Excerpt from Celtic Spirit

Chapter 6, Glendalough

Sandra is speaking,

And now we are on the way to Glendalough. The place I’ve wanted to visit since English class in high school. We were studying the English Lake Country poets. I loved them. Then there was a picture of this place with a tagline, retreating to Glendalough. The image has been with me ever since. In fact, I even used the picture in my memory to visualize my place of healing during chemo. And now, I am here. And, I am so grateful. To be here, to feel well, to have Jake by my side. Life is good.

It was misty this morning once we drove into the mountains south of Dublin. But, the view as we come into the valley between the two lakes is spectacular. I had never heard of St. Kevin or the history of this monastery, I just remember the beauty and serenity of that picture. Now I can see for myself why this glen between the lakes was such a draw. It is heaven. No wonder it’s been a favorite of poets and contemplative souls down through the ages.

The opening words to Wordsworth’s To a Skylark come to mind as I watch a singular bird soar through the trees against all these muted blues and greens and purples: 

Up with me into the clouds! For thy song, Lark, is strong. 

My, but it is beautiful. I came on this trip for recovery and renewal. This sure is the place.

The sun’s rays poke forcefully through the distant mist as Timothy parks. By now, I am totally awake, chipper and ready for a new day. And Jake, God Bless him, remains at my side.

We all amble along the stream with the old-style hotel to our right and the complex of ancient buildings and ruins to our left. The signature round tower’s top is visible beyond the stone walls and treetops. A harpist with her CDs for sale plays for us as we approach the entrance to the conclave. Jake stops to put a ten dollar bill into her basket. I pause to let the music of the harp enter me.

As we turn into the gate, we see the double arch. Going up the few steps and through the arch, I realize this is another portal. Of course, it is totally different from the dolmen in the Burren, but both are powerful in shifting my consciousness. We all mill around a bit before gathering to listen to the tour guide. I am glad no one breaks the silence of the moment. I want to savor it.

Finally, Gordie leads the way over to the guide. This fellow could have come from central casting; he is so perfect for the role. He has a worn tweed jacket, an Irish cap, and a line of blarney that while not irreverent, is more suited for a vaudeville show. You can tell he loves his work and takes great pride in sharing facts and figures as well as stories about the monastery finally, he walks us over to the round tower. 

It is so simple, yet so stately. I want to stop right here, get out my sketch pad and try to capture its beauty and the sense of security it gives me. I’ve never really thought about the word watchtower until now. Corny maybe, but I feel watched over by St. Kevin as I stand in its shadow.

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