A year ago I was wondering about the date of Summer Solstice, since it varies from year to year. I checked online and as often happens other related sites popped up. One was the story of an Irish goddess named Áine associated with midsummer and the sun. And as if I had called for her a child by the name of Ainne just walked onto my screen. I tweaked the spelling to give it the sound I heard.
Ainne of Éire has now become the protagonist in the third book of my trilogy set in the eighth century B.C. On this Summer Solstice I celebrate her because I’m now in the process of writing her story. An exciting time when inspiration flowers and a story takes life.
The many stone circles along the Atlantic seaboard, including Ireland and Britain, appear to be situated to mark the passage of the seasons, including the solstices and the equinoxes. Above is the sacred stone circle of Ainne’s clan in the south of Éire, the Golden Eagle Clan, the circle called today the Bohonagh Stone Circle. It’s set on a rise in ground in the middle of a cow pasture. Looking westward you can see through the two portal stones to the aligning recumbent stone opposite.
Ainne’s clan circle in its entirety, shown above as I approached it from the other direction, climbing up the hill, looking eastward, the recumbent stone in the foreground, the portals on the far side.
And here I am at the better known Stonehenge on Britain’s Salisbury Plain, shown above. Stonehenge also aligns to mark the solstices. This famous stone circle plays a part in a related series that will follow my trilogy.
And these, above, in the fine stone circle near Ainne’s, home of the neighboring Red Deer Clan, known today as the Drombeg Stone Circle. I’m here with the wonderful host of the nearby Rosalithir B&B, Catherine O’Sullivan, who drove my friend and I there. This circle is protected under Ireland’s National Monument Act. Near the highway R 597 it is easily accessed and well maintained.
And probably the oldest I’ve seen, above, the Cromlech Almendres in Portugal, perhaps as much as 7,000 years old. This fine circle in a cork oak forest also appears in one of my stories.
And, above, the Castlerigg Stone Circle, my Red Fox Clan circle, beautifully set in a wider ring of mountains in England’s Lake District, probably the oldest in Britain, roughly 5,000 years old, though recent discoveries at Stonehenge suggest activity around that site that may go back as much as 5,000 years.
One might think the past would be static, but no. Archaeologists keep digging, and the stories change.
Happy solstice! Enjoy the extended light on this longest day of the year. Cheers!
One of the most exciting things for a writer is when the ideas flood in. I’m thrilled to say that I’ve been having that kind of creative fever with one more story set in ancient Ireland. This one will make a trilogy.
I took the photo above when I had just stepped away from the heart of my trilogy, the Bohonagh Stone Circle in southern Ireland near the small town of Rosscarbery. It’s the sacred Golden Eagle Circle for my fictional clan. I glanced back to see it one more time before I left on my last visit, wondering if I would ever see it again. This image with the powerful clouds nearly took my breath away.
I’ve been living virtually in ancient Ireland for some time now as I set my stories in that enchanting place. Why do I love Ireland so much? Because it’s like home but with cool ancient stuff? I recently posted comparative pictures on Facebook, posing that question.
There’s this, below, one of Ireland’s back roads, a short walk from the wonderful Rosalithir B&B where I stay. The stone circle on the skyline isn’t quite visible in the shot.
And next, below, the hill above my house. Someone mentioned that I simply had to imagine the castles and ruins on my hill.
So maybe there’s some inspiration right outside my door.
I sent book two to my agent last week. She has book one already. Yesterday I wrote the first four pages of the third in the trilogy to see how my new thoughts looked on the page. I’ll stop now and follow my usual process. I’m an outliner, so I’ll outline. I already have the storyline, the list of scenes I use to track it, and I’ve organized my many notes in the order of that storyline. So from that I’ll do the outline, which for book two took three weeks. And from the outline I’ll write the first draft.
Things will shift. New ideas will come. That always happens. But it’s real now. I feel the distress of my protagonist, her hopes, her fears. I’m beginning to know the other players. It’ll be pure delight for me to step back into her world, that enchantment of Ireland. I call it Éire, an older name for Ireland, if not as old as my story, which begins in 713 B.C.
Then with the conclusion of the third in the trilogy I’ll turn my focus to the rest of the collection, which will be a saga of prequels about the ancestors of my characters in the trilogy.
In the photo below, it’s their sacred circle close-up, where they come to dance and bring the sky and earth together, or to find quiet and connection. And more.
And below, from the southern stone to the sea. Note how the slant of the stone’s top echoes the slant of the gap to the blue water.
And down to the sea below their village, where my new protagonist was shocked as a child by how cold the water was.
Artists and Authors celebrated the beginning of spring last weekend at a gala in historic Oakland, Oregon, at the wonderful 1905 Oakland Ice House, hosted by Conni Westford Riley. I so enjoyed being a part of this event and sharing my books there.
Me at my table next door to Jim Hart’s display of his delightful children’s books. I believe he was in the next room with his guitar offering music at that moment.
The room with its old brick walls and antique furnishings offered a lovely setting for the event and our host Conni Riley added many special touches.
Here’s Conni in the photo below next to my table where I sold and signed books, A Place of Her Own and The Shifting Winds, my Oregon pioneer stories. Also on the table is a book of photos, including pictures of Ireland, setting for my next book. Conni did the beautiful display above the table, adding my “Author” sign to her decor, a sign I have used since I received it from the Oaklanders who made it for me at an event they sponsored some years ago. I especially loved the violin. Nice touch.
Conni Westford Riley at my table.
Conni offers this space at the old Oakland Ice House for fundraisers for non-profits, community dinners, movies, including chick flicks, and other group shows. This was the first spring event for artists and authors and hopefully she’ll do it again next year.
Carolyn St. Clair and two of her adorable friends.
One of the authors/artists, Carolyn St. Clair, brought some of her wonderful woolie characters along with her book entitled A Swete Book of Tales. The “Swete” comes from her grandmother’s middle name. This third character represents spring.
Carolyn’s book displays 50 of these characters in full color with enchanting stories for each one. She has made each character by hand (in fact she was working some wool during the event to show the process). I’m not good at estimating sizes but I would guess they’re about two feet tall. The books are available on Amazon.
Another skilled artisan at the event was Peppi Melick of Peppi’s Pottery.
Her sales gallery is in Roseburg, Oregon, on Cleveland Rapids Road.
Here she is with some of her beautiful work.
Peppi Melick
And for a wide look at the room here’s Elaesa Jones, below, a young author with unbounded energy and enthusiasm, with a collection of her books, There Once Was a Rabbit, Tales by the Fire, and many more. She loves magic and delving into fantastical realms for her stories. I found her online by going directly to “elaesa jones books.”
Elaesa Jones
This is just a sample of the artists and authors. Visitors included longtime friends and new folks I thoroughly enjoyed chatting with as well. An excellent event all around.
The day of returning light. After the many long dark nights going deeper and darker it’s always uplifting to know that we’ll start seeing a little more light each day now. From times in the far distant past people have celebrated this day, finding hope and expectation in the light’s return.
Newgrange passage tomb, Ireland
I’ve mentioned before the ancient passage tomb of Newgrange in Ireland, a few miles north of Dublin. Some 5,000 years ago the people built this tomb with little more than stone tools, constructing it with such precision that on Solstice morning rays from the rising sun flash through a high doorway and stream down the narrow, 62-foot-long passage into an interior chamber, filling it with light. For what purpose? We do not know. They did not leave written word to tell us. But we can imagine.
In my new upcoming book set in ancient Ireland I describe the moment and offer the beliefs of my characters. It’s a major locale for multiple scenes. And when you read the story you will experience Solstice morning with them.
The etched kerbstone at Newgrange showing the doors to the passage
The above photo shows the upper door for the light and part of the lower door for people to enter. The carved lines on the threshold stone inspire the protagonist of my story in her artistic creations.
This is the book my new literary agent, Joëlle Delbourgo, has offered to represent. So I look forward with hope that it will soon see the light.
Today marks the spring equinox when days and nights are equal. And the earth’s axis lines up so both hemispheres get the same sunlight. We give passing thought to this moment nowadays, though some of us cling to the hope that spring has come. But in the far distant past when most folks depended on these markers for scheduling the vital business of producing crops and other significant events in their lives it was important to observe this phenomenon. Perhaps even more central was the spiritual meaning. It must have represented for many a time of rebirth.
Knowth Passage Tomb, River Boyne Valley, Ireland
Many people know about the solstice alignment of the Newgrange passage tomb in Ireland where the rising sun on winter solstice shines right up the long passageway to the inner chamber, but a few miles up the River Boyne Valley another passage tomb has an east-west alignment which may suggest that its passageways were designed to receive the sun’s light at equinox. This is the large central tomb of Knowth. Alterations of the passages during reconstruction may have affected the course of the light, whether sun or moon, but many of the kerbstones are carved with images of the sun and moon.
Kerbstone at Knowth Passage Tomb
The people who constructed these great monuments surely honored the signs in the skies that affected their lives. I had the privilege of visiting Knowth and Newgrange just last April when I was doing site research for my book set in Ireland and snapped the above photos. You can see part of the large tomb in the upper photo with several of the distinctive satellite tombs around it. Some of the kerbstones can also be seen at the base in that upper photo, and one more clearly in the closeup.
At home this year I think we’re clinging to the hope of spring more than usual as multiple days of heavy rains caused flooding of rivers and streams, while also saturating soils that sent mudslides down the slopes to block roads.
The road up the hill on my farm. Robin Loznak photo.
There’s that old saying about March coming in like a lion and going out like a lamb. Well, we were enjoying day after day of warm spring weather early in March.
The photo below was taken on March 10. Much more lambish than lionish, I’d say.
Early daffodil bloom on a Marchmorning on the farm.
You never know about March. But I think we’re ready for spring and more of those sunny, lamb-like days.
One December morning last year I woke to this and snapped a picture which I posted on Facebook with a short comment, “Sunrise! New day. New hope. New promise.”
On this morning’s gray, rainy morning I looked back with some yearning for such a day.
The year in between has had its ups and downs. I took a wonderful trip to Ireland and Hallstatt, Austria, to check on scenes for my latest book–Ireland because it’s the center of the story, Hallstatt because that’s where the Celts were at the time of this dip into the ancient world of the setting. Another highlight came when my daughter Christiane got a job in Portland, Oregon, and she and Aspen moved back west after ten years in Kansas. One more highlight was an excellent writers conference in Seattle where I pitched that latest book, and those pitches went well.
I’ve always been a glass-half-full kind of person. And I need to move forward embracing hope. Without a new novel in the works right now I’m working on a companion book for the series which is related to my newest Irish story. I had already drafted parts of this companion book, but it shifts as my focus shifts. In the last few days I’ve been going back through old travel journals of my first trip to Ireland, reliving some experiences there.
The beauty of the land in its cloak of many greens. The wonder of great stone monuments with their intriguing mysteries, like the passage tomb of Newgrange, below. [The photos below are all from my 2024 trip; I didn’t have a digital camera on the first Irish visit.]
The magic of an exquisite woodland where wind spoke between great oaks. My traipses across green fields with my ready umbrella as boiling clouds opened and let streams of sunshine through to create one of those many Irish rainbows. Stunning cliffs descending into surging waters at the Cliffs of Moher.
And the birds. Oh, the birds! Were they ravens? Or rooks? Or jackdaws? All cousins of the common crow. The latter two weren’t familiar to me. We don’t have those where I live. But whatever the bird we saw great flocks of them sweeping across the historic Hill of Tara and others hovering around the haunting Rock of Cashel where they nested in those stone niches. My daughters joined me on part of that trip and marveled with me. [This morning I spent hours online trying to determine what birds we saw, listening to sample bird calls, reading about the different behaviors, watching videos of onsite tours, and my guess is that the bird shown below outside the Rock of Cashel tower is a jackdaw. And I’m guessing the birds at Tara were rooks.]
In this companion book I want to share the journey, the joys, and the challenges of my research to offer background for the novels.
So in these gray days some streams of sun shine through and I find purpose. May the promise of yesteryear sustain me. I wish such hope and promise for you, my good readers.
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.
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.
