There and Back Again........
They made good time from Coole out to the Burren. Ian spent most of the time giving tribute to the dolmen specimen they would be visiting. The Poulnabrone dolmen in the Burren of County Clare was fairly well known; he made sure to tell them. He explained that this portal tomb, also called a cromlech in the Welsh tongue, was a type of single-chamber megalithic tomb that typically consisted of three or more upright stones supporting a flat capstone. Ian was heavily into the subject and would not have noticed if the family had long since stopped listening, so it was actually a good thing that he was entertaining them with his profusion of knowledge on the subject. He went on to tell them that most of the portal tombs date all the way back to 4000-3000 BCE or the early Neolithic period and were originally covered with earth to form a barrow. Some are still found this way, he noted, but most are skeletal, meaning that the earth has weathered away and only the stone structures remain.
Sean cut in suddenly and irritatingly to Ian’s monologue. “I thought the word dolmen actually meant stone table, you know, like the one from the books about Astalan.”
“You mean the C.S. Lewis novels?” asked Ian
“Yes, that’s what I mean, and I thought that Poulnabrone meant “hole of sorrows.” Is that true?”
“Actually, I think you are right,” said Ian sounding surprised and impressed. “Did you know that when they excavated the site in the mid-1980’s they found about 20 adults and six kids were buried in this portal tomb? They also found a newborn baby in the portico just outside the entrance along with all sorts of pottery, crystals, weapons and other stuff.”
“That’s kind of cool and gross all at the same time,” said Sean.
Fiona added, “Not too far from this area of the Burren is another famous burial site, though it is not given as much press for the tourists. It is one of the largest famine burial sites in all of Ireland. You will only see a very small monument erected there. But there are actually several mass graves in Ireland to mark the passing of so many from the great famine; it just so happens there is one in this area too.”
Lin took that moment to point out the scenic drive as they came in view of the sea coast. She thought it was a great time to change the topic. “We should soon be in Doolin,” she noted. “We might make it in time to slip over to get a view of the Cliffs of Moher before we register and have a bite to eat. I know you will remember that view, Mom, 700 feet over the Atlantic and all power and magic.”
“Great, more photos,” chorused the boys with wry smiles on their faces.
Those smiles turned to total wonder and awe not more than 20 minutes later as they crested the top of the footpath to look out over the view of the cliffs. “See there,” Lin pointed, “That’s what we dubbed the Wizard’s Key. I don’t know what they really call it. Isn’t it grand the way it just juts up out of the water so tiny with the enormous cliff next to it and yet so powerful all the same. If you watch, you can see the sea swirl right around it when the waves catch it just right.”
They watched as the waves did just that, magnifying the insignficance of the rock and yet at the same time making it seem somehow incredibly powerful. It was quite an inspiring sight.
They wandered the cliff edge together until the sun began to set. The boys actually took out their phones and snapped a few pictures themselves along the way. Both Nana and Lin noticed, but knew better than to make a remark on the “camera” usage, or the kids might not take another shot for the whole trip. They made it back into Doolin, found the bed and breakfast, and then went into town to one of the local pubs known for having music along with good food.
They were in luck as the pub did have a band in that evening. They made much more of a night of it than they had planned, staying out a couple of hours longer to enjoy the music and the company at the pub. Sean managed to get into a lengthy discussion about football with a couple of the men, which Ian plucked him out of in time to go back to the bed and breakfast. It was a good thing both boys loved soccer enough to be able to speak it in just about any culture they encountered, Lin thought. Though it might have been a bit more polite if Sean had at least pretended to think that the Irish team had some merit at the last World Cup.
With everyone settled, and the Guinness spinning happily in her system, she pulled out her notebook to jot down a few remnants of the day. She found herself just coming up with fragments of thought. She wasn’t really sure if they came from the waves or the music or a combination of the two, but she penned what came to mind:
Tossed on the Tide
Floating, no, rushing at high tide
Tumbling on the sand
Spilling and shifting
Then gathering her skirts and
Running back to sea
The salt spray in his hair
grit on his skin
it stayed with him on the shore
Him - barefoot and laughing with
the tumbling girl in the waves
She wasn’t sure he knew the source
of the taste of the water
But he did not drown in it
That was in his favor
And he was there
Towel in hand
at the next rising of the tide
to gather her up, froth and foam and weed
ply her with wine and laughter
And set her free when the tug came
back to the sea
Somehow what she remembered
As the waves whipped her hair
Was the towel in his hand
and the smile on his face
Lin slipped the notebook back in her pack, her mind wandering to the cavern, thinking of the moment when she had caught the laughter in Roary’s eyes when he caught her glance after she had managed to pull up the feed for the bird. She shook her mind’s eye free of the moment. What an odd thing to dredge up. She thought of the legend of Una and her tragic love and return to the sea. The old Irish tales were definitely melancholy. She padded into the bedroom where Fiona lay reading. “Goodnight, Mom, love you,” she said, slipping into bed and flipping the light off on her side.
Roary, for his part, had not enjoyed his trek to the cavern the last two days. It had been wet and miserable, which was partly his fault the first day as he had not timed it well and had actually had to wade through the beginnings of the rising tide in order to avoid spending the night in the place. It was actually quite reckless of him, but he would be damned if he was going to stay there overnight, so he had risked it. He ended up with a well-nicked shin for his efforts, but did get to sleep in his own bed.
It misted on his way over the second day. At least it was clearer now, he thought, as he made his way out to the ledge to “fish” for the swan’s dinner. As he positioned himself on the curve, he had a brief vision of Lin curled out over the water, looking for all the world like a piece of the sea herself. He almost let go of the outcropping that he was anchoring himself to with one hand with the effort to push that vision out of his head. He shoved the retriever down into the water with a bit more force than was necessary and snagged a bit of weed for the swan. Reeling himself in both mentally and physically, he made his way back to the cavern. He absentmindedly fed and bandaged the bird. Taking out the lunch he had brought with him, he also pulled out his now well-worn piece of paper and re-read her poem. He really should throw the blasted thing away, it was just that it intrigued him. She intrigued him, the ambiguity between the poem's lines and the girl who dared the sea and hummed softly to the vicious swan he now had the custody of. On an impulse, he scrambled through his pack and pulled out a pencil nub. Turning the page over and resting it on a relatively smooth rock, he began to write.
When There is Here
Here on this beautiful strange planet, habitable but cold,
is it distance or radiation that I feel - that softens my eyes,
this thinness of the atmosphere, high and fine - but blue?
And gold! It's tinged with gold at the edge, a bright blue bubble
This time of a rushing tide that should have come but once
and now returns as if it can't be held.
And back to the questions of distance and time,
and is it infinite or finite, and why?
And all the while it radiates and flows, across this gulf,
there to connect, radiate and flow.
Suddenly the goals evolve, the There is Here,
and standing on my crossed toes I can just see the beginning,
As it should have been.
Ah, the luxury of space and the longing of time,
and the promise of an expression to be shared.
He put his pencil down and read through what he had written. Reading it, he felt a very strong desire to erase it, but realized that to do so would mean ripping the paper to shreds. He wasn’t quite willing to part with the other poem yet. He folded the paper up and shoved it in his pocket. He wasn’t quite sure what he had meant with his words. They seemed to tie somehow to a distant past and yet also somehow to the bright girl on the ledge he had seen just a couple of days ago. The girl he was fairly certain wasn’t all that fond of him. He spent way too much time in his old books with the myths and legends. He really did need to live more in the here and the now as his friends so often reminded him. He packed up the rest of his supplies, hummed an off-handed and quick goodbye to the bird and his companions, and made his way out.
Climbing down onto the strand, he decided that his brain had gone to mush with all the wet. What he needed was a good drying out by a nice peat fire and some time with friends. He decided to have dinner at the pub that night and to put all this fluff and nonsense out of his head. He would take care of the birds and leave the flights of fancy to them. He took a big breath and started off toward the village with renewed vigor, glad for the sharp bite of the wind in his face.
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