A cure for the eye with water (cycling to St Deirbhiles holy well)

Tags

Achill, Astronomer, Belmullet, churches, God, holy wells, marriage, spring wells, St Deirbhile, suitors, the yellow bicycle, west of Ireland

Deirbhile, (pronounced Der-vil-a) the daughter of Conor Mac Daíthí, was of noble lineage. Having decided to devote her life to God and wishing to escape an army chief who intended to marry her, she headed westward.

So here comes Deirbhile astride her donkey (bicycles had yet to be invented) on the run from would be suitors.

She rides side saddle, enjoying the passing scenery but thinking mostly about the men she has left behind and not feeling one bit guilty about her thoughts.

She is not a saint yet.

A handsome woman with beautiful eyes, her trim figure causes no hindrance to the donkey who trots briskly westward.

Her astronomer maps their journey and at night points out to her the various constellations he is using to guide them.

But though she smiles and nods politely as if in agreeance, (for she is gentle and kind and wouldn’t like to hurt his feelings) she knows it is really God who is directing them.

As for the Astronomer? well he is wise, and knowing that she takes his science with a grain of salt, does not remark upon it, for, being a bit in love with her himself, he doesn’t want to hurt her feelings either.

He also knows that Deirbhile has given up on men and is giving herself to God instead so he is aware that his feelings for her are in vain. And being a man of rational accepts this and keeps his feelings to himself.

Yes, there she goes! trotting ahead of the posse (She has a large posse for she is a noble woman and her material needs of clothing, good hygiene, soft bedding, food and drink, must be met) and reaching the band of land which prevents Belmullet being an island she kicks her sturdy beast forward.

Not far to go now.

Her entourage traipse along behind her mostly on foot. Pulling along by the bridle, the other donkeys who in turn pull wooden wheeled carts piled high with the accoutrements for such a trip, they camp out most nights, only sometimes choosing the hospitality of the new monasteries which have begun popping up here and there enroute.

The year is 508 AD.

It is late spring. The peninsula of belmullet is probably a very different shape than it is today.

Infact it is probably more of a headland than a peninsula. Thickly forested with Birch, Oak, Alder, Willow, Ash and Scots pines, it is sparsely populated. Small wisps of smoke indicate the odd dwelling and these wisps are few and far between.

This is a wilder place than she has ever known.

The forest comes to an abrupt end and before her lies the sea.

Banks of short grass grow now instead of trees, which in turn give way to gentle undulating dunes beyond which lies a fair sized beach.

She notes that the sand is scattered with good sized stones, ideal for building.

She lifts her head to smell the salt air and as her donkey breaks into a trot down the hillside (she, giving unlady like yelps of glee) the sun breaks through and across the sea she spots the mauve outline of an island which appeared to hover over the water in a heavenly manner.

Oileán Acla (Achill Island)

Reaching the edge of the sand she slides off her donkey and lets the beast of burden free to crop the short grass but instead the donkey kneels and then lies down, rolling onto her back, legs kicking wildly in order to get rid of the feel of the saddle.

It has been many many days of travelling.

‘This the place my lady’

‘It is, God willing’ she smiles at her Astronomer and with that her entourage follow suite and soon the area is littered with tents and contentedly grazing beasts (Two cows, a young bull, a small herd of goats, a flock of chickens).

A young boy is given the job of herding the animals up the hill a bit and out of the way and keeping an eye on them.

He does so sulkingly, for he would rather be helping to hammer tent pegs into the ground. Sitting on the sandy grass, he roots around looking between the shells and stones and flowers for something of amusement.

At one particular place he noticed the ground is moist and spongy.

As he scratches at the soil, a pool of water appeared and he leans down to taste it. Excitedly he pulls the wooden beaker free from his belt and dips it in the watery hollow which was now filling rapidly.

He is not mistaken, it is fresh water with a sweetness of which he has never before tasted .

‘I have found good water’ he calls out proudly.

Deirbhile comes running across the grass and he reverently wipes the lip of the cup clean with his sleeve before passing it to her to taste.

‘Arah don’t worry about that child’ She chides taking the half wiped cup ‘We are all in the same boat here’ and she drinks thirstily.

‘Well done lad’ she ruffles his hair and calls for some implements and a helping hand.

Her women, down dipping their tired feet in the sea, whilst also picking shell fish for the tea, come running back up across the sand and between the lot of them they dig back the scraw and reveal the spring.

The children are given the job of finding smooth stones and they carefully line the hollow turning it into a deep clean well.

That night they sit around the fire eating a supper of fish and shell fish with various seaweeds and praise the wonders of God (The astronomer praising the wonders of nature though naturally under his breath) while the boy who doesn’t care one way or the other, has place of honor and is the center of attention.

His small belly is filled to bursting as they fuss and feed him as though he were a prince.

Over the days that follow, Deirbhile leads them in the hard work of marking out an area for the church, two fields away at a place called Fál Mór.

They set to with stones and sand and when thirsty fill their cups with the sweet well water.

Late spring moves into summer and they are happy in their work.

Then one day the boy who had been attending his expanding flock (The cows have calved successfully,some eggs have been saved and they have hatched and the goats have kidded) comes running over the hill.

‘Look over there! A man on a horse!

Deirbhile who has thrown off her veil and tied up her long tresses (making it easier to place each stone eveningly) straightens up from her work and shading her eyes looks in the direction the boy is pointing to.

Finbar, an army chief has been her most persistent suitor.

Not one to give up easily and certainly not a fellow to like being denied what he wants, he has at last tracked down his would be bride.

He slips off his high horse and lands with ease on the soft ground of the dunes.

Sweeping off his hat he bows low to Deirbhile who, despite streaks of mud across her pink cheeks and hair that was cascading untidily down her back looked as beautiful as he remembers.

‘I have already said no, and no means no’  Deirbhile stamps her foot.

‘It has always been presumed that when women say ‘no’ they really mean ‘yes’! She places her two hands defiantly on her hips’Well I say that is a load of tripe’

She glares at him and continues

‘We are busy here and everyone knows if they are offered mead and they say no the first time, they won’t be asked a second time. We have done away with that silly irish tradition of saying no to things first time round for fear of appearing greedy’.

‘When I say no! I mean no’

‘NO NO NO!’

She pauses to catch her breath whilst he thinks she looks even more beautiful when she is angry.

‘What is it you find so beautiful about me anyway’ she enquires waspishly

His gazes at her countenance with admiration.

‘It is your eyes’ he sighs at last ‘They are as blue as the sky and as clear as the sea in front of us’.

‘Oh really?’ She retorts ‘Well here! have them so’

And with that she gouges out her eyes and throws them in front of him.

Being a very squeamish man, with a leaning more towards poetry than war he is horrified and leaping on his horse, he gallops away, the hooves of his horse spraying those nearest with sand, so fast does he leave his intended.

And he is never to be seen again.

As the pain begins to set in, and Deirbhile starts to regret her hasty action, the boy, tears streaming from his own eyes, runs with a cup of water from the well to cleanse her bloody cheeks.

And as soon as the water touches her eye sockets, and before the eyes of her weeping followers, her sight is returned.

I like to think that this is the sequence of events though the story says that where her eyes hit the ground water sprang up through the ground to form the well and her sight was then returned, but I think that’s a bit far fetched.

And just because I love a happy ending (and because I have already taken an artists licence with my telling of the story) I like to think she marries her astronomer (though she also continues to be devoted to God) and they adopt the boy and all live their happily ever after in a large commune beside the sea.

1,508 years later, I sail down the very hill she trotted down (except I am on the yellow bicycle instead of a donkey) and as I gaze across the same sea at the same cliffs on Achill island I can imagine how she felt.

It’s a most beautiful vista.  The sun sparkles on the water. The Minaun cliffs, mauve against the blue sky, sweep down dramatically before dipping into the atlantic.

I stand for a while breathing in the salty air.

Then crossing the patch of short sheep cropped grass, I lean into her well and splash some of the sweet spring water on my eyes.

Cycling back to the church at Fál Mór, I pass a heap of stones and read (without glasses) that this is known locally as ‘Glúin an Asail’  the place where the donkey knelt upon her arrival all those centuries ago and rested after her long journey.

Three weeks later and I STILL don’t need reading glasses.

The end.

 

 

 

Abundance In Fish (A pictorial cycle of Bhealach Na Iascaigh)

Tags

cycling, Easkey, Fionn Mac Choill, fish, Pudding row, Queen maeve, rivers and lakes, surfing, The green way, the sea, the split rock, The wildatlantic way, the workhouse, the yellow bicycle

Imagine if someone told you they were from the village of Abundance In Fish.

Wouldn’t you want to go to see such a place?.

Even if you didn’t like fish wouldn’t you be curious? for surely such a name conjures up the magical imagery of the rivers, lakes and seas that Ireland is famous for? Especially the west of Ireland.

The Irish word for Easkey is Iascaigh, meaning just that! an abundance in fish and it’s a small village situated on both river and sea in Co sligo. A village renowned not only for its salmon but for its good surfing too.

Campers and vans park along its scenic drive, sporting surfboards and wetsuits and if you cycle along no matter what the weather or the season you will see people standing gripping cups of coffee and staring at the sea as if, by doing so, they will be able to summons up the ideal wave.

You will also see a rocky shore line whose flat slabs bear fossils of siphonophyllia coral and others dating back millions of years.

Looking to your left (if you are heading west)the hazy mauve silhouette of sliabh Gamh (the Ox mountains) will stand low and undulation, And though Ox is a misnomer (GAMH is the irish word for storm, DAMH is the irish word for Ox) it is near enough in sound but far from its true meaning, as are many irish place names that have got lost in translation over the centuries .

Across the bay is Knocknarea (Cnoc na Ré …hill of the moon),  On top of which a large cairn, supposedly the place of Queen Maeve’s burial, can be seen. They say she was buried, standing upright, in full battle dress, facing north. 

(Again this is a much disputed translation, some saying the name is Cnoc na Riabh? or Cnoc na riogha or even Cnoc na riaghadh? which would have  totally different meanings).

But I’ll hurry along as that is not what this post is about.

PART 1 THE WAY

These days it’s all about ‘THE WAY’.

Every country seems to boast of them. The Camino, St Francis’s way, St Paul’s Way and that’s only a tip of the iceberg.

Here in Ireland, The wild atlantic way and The green way trip easily off our tongues.

So this morning I am going to offer a pictorial account of a cycle along a way that, though short, I think includes everything ‘a way’ should.

I might even find a story on my journey .

Now I could call it ‘Small boreens with descriptive irish names and their meanings way’ but that’s a bit too long.

So instead I’ve decided to name it  ‘The meandering way’ or maybe ‘Bhealach na Iascaigh (The way of abundance in fish)’

~

The Old Workhouse in dromore west. (Droim mór meaning big hill). Built during the famine, burnt down during the troubles, it is now the home of my sister and her husband, both artists, and despite its sad history, a warmer more creative and colorful place I couldn’t wish to stay in and it is thanks to their hospitality that I can make my start from there.

I head out the door.

down the avenue and through the gates of the workhouse on a dull morning.

and turning right along the mainroad, I cycle a few hundred meters before taking a left up the Clooneen road (Cluainín meaning Little meadow) then the second right onto the moorland road.

After passing three or four houses, gables to the road, I am out into open country.

In front of me, across a bog dotted with yellow gorse and swathes of bog cotton, is the sea, behind the mauve of the ox mountains (Sliabh gamh)  

The road, a boreen really, has grass growing down its center and its low hedges are filled with goat willow, ox eyed daisies, purple vetch and orchids.

It weaves along in a meandering fashion, not in any hurry to reach its destination and carries me with it. The song of the skylarks and swallows accompanying.

I love these virtually car free roads. They allow for slowness and mulling of thoughts and the letting go of any sorrow or worry. I cannot feel anger or depression or loneliness on such roads, only peace and contentment.

I feel the stress of my recent days at work flow off my shoulders as I watch the breeze pick up the tresses of the bog cotton heads and blow them about, like one hundred bog nymphs dancing and tossing their hair in delight.

 

All too quickly (despite my slow bicycling) we reach the junction where this small boreen meets the coast road and we turn left in the direction of Easkey.

Its easy going for the yellow bicycle now with perhaps the hint of a downhill.

Being sunday morning and too early for the church goers the road is empty.

The sun comes out as I coast along picking up speed and I am so enjoying its warmth on my back and the wind in my hair that I almost miss the split rock at Killeenduff (Cillín dubh meaning Small black church or even Small dark wood)

I had promised My brother in law I would take a photo of it and the yellow bicycle

The legend goes that Fionn mac Cumail and other members of the Fianna were traipsing around the ox mountains hunting when they spotted two giant boulders. One of group challenged Fionn to a rock throwing competition to see who could throw the stone as far as the sea. Normally it would be no problem to Fionn but his heart wasn’t in it as Grainne whom he loved was about to marry Diarmuid. When his boulder did not reach the sea he flew into a rage and struck it in anger with his sword and split the rock in two.

I turn right at the next crossroads and speed down the hill to the scenic drive.

Ahead of me the commonage is alight with yellow bird’s foot trefoil . A brilliant contrast to the blue of the sea and the even bluer of the sky. The road levels out and I pedal along more slowly

The road winds along the coast and I stop now and again to take in deep breaths of fresh salty air and gaze out to sea knowing there is nothing between here and America.

As I reach the end of the scenic drive I hear a car coming up behind me and move over to let it past. But it stops and my sister, a fair weather cyclist, hops out and takes her bike off the rack on the back.

We are going to have a coffee stop at Pudding Row in the village of An abundance in fish.

At the end of the scenic drive looking out to sea, stands O Dowds castle (Caislean Ó Dubhda) but my eye is distracted by the new rusty (can there be such a thing) sign.

As myself and my sister discuss the merits and demerits of this sign (Apparently the plan is to place one at every beach along the wild atlantic way) a woman passes by.

‘Isn’t this wild atlantic way thing just wonderful.’ she enthuses, as though it had just recently been invented.

‘It is, but then it HAS always been there’ my sister replies dryly

The woman appears puzzled but we have turned our attention back to the rusty sign.

‘It looks as though something flew into the end of it and crumpled it’ I remark.

‘It looks like a medieval means for hanging the raiders of the castle’ my sister says cheerfully.

‘It looks like a flag pole’ I say loudly, in case anyone overhears her

(Or an instrument to ensure the castle isn’t tilting? this input comes from my niece later)

Just then a small bird alights on the crumpled end of the sign and looks as though it is letting us know what is missing.

‘What a pity they didn’t put a metal cutout of a seagull or better still a jumping salmon. A sort of windvane effect at the end of each sign. They could use whatever animal/bird /fish is common to the area.’ I am thinking out loud.

But my sister has had enough talk about the sign. After all she has to live with it.

We cycle on along the path by the river to the village.

And over the bridge under which flows the Easkey river (An Abhainn Iascaigh).

And I always find if I cycle for long enough I will come upon a story.

PART 2 THE STORY

We are coming out of Pudding Row following what started off as a coffee but ended up as a hearty breakfast. (If ever you visit pudding row, which I strongly recommend you do, prepare to abandon any ideas of just coffee) and are about to mount our bicycles when a man sails in between us on his.

He throws himself off his bike and onto the seat behind the two sculptures that my brother in law Cillian Rogers made all those years ago and yanks off his bicycle helmet impatiently.

His hair is stuck to his head. His face is a serious shade of red and being of ‘that age’ I am hoping he won’t suddenly put his hand to his chest.

He doesn’t! Instead he asks us the question that is on the mind of every middle aged cycling man.

‘ladies, how far have you come’?

‘Not far’ is my sister’s reply.

‘and how far are you going?

‘Not far’ my sister repeats.

She isn’t giving much away.

It doesn’t seem to perturb him for without even acknowledging her answer he launches into his own travels.

He tells us where he has come from (Ballina),  Beal an atha…mouth of the ford . Where he is going to (Trabhui)Trá Bhui …the yellow strand. How many kilometers it will be. How long it has taken him so far.

He continues by informing us how cycling is the best way to get rid of rich food.

(He doesn’t seem to hear my sister’s suggestion that it might be easier just to give up rich food) He alerts us to the danger of sugars. How it causes cancer and did we know that weed killer causes cancer of the liver.

At this point my sister throws her eyes up to heaven and makes her get away but I am left standing, nodding and clutching the handlebars of the yellow bike, not wishing to appear rude by leaving too. (The story of my life when it comes to men)

He pauses for a breath.

Then…

‘Are you a nurse?’ He enquires.

I am taken aback at his accuracy.

‘How did you know?’

‘Oh it’s the way you speak’ he nods sagely managing to look smug as well.

I don’t like to remind him that I hadn’t, up to that moment, spoken a single word. (again not confronting men is another of my life’s stories).

~~~

So with my story finished and my sister gone back to her car and home to make dinner, the last part of my cycle is up the ballinahown road (Baile na habhann… the mouth of the river)

Another few kms along and more bog with far off stands of trees sheltering small cottages.

From here it’s back onto the main ballina road where the sight of the workhouse is welcome…

I haven’t a clue how many kilometres I’ve covered, nor how many hours the Bhealach na Iascaigh has taken me. But I do know that I have a hunger on me that could only be satisfied with a large amount of rich food.

THE END

 

 

The Van.

Tags

bicycles.2cvs, butterfies, campers, Caterpillars, connemara, france, ladies, Vans, yellow bicycle

“The end of life for a caterpillar is a butterfly for the master.”

This quote came to mind recently and though it might not seem the most applicable one for the post I am about to write, in a vague way has something to do with it. 

For I have passed the caterpillar phase. Even passed the butterfly phase.

Now the third phase of my life (signified by the selling of my small green camper)is about to start. 

I have sold the van!

‘Please don’t call it that’ my younger daughter sighs throwing her eyes up to heaven. ‘It’s a camper not a van!’ (Which makes me wonder if the word ‘van’ has connotations that I am unaware of?)

But she is right! It’s more than just a Toyota hiace van its a CAMPER!

And it is efficiently fitted out with double bed, cooker, sink, fridge, storage cupboards, a passenger seat that swivels (to make a comfy armchair.) and a table to dine off.

It is turquoise green to match the color of the sea on a stormy day and, to make it look as though I have just driven through a cherry orchard, I have painted pink blossoms along its sides.

It did have a an awning but sadly all that is left of that is the holes where the bolts held it in place. (Gentle awnings built for shading one from the mediterranean sun are not capable of withstanding connemara storms as I discovered one night)

The bike rack on the back is invaluable for carrying my yellow bike and even my pink and my purple bike and when I’m heading west and am stopped at traffic lights, children in the back of the cars pulling up beside me point and smile and wave.

Once when I pulled into a petrol station, a very large and shiney audi jeep pulled up on the opposite side of the pump. As we filled our vehicles, our eyes lifted from our task and met across the metal tank.

‘I’m admiring your jeep’ I smiled at the well groomed blond woman.

She smiled back ‘My children and I think your camper is wonderful and want to do a swap. What a happy way it must be to travel’.

‘But yours looks so comfortable and new and shiney’ .

‘Things are not always as they seem’ she grimaced.

I wanted to enquire further but something in her eyes told me not to delve any deeper.

So I held my whist and instead waved at her children who are madly craning their heads for a better look

Yes it was such a happy way to travel and I am parting with it in sadness.

The lane down to my favorite camping place is narrow and potholed

I drive carefully, my two hands gripping the steering wheel. I already have a large dent in the sliding door where I hit a rock that had disguised itself as a fuschia bush.

To  my right, as the lane straightens out and over the stone wall, Jo’s garden is doing well with its rows of carrots and onions and spuds standing in neat lines.

I am drawn to a halt by a gate tied shut with a length of rope. I pull the brake, jump down and untying the rope, lift the gate open

Not being on hinges it is heavy and unwieldy but I don’t mind

The struggle is worth it. I follow one of the sand roads across the commons and it’s not by luck but from years of camping here that it leads me to my favorite spot.

I tuck the camper in behind ‘whale rock’.

Now though the west of Ireland is the favoured haunt of the green van camper, It is happy to explore further afield.

Driving from calais we too have been swept along with the flow of caravans, Cars pulling trailer tents and other campervans.

With registration numbers from Finland, Denmark, Sweden, we too flew like migrating geese in formation, heading south in search of warmth, sometimes passing and repassing each other at a speed my van camper has never known in ireland.

And she is able to keep up with the best of them except for once.

A tiny 2cv driven by two ancient white haired women shoots past us. Two worn leather suitcases tied to the back jiggle madly and look in danger of flying off as the small car bounces along like an out of control pram.

They disappear from sight in a swirl of dust. I fear for their safety but needn’t have worried.

When I pull into one of the ‘Aires’ to stretch my legs I see them again.

The tiny car is parked skew ways and is taking up two spaces.

Its two occupants are already settled nearby on a tartan rug in the shade of some pines.

An open picnic basket lies beside them and the slimmer and taller of the two is in the process of pouring coffee from a flask . Seeing me examining their car (It had a right hand drive and the reg which I had presumed was french but couldn’t quite see in the blur of their speedy passing was actually scottish) They wave me over.

‘Your from Eire, we passed you earlier! sit here, have a coffee with us’

They tell me their story.

Two sisters in their late eighties from Edinburgh who love all things french are heading to their house in St Tropez which they had bought 10 years previously.

‘We didn’t always live together but when our husbands died within a year of each other we decided it might be a good idea’

It worked well they told me. They couldn’t get on each other’s nerves because the younger one was a night owl and the older one an early bird so they didn’t have a chance to get in each other’s way. They shared the housework and then the younger did the cooking and shopping whilst the older ‘did the Bins’.

I didn’t think ‘doing the bins’ equalled the cooking and shopping and said so

‘Oh yes it does. Bins entail a lot of hard work’ The ‘bin ‘ sister explained. ‘You have to sort the rubbish, wash all the tins and jars, not mix the paper and the plastic, fold the newspapers, breakup and flatten any boxes, remember which day which bin goes out out on AND be up early enough to have it out on time.

She pauses to catch her breath

‘I would hate having to do all that’ the younger one frowns

‘And I would be bored cooking and shopping’ her sister replies.

They both smile at me, their ancient eyes still bright blue and their white hair in soft curls, seated elegantly on their tartan rug with their cardigans draped across their shoulders and tweed skirts pulled modestly over their knees, the pines shading their pale skin from the mediterranean sun.

‘So you see’ They say in unison ‘It works very well indeed’.

So goodbye dear van with your stories and memories of which there are too many to mention in a single posting.

I am sad to see you go.

But I still have my yellow bicycle and now am off once more to cycle the small roads of the west of Ireland in search of what the third stage of my life will bring.