next stop, where Bus 543 would pick them up and take them into Hallstatt. How could it be easier?
So the next morning after a lovely breakfast I packed my little backpack with all I needed for the two-night stay in Hallstatt, left the rest of my things in the room at Salzburg with a “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door, and off I went. Caught the 150, which took me to Bad Ischl, end of the line for the 150. But when we passengers got off the bus we found no sign of Bus 542 or any indication when or if it might arrive. Our 150 bus driver came over and said we should take the train. It was better, and we could use our same ticket.
A train was waiting right next to the bus stop with several destinations posted but not Hallstatt. I asked around. No one seemed sure. Finally an elderly lady I guessed to be a local came back from asking and assured me this was the train for Hallstatt. I headed for it and another person said yes, it was the train for Hallstatt. I got on. The train left the station.
I saw a reader board that did have Hallstatt listed but Hallstatt wasn’t lit up like the other stops. I asked the guy across the aisle from me why that would be. He was apparently a local. He had his bicycle with him. He didn’t know. I glanced at the passing scene, wondering. Soon an announcement came over the sound system–in German. The guy with the bicycle nodded and smiled. We would have to get off at the next stop and catch a bus. There was something wrong with the tracks ahead. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I will show you.”
Another one of those angels when I needed one.
He did show me. He led me off the train and toward a waiting bus. A whole busload-size cluster of people moved toward the bus with me. Somebody asked in English if this was the bus to Hallstatt. The bus driver shook his head, answering in English. “I’m not going anywhere.” He was parked. Another bus arrived. The crowd moved as a single thing to that bus, and we asked if he was going to Hallstatt. No. The other bus would take us. We stood looking at each other. What now? Then the first driver cheerfully called out. “Oh, come on. I’ll take you to Hallstatt.” And as one we flowed into the first bus. And he did indeed take us to Hallstatt.
My hotel in Hallstatt was billed more as an apartment than a hotel. It didn’t have a kitchen, but it also didn’t have reception. I was to ask for my key at the Seecafe right next door or use a code on the box if I was late. I got there in plenty of time so a charming young man at the cafe had a key for me. When I walked into my upstairs room and looked out the windows my jaw dropped. The view! And my own private deck!
My hotel/apartment, the Hallstatt Lakeside top 5 Zimmer mit Balkon, was at the south end of the roughly one-mile length of the whole village of Hallstatt. The above photo is the northerly aspect of my view toward the village center. I don’t know much German but I might have guessed that “mit Balkon” meant with balcony. The “top 5” referred to my room.
This next photo shows the view directly across from my deck. Ah! The rippling water, the raw stone mountains, the clouds!
As soon as I dropped off my few belongings I set out to see the town and took the four pictures at the top of this post. And more pictures. And more.
I had been in Hallstatt once before, in 2006, with my friend Tilly, who was from Austria though she had never visited Hallstatt. That was in October when leaves had begun to show color. Now it was May. The weather forecast wasn’t encouraging, but you take it as you find it. I had my umbrella. For now it wasn’t raining and I thrilled to the wonder.
My plan was to explore the village for the rest of this day, take pictures, and locate the waterfall, which plays a role in my story. For some reason I could not find that waterfall. Once I thought I had glimpsed it, but when I looked again I didn’t see it. The next day I planned to visit the museum which I remembered being outstanding. I had a very different story brewing in 2006, one I had since abandoned. This time I wanted to know more about those Hallstatt Celts, or Proto-Celts, who are important in my new story.
The other thing I had hoped to do on my one full day there was to walk the trail up to the High Valley where I had set my Proto-Celtic village near the ancient salt mine. The mine has been in operation for about 7,000 years, going back well before the Celts were there and continuing during their time. I had gone up to the High Valley in 2006, taking the funicular. But it was the trail I wanted to see and describe. I had never been on that trail, and I was deeply disappointed to learn that the trail was closed for renovation. One of those plans I would have to let go.
Before I was quite done with my first day a light sprinkle began. Full of optimism I hadn’t brought out the umbrella or even worn a rain jacket. I hurried back to my room for my umbrella and long raincoat. I was too late for dinner at the nearby Seecafe so I had to walk the mile back to the main village through what had turned into a heavy rain. I found a nice place where I got an unusual but tasty pizza. I’d eaten half by the time I thought to take a picture.
Back at the room, where I could prop up a pillow and lean back on my bed and still see the view, I looked out and saw this.
Magical.
The next morning I headed for the museum and found my waterfall.
See it? Just above the museum rooftop. The museum wasn’t open yet so I searched for a way to the falls, doing my best to ignore a soft drizzle.
I met a friendly guy on the street, vigorously fluffing his white feathers, and one feather wisped onto his bill. Swans own a good portion of the lake–the real and not.
When I started up a staircase I thought I’d been on before I met a family coming down and asked if the falls were up that way. The man didn’t try English but he showed me the translator app on his phone that mentioned the “view.” And a picture with a fine view from up there. I showed him my picture of the distant waterfall above the museum. He nodded and nodded, pointed up the stairs they had come down and said. “Two minutes.”
I soon knew for sure I had been on those stairs the day before but apparently not far enough. You had to go into the edge of a tunnel for cars that hadn’t looked to me like a place for pedestrians. This time I went in and found it was well roped off. The sound of rushing water grew steadily louder. I came out into a parking lot and there was the full view of raging water in two tiers.
For all that power of moving water, I had read that this waterfall freezes solid in the winter. It also does so in my story.
Going back down the hill another way I found more lovely views.
I remembered the Hallstatt Museum for its excellent displays, but it was even better this time. Now I was especially looking for the Celts of course. There were also some good exhibits on the mine. The salt of the mine preserved materials so they know what people wore and the fabrics they wove.
The above photos show a miner’s pack for carrying salt blocks out of the mine and a diorama of a miner himself. From fragments left behind scholars believe the ancient people in the High Valley built their houses of logs, the corners interlocked as in the diorama, the way Oregon pioneers did. There were plenty of nice straight firs in those heights to use for that. I would get that in my story.
A huge necropolis of graves was found for the period 800-750 B.C. (my story opens in 750 B.C.), and many bronze tools and treasures were drawn from these, telling us more about the Proto-Celts. No princes’ graves were found, but the items showed considerable widespread prosperity.
I especially liked the above display of the swirled fibulas in bronze, as well as a bronze necklace. The fibulas were worn by men and women both, probably to pin garments together. The necklace came from a woman’s grave.
And above we have the famous Hallstatt sword in bronze. Note the long leaf shape and the ribbing on the blade. The richest graves contained long swords like this in bronze or iron.
A village on a sheer bluff has many steps. I traipsed across hillside lanes and up and down a lot of steps to get a feel for the slopes and the places my characters would go to appreciate the beauty themselves. That evening I made it to the Seecafe before it closed and ate delicious pesto pasta while still enjoying the view right outside their back door.
And so, one more look at the village on the southern end beneath the massive limestone mountains and the pretty houses that climb the bluff on that side of town. My room was just beyond the photo to the far left.
The next morning I had to leave this beautiful place. The morning broke with a hope-inspiring light, throwing a sheen on the water’s edge in the southern aspect from my deck view. The surface across the water never appeared quite still.
I would retrace the uncertain way back to Salzburg. It worked. I was glad I left the big bag in Salzburg so I could make all those bus and train transfers with no more than a small backpack and handbag to carry. I absorbed much on my journey into the enchantment of this place, and it will reflect in the work.
I dedicate this post to my writer friend Elizabeth King. I was telling her about the many times I’ve been rescued by people on my trips just when I needed them most. I call them my angels. She told me about a time she and her husband were traveling and found themselves in a terrible predicament. A man offered to help, and after he resolved everything Elizabeth happened to see the man’s name. His name was Angelo.
~ ~ ~
So, after my wonderful stay in Rosscarbery at Catherine and Finbarr’s B&B, my next stop on this trip was Salzburg. Pictures of the hotel there looked amazing and I was looking forward to that.
It’s a renovated seminary turned into a guest house. The Gästehaus im Priesterseminar. When I saw a picture on a booking site I knew I wanted to stay there. The domes aren’t on the guest house itself, I learned, but on the connected Holy Trinity Church. And while Salzburg itself doesn’t figure in my stories it was close to the more remote Hallstatt, which does.
Salzburg was a long road from Rosscarbery. Bus or train to Dublin, which could take all day. Flight from Dublin to Salzburg the next day with a brief layover in Frankfurt. My concerns about that short layover niggled at me after seeing the confusing monstrosity of the Frankfurt airport on the original flight from home. I flew Lufthansa, a German airline, and their hub was Frankfurt. I likened the place to nightmares where I walk and walk, upstairs, downstairs, around and around, and never find the place I’m looking for.
Even the road to Dublin looked long. I had a return bus ticket as far as Cork, but there I would have to transfer. Catherine recommended a particular bus from Cork. It was faster than others and would let me off on one of those quays in Dublin where I would know exactly where I was and could walk to my hotel up familiar O’Connell Street. However, this bus line didn’t go into the Cork bus station, leaving instead from a simple bus stop across the river. Another of those streetside stops for long-haul buses. She did her best to give me directions, with a map. I hoped I could find it.
After hugs and warm good-byes I was on my way, looking back from the bus to the lovely lagoon of Rosscarbery, a place of so many memories.
On the way to Cork the bus had several stops. At Bandon a lot of people got on, and a nice-looking woman sat by me. We struck up a conversation. Where are you headed? How are you getting there? That kind of thing. I did express a little concern about the change in Cork. By the time we reached Cork we had covered many subjects, a most enjoyable visit. So when the bus pulled into the station she told me she would show me the way to my next bus stop. Much relieved, I went down to drag my bag out of the luggage bay underneath the bus. I thought she would point me in the right direction.
No. She introduced me to her husband, Dermot, who had taken a seat farther back, and her husband’s brother, John, the brother’s wife, Mary, and told me her own name, Catherine. Another Catherine! They were the O’Donovans and they were headed my way. They didn’t just show me. They escorted me.
They whisked me right through that bus station, out across the street shown below, across the bridge over the River Lee just beyond that street, down the angled lane on the far side that Catherine tried to tell me about, and right to the bus stop I was looking for, chatting and laughing with me all the way.
View toward the River Lee from Cork bus station (2018 photo)
We were exchanging names and contact information when the bus pulled up. Angels. All four O’Donovans. Angels to help me. Just when I needed them.
~ ~ ~
For the next day, second leg of the long road to Salzburg, I had paid extra for a seat near the front on the flight from Dublin to Frankfurt on account of that short layover. My hopes for an early landing didn’t happen, and when the plane did land they drove and drove until I thought we must be circling the entire massive airport. I checked the time when the plane pulled to a stop on the tarmac (not at a gate, but I remembered a bus had picked passengers up on my previous landing there). I had ten minutes until my next plane started boarding. I wasn’t feeling easy.
We waited and waited for the airplane doors to open. Someone announced that they were waiting for somebody to bring the stairs so we could deplane. Then they announced that a stairs had been brought to the rear door so they would start letting people out the back. So much for my seat close to the front. By the time the front door opened it was still quicker for me to go that way. But by then my next flight was boarding. As I left the plane I mentioned that to one of the friendly flight attendants. He smiled. “You’ll make it.” I clung to those words.
When I entered the terminal I came to a crowd of travelers (probably all those people who deplaned from the rear) wending their way through zigzag lines toward Passport Control stations, the lines barely moving. I knew what the expression “her heart sank” means. Worries flooded my mind. Reception at my Salzburg guest house would close at 4 pm. If I didn’t make this flight I would be late and I’d have go through some rigamarole to get my key. Well, I could figure that out. But what if I couldn’t get another flight that day? I would miss my reservation altogether. And I had reserved another room in Hallstatt for the next night and I already had so little time there. I might not get there at all and that was my whole reason for going to Austria.
In my rising despair I exclaimed, “My plane is boarding now!”
Someone heard me and echoed my words. “Her plane is boarding now!” The person made way for me. And the echo continued up the line. “Her plane is boarding now!” And they moved aside, one after the other, each encouraging the next person to make way. “Her plane is boarding now!” And the way opened all through that zigzag line. In moments I had reached the head of the line to the Passport Control stations, and the people ushered me forward. “There’s an open one.”
I went to that station and held out my passport, telling the official, “My plane is boarding now.” But the official in the station shook her head, her voice stern. “I am in control here.” She pointed to someone near me and said to me. “That person is ahead of you. You will wait.” I stepped back, stunned.
But the people were not having it. “Here,” they said. “This one’s open.” They ushered me to a different station and the official there hastily did what she had to do and let me through.
Still, I had so little time before my boarding gate would close. I located the departures board to make sure of my gate and, finding it listed, rushed ahead. Despite my early impressions of this airport I found the usual signage. Like every airport, once you know your gate you just follow the letters to the concourse and then the numbers. I was headed for gate 69. I think it was Z69. I don’t remember now. I didn’t take time to check my phone but about the time I got to the 50s I saw a big clock. I had 5 minutes before my gate closed. The 50s seemed to take forever. When I finally saw my gate 69 it was a long way down the concourse and another clock showed I now had 2 minutes. I wondered if it was even possible to go that far in 2 minutes. I don’t know if I made it in time or if they saw this frantic-looking woman rushing toward them and waited, but they did let me through.
If all those wonderful people hadn’t helped me through Passport Control I would never have made it onto that plane. Angels, yes! So many angels.
I reached my guest house in the seminary in plenty of time and they welcomed me in, one leading me first through the beautiful cloister courtyard.
That night as I lay in my narrow bed in my lovely pristine room, I heaved a sigh. “A whole host of angels came to help me this time.” And sudden tears rose.
Here on a lonely hill, where silence echoes and all is near forgotten, a memory whispers. Here the center of my Éireann world lives.
~ ~ ~
If Ireland holds the place as the heart of my stories, and it does, then Rosscarbery on Ireland’s south coast must be the heart of the heart. Just up the hill above that charming town lies this ancient circle of stones, sacred center of the clan of my protagonist. I have named her people the Clan of the Golden Eagle, and this land has been their ancestral home for generations.
These mysterious circles of stone dating back thousands of years can be found up and down the Atlantic seaboard–across Ireland, Britain, France, Portugal, and Africa. The most famous would be Stonehenge in England. To my knowledge no others bear the horizontal lintels like Stonehenge. The circles range in size. I visited one in Portugal, the Cromlech of Almendres, with almost 100 stones, dating from about 4000 to 6000 B.C. Another, the Castlerigg Circle in northern England set among a ring of mountains, dates from about 3000 B.C.
But this circle of stone caught my heart in ways I can’t explain. It has stood on this hill overlooking the south coast of Ireland since about 1500 B.C., now called Bohonagh Circle. Why these rings of raw stone stand where they do no one today really knows. Scholars believe they marked the passing seasons of the sun. Others suggest they were places of celebration, for dancing and connecting with the gods and goddesses the people revered, perhaps places that drew together the powers of earth and sky.
Catherine and Finbarr O’Sullivan, my wonderful hosts at the Rosalithir B&B in Rosscarbery, wished me well when I set off to see the circle on my first day this trip. A bright sunny morning. Catherine made sure I took a snack of her delicious soda bread and some fruit, which would tide me over until dinner. This was my third visit with Catherine and Finbarr. They weren’t just hosts. They were friends now.
It’s a fair walk over pleasant back roads. Then the familiar track up the hill, the stones beyond my sight until at last I began to see the tops like fingers lifted to the sky. Remembrance flooded me. Not only my own former visits. But the many scenes in my stories as my characters approached this sacred place. I left the track for the green field as the stones came into full view. They seemed to draw me. I barely felt the grass beneath my feet. Once there, I honored the tall portals, both higher than my reach, and stepped inside.
Turning, I looked out through the portal stones and felt a sense that I had come home again. A little breathless still, I was looking for better pictures than I’d taken on earlier visits and nature gave me that. The clouds on this day! Oh my! The clouds!
I stayed and wandered in and out, soaking in the feel of the circle, the surroundings. I especially like the way one stone sits in line with a slope of the vee that opens to the blue sea in the distance. I don’t think that was by accident. Clouds kept boiling in, adding to a sense of awe. After touching each stone with the reverence such a place evokes, I finally walked away, my heart full. On the way downhill I stopped to look back, wondering if I would ever see them again.
The sight of them beneath the towering clouds nearly took my breath.
~ ~ ~
Another day I went down to the bay below the circle, called by my protagonist’s clan their Golden Eagle Bay. Today’s Rosscarbery Bay. I still had questions about the beach. And what’s more, this visit revealed answers to questions I didn’t even know to ask. That made my return particularly important. On my first trip I had traipsed around the shoreline but memory and tiny photos didn’t offer a good sense of the lay of the land there. The few minutes I had on that beach last visit only confused me further. This time I spent a full day exploring the shore.
I had a fairly good sense of the western headland, but I was unsure of the east side of the bay. When I stepped out on a rocky point at the east side of a strand where I thought the bay ended, the point felt way too small for some of the scenes I had written.
There were some good rocky outlying islands to crack up a ship, but there was no room for a battle scene. It wasn’t until I climbed partway up the newly improved Cliff Walk over the western headland that I could look back and see it clearly.
The photo above shows it. That little rocky point jutting into the bay wasn’t big enough to call a headland at all. It did break up two strands, which have separate names today, Owenahincha Strand on the near side from where I took the picture and Little Island Strand on the other. But the photo also shows the only point that could reasonably be called a headland on the east side, a long and bold promontory reaching deep into the bay–beyond the second strand. It’s called today Cloghna Head. Together with the headland where I stood, these are the arms that embrace the full bay.
I continued my stroll over the Cliff Walk to the next beach, mulling all this over. It’s a beautiful walk, with nice new wooden railing and some paving, overlooking broad stretches of water and a small woodland full of bluebells.
I had planned to call Finbarr to pick me up on that next beach when I was done with the Cliff Walk, as he’d suggested. He and Catherine insisted they drive me to and from the beach because they didn’t want me to walk across the dangerous highway that separated it from the B&B. But now I knew I had to go back to where I started and check out the bold promontory of Cloghna Head, which I now saw was the eastern headland of the full bay.
As I trekked over the grass above the bayshore toward that eastern headland I became aware of something quite unfamiliar. I had walked along sandy trails cut through the grass but I happened to step onto the grass itself. My foot didn’t sink deep into the thick grass as expected but teetered on a thick spongy mass of interlaced grasses. I had never experienced anything quite like it. Because I couldn’t maintain a solid stride I quickly moved back onto one of the sand trails people had cut into that thick mass.
I later mentioned this to Finbarr and he said that’s the way beach grass grows there. It helps prevent erosion along the beaches. I told him on the Oregon coast we had tall grasses along the sandy shore. He said that those tall grasses perform the same function. And I, knowing tall grasses, had written such shores into my Irish beaches. I would need to take out that tall grass in my stories in many places. You need to get it right for the locals. And I almost didn’t.
I walked close to Cloghna Head to get a better sense of it but didn’t walk onto the top. I was particularly interested in those sheer cliffs down to the jagged rocks below and how they might work into a dramatic scene. I didn’t think about the grass on that promontory until later. But Finbarr assured me that the broad grassy top there also has the thick spongy beach grass. Other grass, away from the shore, he called pasture grass. As a farmer, raising cattle, he knew these things. I was so glad he cleared that up for me.
~ ~ ~
I would take more walks during my visit, got lost once on a rainy walk, then came upon the B&B quite by surprise. Irish luck again. And I explored several back roads, meeting horses and dogs and friendly people, including Tara and her beautiful Irish Cob mare with the distinctive feathering above the hooves–named Sootie for her black coat, Tara said.
With each walk, each day, I got a better sense of the place that I knew would show up in my descriptions. And my memories. Helping my Éireann world live. A wondrous visit to a wonderful place.
Rivers pass through many Irish cities but in Limerick this bold, beautiful river holds the center.
The River Shannon, longest river in Ireland, flows right through Limerick, shown here from Arthur’s Quay near the city’s old town. That’s King John’s castle in the distance.
I arrived in Limerick at Arthur’s Quay where many buses stop, about a two-minute walk to my Limerick hotel, The Old Quarter Townhouse. Great location. Nice hotel. This was my second base in Ireland from which I would explore special sites. Back in my Dublin hotel the man at the desk recommended the bus that brought me, and his advice was good. There in Dublin I was able to walk from the hotel to Burgh Quay, the quay on Dublin’s River Liffey where the bus picked me up, and it was a pleasant ride south through Ireland’s green fields. Dublin and Limerick both have bus stations but I was surprised that many long-haul buses had major stops on these quays along the rivers.
In Dublin a young woman had taken the bus seat beside me and slept for a while, but when she woke we began chatting, though with some difficulty. Her English was limited, and I asked where she came from. “Mongolia,” she said. I was surprised. I came to Ireland to meet the Irish and here I was meeting someone from Mongolia. I don’t think I’d ever met anyone from Mongolia before. With the help of her phone translating app she explained that she was traveling to Limerick to attend university there.
By the time we reached Arthur’s Quay in Limerick she was helping me find my way. A lovely person. She expressed a hope of meeting again, but I supposed her host family would have other things planned. And I had tours to take.
The Cliffs of Moher
My first tour from Limerick advertised stops at these magnificent cliffs as well as the mysterious Burren, a broad area where the land has turned to stone, like paving blocks covering many square miles. I had seen these sites before but, like the revisits I did out of Dublin, I wanted to visit them this time and take pictures for social media and to help in my descriptions of places my book characters go.
A thrill washed through me on seeing the Cliffs of Moher again, my third visit to this amazing place. And a perfect day to see it.
A soft wind carried the sound of bird calls. So many birds–puffins, gulls, and more–nesting in the cliff edges and soaring over the water.
I didn’t remember the stone fence between the sharp cliff edge and the steps up to O’Brien’s Tower, but I see from old pictures from an earlier visit, a stone fence was there. I walked to the tower, then down around where the trail follows the tops of these picturesque cliffs, with a less intrusive fence. Musicians added to the birdsongs. A glorious morning.
After ample time at the cliffs the tour took us to lunch at a small restaurant that did an amazing job accommodating the sudden rush from tour buses. And my quiche was excellent.
I hadn’t heard the guide talk about the Burren, and I asked him about it. They had dropped the Burren from the tour for some reason I didn’t quite understand. Something to do with small towns there having a problem handling all the big buses. A disappointment for me, but I had to let it go.
The Rock of Cashel
The next day my excursion to the Rock I would take on my own, using the public bus system. The timetable showed many stops but fortunately the bus only stopped when a passenger asked for it or someone stood waiting at the stop to get on. Most we sailed right on by. When the reader board inside the bus showed Cashel as the next stop I began to watch our surroundings more closely. On my left the great rock appeared in the midst of a broad plain, brooding clouds overhead.
The buildings weren’t there at the time of my story but I have a vital scene at the site of this great outcrop.
A short walk from the bus stop brought me to the base of the Rock. From this spot you get a much better idea of the massive boulders of mottled white limestone that curve around the height on this side, bright-green turf between the stones. I scrambled up them a ways because I needed to get the feel of the climb. It was precarious. I didn’t dare slip.
These buildings, dating back to the 12th century A.D., came well after my story, but I had to go inside. A little drafty without a roof. Jackdaws, cousins of the crows, seem to love it, nesting in crevices and flying overhead with their haunting cries. [I’ve done some searching online to identify those birds, and I believe most of them are jackdaws. Maybe a few rooks. We don’t have either of those at home so I wasn’t familiar with them.] The whole place seems a little haunted. I suppose the many burials add to that. Some graves are ancient. Some quite new. I’m sure the place has many stories to tell.
This new visit helped me a lot in telling my own. And I appreciated the great view from the plateau overlooking the plains below. Before I left the site those looming clouds began to leak. I took cover for a while but it didn’t show signs of letting up. I didn’t bring an umbrella. My little rain jacket had to ward off what it could. By the time I made the short run into town I was pretty wet, but I ducked into the nice cafe where I’d had another of my scone lunches, ordered something else for an excuse to stay until I dried off a little, and was glad enough when a warm bus came for my return to Limerick. The spirit of the Rock lingered with me.
It Was the Hat
My last day in Limerick I decided to see the local attraction of King John’s castle. Impressive enough on the River Shannon. The site still resonates with power from 1200 A.D. when King John of England had it built. History on the location goes back to the 900s A.D. when the Vikings came.
On my return from there I was contemplating looking into a shopping center for souvenirs for family when I noticed a woman walking down the street. It was her hat that caught my attention. I had seen that hat before. Yes! On the bus from Dublin. In all the bustling city of Limerick how would you expect to meet someone you met before? I saw only her profile and her hat covered much of her face. But on the bus I had particularly noticed her hat. I stepped over and spoke. Her eyes lit up and we shared a strong hug. My friend from Mongolia.
It’s not a great picture of either of us. She’s much prettier with warm, bright eyes, and I don’t usually have jowls, but it’s us. I believe her given name is Erdene. The contact name she gave me is Bolor-Erdene. But I could never quite understand her when she told me.
It was a lovely afternoon and we enjoyed a couple hours walking up the river together. Talking. Sharing words. Laughing. We talked about Mongolia and about Oregon and showed each other pictures of our homes on our phones. She especially loved the swans along the River Shannon. What a delight!
So where did Ireland get all that gold found in the hoards in the bogs and waters now displayed so beautifully in the national museum? Ireland doesn’t have a lot of gold deposits today, but one place stands out as a possibility. The Wicklow Mountains. It’s the largest mountain range in Ireland, and they did have a gold rush in the 18th century. That’s A.D.
In my story I call them the Gold Mountains because scholars believe there may have been more gold in those hills in the ancient times I write about. On my last full day in Dublin I joined a tour there.
This is the upper lake of Glendalough (glendalough means two lakes) in the Wicklow Mountains. A fair walk to get there, but a pleasant walk, and the goal proved worth it.
The protagonist in my story charts a course between the Gold Mountains and the sea, with hopes they’ll keep her from getting lost.
I got lost in these mountains myself on a previous trip when my friend Tilly and I rented a car and I drove us up this way in search of our B&B we’d reserved. Somehow I got off a roundabout in the wrong place and got us into the back country where roads wound every which way and signs were scarce. We saw a couple of men working on some machinery near the road and stopped to ask directions. They explained it all in great detail. I listened intently, trying to follow what they were saying. The Irish tend to talk fast and they put a little different twist on the English language than we do, but this was more than I’d encountered. After we thanked them and drove off, I asked Tilly, “Did you understand what they said?”
She gave me a wry smile. “Not a word.”
A little farther along I saw a sign to Roundwood. I remembered the name as a town somewhere near the B&B and followed the route in that direction. We could go to Roundwood and ask somebody there how to find the B&B. As we made our way over narrow roads I glanced to my left and saw a building that looked very much like pictures of our B&B. Then a sign with its name. Irish luck. We were there. That evening we drove on to Roundwood for dinner. I told our server where we were staying. She had never heard of it.
Part of our destination on my Glendalough tour this year was the monastery founded by a Saint Kevin in the sixth century A.D., practically modern compared with other sites on my itinerary. The ruins were interesting, the setting gorgeous.
When the tour bus passed through the town of Roundwood I believe I saw the restaurant where Tilly and I had dinner on that night those many years ago. I smiled, the memory warming my heart. Those memories are pure gold.
The upper lake was the best of the tour, but I did enjoy seeing the mountains again while the bus driver drove.
Back in Dublin the driver recommended we visit Saint Stephen’s Green on our own, a jewel in the center of the city. I did that. I remembered the serene beauty in the midst of the bustling city. I had seen it on previous trips. It wasn’t a sunny day this time but the park was beautiful anyway. Green gold, you might say.
And I had to add a photo of typical Dublin townhouse doors.
And back to the now-familiar O’Connell Street with its landmark Spire behind the statue.
Note the bird on the statue’s head. The next day I would be checking out of my wonderful Castle Hotel, which is just up that street, then onto my next base, the city of Limerick, which I’m told has nothing to do with those rollicking poems.
I would not forget the golden memories of my Dublin visit–from Newgrange to Bray to the ancient gold of the museum, to Glendalough, and to the best of Dublin itself.
It’s older than Stonehenge. Older than the pyramids of Egypt. Newgrange. More than 5,000 years ago Neolithic people with only stone tools built this mound with such precision that the rising sun on the morning of the winter solstice would stream down a long, narrow passage to the vaulted chamber of the interior and fill it with light. There beneath a meticulously corbelled roof the bones and ashes of their dead waited.
Two doors enter the passage. The one above receives the sunlight. The one below, partially hidden behind the carved kerbstone, receives the people. I was here with a tour group. I would soon go in.
No one knows what those carved symbols mean, and the guide told us the triple spirals have never been seen anywhere else. We offered our thoughts. I suggested life, death, and rebirth. The people in my stories of ancient Ireland would believe this.
The photo of the upper door was taken for me by a nice, very tall man in my group. I took the lower one. That’s as far in as we were allowed to take pictures. The way is narrow. Sometimes you have to scrunch your elbows in. Sometimes you have to duck under low stone before you enter the inner chamber once visited by the ancients.
I was like a child before Christmas. I barely slept the night before my tour to this amazing site. The tour would also take me to another passage tomb in the same area, Knowth, and to the Hill of Tara. A worrisome drizzle followed our bus as we rolled out of Dublin, first stay on my overseas trip this spring. When I planned the trip I knew I would not rent a car this time, so I chose bases from which I could take tours or just excursions on my own by local bus or train.
I gave myself a day for jet lag and to explore Dublin enough to find my way to the place the tour bus would pick us up the following morning. This was my first tour of the trip. And one of the more important. When I read online about the Newgrange Tours by Mary Gibbons, I knew I wanted to take her tour. It was the right one. No question. But who knew on the 22nd of December when I reserved it what the weather would be on the 19th of April. I just had to hope.
The drizzle let up when we reached the Hill of Tara, the first stop on our tour. But it was blustery out. I had to forego the hat and pull up my hood. I was glad for every layer I wore. I had chosen Tara as an important site in my new book, this place of myths and legends and making of kings. I’d visited Tara once before, some years ago, but I hadn’t retained a good sense of it. Pictures don’t do it justice. They don’t quite show how high it rests over the surrounding plains. I did remember the mound. It’s a passage tomb also, not as large or elaborate as Newgrange, but from the same era. The name “Tara” is apparently later than my story’s time but I use it, as I sometimes do when a place would be difficult to identify for readers without the familiar. I call it Tara Mound for the tomb there, not the Hill of Tara.
Our group trekked across the rich green grass, and over the henges, the circular ditches and rims on the ground where ancient deeds occurred. It was evidently a gathering place for many years, and I used it so in my story. I imagined my character trekking across it with me and heard our excellent guide, Mia Craig, mention to someone that scholars believe Newgrange was only in use for 600 years. That concerned me. I had my people using it much later. When our group began to meet up at the gift shop before moving on to our next stop I saw her standing alone and walked over to ask her about that. She reassured me. “They don’t really know,” she said, “and there’s an old Irish saying, ‘You don’t want to let facts get in the way of a good story.'”
We laughed together. I told her I tried to get things as right as I could, which was why I was back in Ireland. She didn’t think I should worry about using the site for my characters. Of course scholars can interpret the presence of objects. Not so easy to interpret the absence. That’s where I can fill in the gaps with my world-building.
The drizzle came back, windshield wipers on the bus working hard as our tour headed toward Knowth, another intriguing site along the River Boyne, this one with multiple passage tombs like chicks around a mother. But they can tell from its shape that the large mound in the center came after the others because its irregular shape accommodates them.
By the time we got to Knowth, again the rain stopped and we gathered around the local guide, a good-looking man with silver hair and bright blue eyes. He started by asking if anybody had been there before. I raised my hand and said I had been to Newgrange. Twice. He asked when, and I told him. With a twinkle in those blue eyes he suggested I could probably give this talk as well as he. I said only if I could follow an old Irish saying our tour guide just told me about, that you don’t want to let facts get in the way of a good story.
He chuckled and said, “Well, we try to keep to the facts here.”
One of his comments startled me when he told about recent DNA studies which showed that the early Neolithic people who built these tombs came out of Anatolia, people with tawny skin and dark-brown eyes, whereas those who followed came from the steppes of Russia with their pale skin and blue eyes, like his. From my own studies I understood that the early Anatolians were likely worshipers of a Mother Goddess and may have been matriarchal, while those from the northern steppes worshiped sky gods and were patriarchal. My ancient series draws together the worlds of Minoan Crete and Ireland, so when he mentioned Anatolia I recalled reading that DNA evidence shows that the Minoans also came out of Anatolia.
Whoa! Were these people kin? Would their oral histories reflect similarities? It was mythologist Joseph Campbell who inspired me to bring the two islands together when he wrote of a second hearth west of Crete where at the same time as the Minoans the early Irish showed through their myths a similar culture with strong women and the worship of a Mother Goddess. Now the DNA evidence in Ireland appeared to confirm that connection. A thrilling discovery for me.
Next stop on the tour was the Newgrange visitor center. We were getting close to the main show. Drizzle picked up again. The visitor center was wonderful, more elaborate than my last visit. I don’t think there was a center the first time. We just drove up to the site. Now they would take us from the center on special buses on a predetermined schedule. We wore pink bands on our wrists to indicate our time slot. The schedule gave us time for lunch in their pleasant lunch room and to visit the displays. I didn’t want a big meal so I opted for a scrumptious raspberry scone with raspberry jam. They even heated it for me. Wonderfully decadent.
After lunch I especially enjoyed a walk-through at the visitor center where shadowy deer and birds moved among silhouettes of forests. Nice illusion. Among the trees several screens showed films of the three significant passage tombs along the River Boyne–Newgrange, Knowth, and a third that isn’t open to the public, Dowth. The High Tombs of my ancient Irish stories. A drawing portrayed a dog, its appearance based on bones found there. He looked just like the dog in my new story that I imagine resembling an Irish Wolfhound, though the breed is much newer. There he was! My dog Tormey!
We crossed the River Boyne on our walk to the Newgrange buses that would carry us to the site, a skiff of mist in our faces, heavy skies overhead. I had scoured Google maps and online photos, trying to see how big a river this was. Could a person ford it on foot? Or would they need boats or rafts? On that bridge I got my answer. I would keep my character on a boat.
When our bus pulled in to Newgrange the clouds parted like an opening curtain and a bright sun came through. I climbed out of the bus, looked up and saw it, white quartz face aglitter. The marvel that is Newgrange.
This is the place where my Clan of the Grey Wolf lives, their clan mother a dear friend who’s like a second mother to my protagonist Levaen.
The local guide split our group to take half at a time in the passage into the interior of the mound, while the other half were free to wander the site. Just what I had hoped. I wanted to wander around and get the lay of the land. What about my description from a ridge above? Well! There isn’t a ridge above. The mound lies on the ridge itself and the encircling pillar stones are much lower in the back, the kerbstones at the mound’s edge following the downward slope until they are completely covered with turf. The river is visible, but distant. Revisions I’ll need to make.
The mound had long since collapsed when excavations in the 1960s and 70s brought it back to its original state as nearly as could be determined through meticulous study of what they discovered. From my reading it appears that the passage and vault with its corbelled roof were basically intact, although some of the uprights in the passage were leaning and had to be straightened. It’s a bit more complicated, but that seems to be the gist of it. Scholars still argue over the white quartz facing, but they found a pile of the quartz in front that must have been used somehow, and quartz facings from the period have been found on other sites. It certainly offers a dramatic impression.
Finally it was my turn to go in. My heart raced when I stepped inside the narrow passage, scrunched my shoulders, dipped my head. I’m a little claustrophobic, and we were warned about that. But I knew I could do it. I had done it before. Somehow memory slips away and the moment becomes new. I drew a full deep breath when I got through the passage and entered the spacious vault. I looked up at the intricate layers of perfect corbelled stones, each course of slabs partly resting on the one below, up to the capstone high above me. The interior is shaped like a cross with the elongated passage as the shaft, three extensions inside, one to the left, one to the right, one straight ahead, where stone basins held the bones or ashes.
For the tour they turned out the lights and shone a single light down the passageway to represent the rising sun on winter solstice that would fill the chamber with light. In my story that light embraces the spirits in the bones or ashes and carries them out the passage to lift them to the stars where they will await rebirth. Now I felt the wonder of it.
When the tour was over I exclaimed to Mia, our tour guide, “That was the best!”
Every place seems to have a certain personality, a character you can only know in its presence, so when I write a story and spend any amount of time in a particular place I want to reflect the sense of it. That’s why I want to go there, to know it, and thus better knowing it, let my reader know and feel what I felt there.
As my followers may remember I recently completed a historical novel set in ancient Ireland and surrounding lands. I had already visited many of these places when researching the series that’s related to this story, but happenings differ and characters may look at their world from different perspectives. Can she, for instance, see the river from there?
This is Newgrange, the ancient passage tomb built some 5,000 years ago by Neolithic people who walked there long before my characters. It’s older than Stonehenge, older than the pyramids of Egypt. My story opens in 750 BC. And yes, she can see the river from this spot outside the tomb. She won’t try to ford it, though. It’s much too deep and swift. I’ve seen that now. She’ll take a boat across, as I’d written it.
I have visited Newgrange twice before, in 1993 and in 2004, but not only was I working on different stories then, I did not have a digital camera that would allow me to share such a photo here on my website or on other social media. I carried my small Nikon digital camera I took on my 2018 trip and a newer iPhone than I had then. And I sought out better pictures as well as research photos to help me hone my descriptions.
Late last year I began contemplating this trip. I decided I would limit it to Ireland, home of my protagonist, and Hallstatt, Austria, homeland of the proto-Celts, where she spends a considerable amount of time. For quick stops I can take trips by Google Map, but for long stays I want to soak a place in. I had visited the charming village of Hallstatt once before in 2006 when I traveled there with my Austrian friend Tilly. But I was researching a different book then, one that fell by the wayside. Now I wanted to see Hallstatt with the new book in mind.
I had forgotten how steep the mountains, how stark the limestone cliffs, how sparkling the lake. Yes, the quaint houses will ever climb that bluff, the iconic church steeple pierce the sky. But as I wandered the single street, climbed the many steps, found the waterfall I knew was there and included in my story, I enjoyed a sense of it I did not have before.
I didn’t rent a car so in Ireland I picked bases from where I could take tours or just go on my own by bus or train. I started with eight nights in Dublin. Then to Limerick for five nights. And a five-night return to the heart of my story, Rosscarbery, staying at the Rosalithir B&B with my wonderful hosts Catherine and Finbarr O’Sullivan. My third visit with them. The last visit in 2018 had been much too short and left me with critical questions on the setting. The new visit would answer questions I didn’t even know I had. A vital visit for understanding the lay of the land. And the water. The beach.
This was the rugged eastern headland I needed for one of my stories. Golden Eagle Bay in the world of my characters was broader than I thought on my brief stop in 2018. It took me several walks, especially over the newly improved Cliff Walk on the western headland to figure it out. From there I looked back and the setting became quite clear, the revisions I would have to make.
It was moments like this that I confirmed my need for this trip. Yes, it was time to travel again. Yes, I wanted to revisit these special places, but with that discovery and more I found answers to questions I hadn’t thought to ask.
In the next several blog posts I’ll share the journey–from Dublin to Salzburg, Austria, where I stayed a couple of nights on either side of my Hallstatt excursion because of its access to an airport. A lovely spot itself where I stayed in an amazing 17th century seminary converted into a hotel. The adjoining church even had a domed roof.
I’ll add the posts to the new “Going There” list on the sidebar as I publish each one.
