Date: Sat, 11 Jul 1998 18:28:51 -0500 From: Phanny Subject: [WRITERS] SUB: CONTEST: Come to Inis Cealtra (fwd) Come to Inis Cealtra A light breeze creates small chop in the cold lake. The water is the color of strong tea because of the peat through which the river feeding the lake flows. Still the water is clear, clear enough that here, at a shallow point near land, we can see the rocks on the lake bed five feet below the surface. On this glorious day, white clouds hang motionless in intensely blue sky as if anticipating our journey into the stillness of monastic ruins. Sunlight wipes rocks, grass, and water with the lightest touches of gold. The outboard motor putts into silence and the dinghy bumps against a concrete jetty. We have arrived at Inis Cealtra, the Holy Island. Denis, the boatman, helps us onto the dock and says he will return in an hour and a half. Then, with a yank on a rope, Denis putts away and the modern world recedes. We are about to explore a place the guide books call one of the most beautiful monastic sites. We make our way up the jetty. The pamphlet map shows a path leading across the island to the ruins. At the jetty’s head starts a well trodden, albeit muddy, path. A hand lettered sign welcomes us: The Holy Island Beware of Bull We stare in amazement at the sign, at each other, at the sign. The guide books tout this place, the pamphlets show a well-marked trail, Denis gave no warning. It must be safe. We start up the trail. It skirts the lake for a short way, a copse of trees borders its inland edge; then it curves around an outcropping of rock. The trail has a gentle rise, not hard going at all. As we round the limestone outcrop, we see a verdant grassland embracing a series of small hills to the highest ground. There is no break in the green—the path has disappeared. One step forward lets us squishily know that the island is also a cow pasture. Undaunted, we have after all paid for the trip across a mile of lake, we scrape off our shoes and head in the direction the map indicates the path would take were it still there. The ground is rough and broken by the trampling hooves of cattle. Between keeping our balance as we search for level ground on which to step and avoiding cow patties our laughter blossoms across the fields. At the top of a hill we find further evidence of pasture. A herd of twenty or so cows and calves confront us. Beyond them, however, we spy our goal--the first of the ruins. The land, at this point, becomes rocky; the only relatively easy route lies through the herd. We press on; grazing cattle look up calmly to note our passage. Once we are challenged by a rambunctious calf, but a low mooing calls him back to his mother’s side. Safely past the herd--no bull in sight-- we enter the walled precincts of St. Caiman’s Church. The gray stone rises from the grass, silent and solid, so very different from the grass, hills, and water. However, it clearly belongs, rooted not only in the place but in time. For more than a thousand years this building has stood, recording in its walls the bustling life of the monasteries and invaders from Vikings to Cromwell’s soldiers to tourists. Other ruins exist here, just as mysterious, just as ancient, made of the same gray stone, the round tower the most spectacular. Perhaps sixty feet high and fifteen feet in diameter, the tower echoes others found across Ireland. More than a watch tower, a door ten feet above ground level reveals the purpose. During invasions monks could retreat to the tower and raise the ladder, safe--for a time. We wonder if any spirit watches from the tower as we wander where Viking raiders once ran. Another ruin we explore is St. Brigid’s Church. Small, walls partially collapsed, this church was dedicated centuries ago to Ireland’s soldiers. People say that women who enter will be barren. Legend surely, but a power emanates through the lichen-covered walls. We leave St. Brigid’s to walk among the gravestones in the "saint’s graveyard" where Celtic crosses and twelfth century stones with Irish inscriptions mark the graves of monks and abbots. Near St. Michael’s Church modern stones; this is, after all, still consecrated ground. There are other sites: St. Mary’s Church, the Holy Well (walk barefoot seven times around the island then see your reflection in the well and your sins will be forgiven), the Bargaining Stone (sweethearts join hands through a hole in the stone to plight their troth; no word on what happens if the pledge is broken), two Bulláns (large mortars in which medicines were ground), a ring fort. We climb to this ring fort, the highest point on the island, to gain a wider view and possibly discover the easiest way to the Holy Well and Bargaining Stone. We gaze across the island and Lough Dergh to the rolling hills of County Tipperary to the east. Inis Cealtra is, indeed, the perfect site for a contemplative life. Each of us turns to scan the extent of the island, senses immersed in its beauty. Turning west, we see, not twenty feet away, the bull. He watches us, deciding how much attention we deserve. Suddenly the Holy Well is not important. Discreetly we back away and take a long, circular route back to the ruins, then down the hill and back to the dock. The bull watches until the rock outcrop hides us. Early for our rendezvous with Denis, we sit on the jetty drinking from thermoses of coffee and dwelling on the magnificent beauty and powerful silence of Inis Cealtra. Here on this island, already a holy site upon the coming of Sts. Patrick and Caiman, we can find our souls refreshed.