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"Come with me, I'll show you eternity..."
Right. I have been writing this entry for over two weeks now, so I guess it's high time to get it posted already.
I wanted to post this yesterday alongside some other Ireland-related ponderings, but life decided to intervene. The said other ponderings will have to wait, then.
You can expect them soon, though, but first things first. A warning, though: the following account of our adventures between 6th and 7th of April in Ireland is long. "Like, Tolstoy long" to quote Agent Michael Vaugh from Alias. Try to bear with me, aye?
As I told you before, we had booked a trip to Tara. The original plan was just to visit Tara, but oh, we got so much more than that.
On Saturday morning we were shivering in the morning chill in front of the Royal Hotel on the O'Connell Street as this black mini van with the text "Celtic Experience Mystery Tour" drove up. The driver jumped out and called us in, starting to call us "little Vikings" as soon as he heard we were from Finland. :D He was Pól (or possibly just Paul, but whatever), our guide, and he was awesome. We climbed to the front seats next to him because the rest of the van was filled by a Spanish group, and started the journey Northwards.
The first stop was Fourknocks (Fuair Cnocs, meaning either "The Cold Hills" or simply "Four Hills", as there are three other burial mounds nearby), a megalithic passage tomb dating back to the days of the Tuatha Dé Danann, the first tribes in Ireland before the arrival of the Celts. That makes it approx. 5000 years old, older than the Giza Pyramids in Egypt. How cool is that?
As Pól told us, it was the burial mound of a local tribe, the king and his family having been buried to the main recess opposite to the doorway. He also explained to us the possible meanings of the different stone carvings inside of the burial chamber, and how they suggest that the primordial Irish tribes already knew a thing or two about astronomy (for example, just like in Newgrange, the rising sun shines right in through the doorway on the Winter Solstice). Quite astounding, don't you think?
The atmosphere in the burial chamber was quite extraordinary, though I did feel like an intruder. Out of all the places we visited, it was probably the most memorable one.
The journey continued to the monastery ruins of Monasterboice and Mellifont Abbey, after which we drove to town of Ardee for a lunch break. One remarkable detail I have to mention before I continue: there were crows everywhere. They were flying around in pairs, building nests. That's something you don't see that often in Finland. Now I really understand why crows and ravens were so important to the ancient Irish. The presence of The Morríghan still lingers.
But anyway, the lunch break. We stopped to dine in a local pub (the main difference between a bar and a pub is that pubs serve food), and oh, I miss the Irish food. In comparison Finnish food tastes like cardboard and ash. Maybe I even could gain a bit weight if I moved to Ireland. ;p
After we had eaten we were sitting outside waiting for the Spanish folks to finish their lunch when a group of possibly local guys, our age and pretty cute, came to chat with us. They asked where are we from and what are we doing in Ireland etc. and looked suitably dumbfounded when Ella started demonstrating Finnish to them. :D
However, when we mentioned we might be coming back next year to spend a week or two in the West Coast, their de facto leader, Clive, decided to give us his phone number and told us to call whenever we're back in Ireland. *grin* But well, Ella can keep Clive, I was characteristically more interested in the group's dark-haired poet boy, Calum. A really cute one, in a quiet, thoughtful kind of way. *smirk*
Then the boys left in their car and our journey continued too, towards Slane this time. Our main destination was Hill of Slane, another of the highlights of the trip to me. The sceneries from the top of the ruins were amazing, you could see especially well the effects of the rapidly changing weather; how the shadows of the clouds moved across the land, how it was clearly raining in the mountains in the horizon even though the sun was shining brightly where we were. Didn't see any ghosts, though, even though Pól claimed there have been sightings of spectral monks, slaughtered by Oliver Cromwell's troops in the 1600s. But then again, is there a corner in the British Isles that isn't claimed to be haunted? *chuckle*
Then, before we proceeded towards Tara, Pól wanted to show us the Slane Castle, the locale of many famous rock concerts, even though it wasn't really a part of the tour schedule. But he's awesome like that. :)
What was also noteworthy and really nice was that Irish music was playing in the car the whole time. Not your stereotypical "traditional Irish music", but everything from Dubliners and Clannad to Snow Patrol and U2. I especially remember the moment when we were standing on the old stone wall taking pictures of the castle while Beautiful Day was playing in the background. :) Pól also, more or less jokingly, suspected I'm at least half Irish due to my knowledge and love of Irish music and culture. *chuckle*
He did manage to tell me something I didn't already know, though: that U2's The Unforgettable Fire album was not only recorded in Slane, but also named after the Paschal fire lit by St. Patrick on the top of the Hill of Slane. Don't know how much truth there is in that, though. Ireland, after all, is the land of legends, in more than one sense.
He also amused us by making fun of poor Bono, calling him "filthy rich little leprechaun" among other things, and was really entertaining company as it is. :) I suppose he was also glad to have someone to chat with, as the Spaniards didn't seem to know a whole lot of English.
Tara was not very far away, so we arrived there shortly. I don't know why, but somehow it was as an experience to me perhaps the least impressive one on the trip. One of the things that put me off was probably the church right next to it. I mean, what the hell does a bloody church do at Tara, the place where the pagan High Kings reigned in ancient times? And St. Patrick certainly had nothing to do with the place, yet there is a statue of him there. *snort* Ah well... Maybe I'd just need a certain kind of state of mind to be able to savour that place. It would be an ideal scenario to be there alone at night, but guess that's not possible. *sigh*
But while we were there, we naturally had to go and touch the Lia Fáil, you know, just in case. *grin*
Didn't scream, though, which either means that neither of us is the rightful High Queen of Ireland, or that we didn't do it right. Perhaps we should have sat on it or something. Yeah, that must be it. ;p
There were a couple of little souvenir shops full of all kinds of New Age-y stuff, books and fairy figurines and such. Wasn't interested, so I tried if I could find some Yeats poetry books from the tiny and atmospheric second-hand bookstore next to the souvenir shops. Didn't have much luck, but I did find a pretty nice Irish-English dictionary which I promptly purchased. <3
As we started back towards Dublin, the sky clouded over and sprinkled some hailstones on us, but the location being Ireland, the sun was soon shining again. On the way back, Pól demonstrated his awesomeness again by deciding to drive through the Phoenix Park, even though it wasn't, once again, part of the route. And boy, it's BIG. Took about 20 minutes to drive through. I can very well believe it's "the largest enclosed urban public park" (as Wikipedia puts it) in Europe. I think Pól claimed it's even bigger than the Central Park, and I might actually be inclined to believe him. Too bad we didn't see any of the wild fallow deer that reside there. Next time I really need to find time to pay a proper visit, maybe go to the Dublin Zoo, even.
And when he finally dropped us off at Grafton Street, we gave him a generous tip for his awesomeness so he could go and get himself a pint of Guinness. He was a great chap. So, if you ever go to Dublin and want to take tour across the nearby countryside, I'd recommend these tours.
On Sunday, then, before our flight back to Finland, was the time for the final stop in more than one sense: the Kilmainham Gaol.
It was the place I had both anticipated and dreaded visiting the most, due to my strange fascination/connection with the Easter Rising. And less sensitive people than me have prominently been quite shaken after visiting the gaol. However, it wasn't as bad as I'd expected. The experience, that is.
The gaol itself was far from being a cheerful place; oppression, hopelessness and desperation positively oozing from its old stone walls, just like the chilly moisture that must have been hell during winter months. However, to me probably the worst place was the prison chapel.
It's warmly lit and quite beautiful considering the surroundings, but the atmosphere... It doesn't have the same kind of aura of evil as St. Anne's Chapel at the Aboa Vetus ruins here in Turku (even though, as I later learned, some have allegedly sensed a presence of something malevolent in there), but the first time the hairs of the back of my neck stood up and I got teary-eyed was in the chapel where our guide gave us an audio-visual show about the history of the gaol. I'm willing to bet that the center of the paranormal energy in that place is in the chapel. *looks thoughtful*
In the 1916 Corridor where the rebels were held or at the Stonebreakers' Yard where they were executed I didn't feel anything special (except sorrow and the weight of the history), but then again, it's difficult to imagine any of them staying behind to haunt the place somehow (except maybe Pearse who could have probably stayed behind to haunt just for the sake of haunting, to show his pride of dying for his country. He was weird like that :p). The echo of their presence maybe, but not their restless spirits.
I would like to visit it again, though, if only to find out if it feels any different now that I know more.
Then we had to start hurrying towards airport, but not before one more rather interesting incident. We were standing in quite crowded traffic lights next to the O'Connell Bridge when someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around to find out two female Garda (police, that is) officers in civilian attire had caught this stoned-looking Romanian girl and her boyfriend who had tried to open my backbag. So, feeling quite gobsmacked we looked on as the officers put them against the nearest wall and handcuffed them. I also naturally had to give my contact information to them, so now the Irish police has records of me. :D
But wow, that's some effective law enforcement. I hadn't even noticed anything. O_O
On the airport we started bickering again (a recurring theme, but more on that later), as I refused to take any stress about catching the flight in time which annoyed Ella who at that state already looked forward to going home. Turned out the flight was late anyway due to foul weather in Britain and France, so even I was there in good time after all even though I had gone to grab some lunch instead of waiting at the boarding gate. So in wistful moods I gazed at the Wicklow Mountains in the horizon and read the quotes from famous pieces of Irish poetry and literature that adorned the terminal walls, swearing to myself I would return. In Irish language there is no such word as "goodbye", they say "farewell" ("slán (agus) beannacht" means more or less "go with blessings"). I will hold on to that.
Leaving Ireland was pretty tough, as I could see no positive sides in going back to Finland. I could have happily stayed for another week if it had been possible.
The flight was okay, though. As the plane was slightly different than the previous ones, the seats were more comfy. And this time we were near the cockpit in the front so we didn't have to endure the hellish noise of the engine. Flying over the snow-topped Scandic Mountains was also cool, the scenery was astounding.
But the landing. *sigh* I hate the landing part of flying the most as it is because the air pressure kills my ears and makes my whole body ache, but the uncomfortable experience was even added to by the absolutely miserable weather that greeted us upon our arrival. It was dark, chilly and rainy and the Pirkkala Airport looked even more ridiculously unimpressive after seeing the big, modern international airports of Stansted and Dublin.
Also, hearing Finnish spoken all around me felt strange rather than familiar and comforting and speaking English came still more naturally to me, but I soon found there's at least one good side in our decidedly unpractical and graceless language: swearwords. You see, we soon found out there were absolutely no public traffic going to Turku from Tampere anymore at that hour (it wasn't even 11 PM yet, it's ridiculous), so I was presented with a very good excuse to give this country some rather heavy verbal abuse as staying the night in Tampere wasn't an option because I had to be at work 9 AM in the morning.
Finally we decided to take the last Pendolino (and I bloody hate those things) to Helsinki and a night bus from there to Turku, which cost us probably more than it would have costed to fly back to Dublin. *snort* And I was sorely tempted, I tell ya.
Ella wasn't bothered by these setbacks, she was just glad to be back and started calling her friends as soon as we landed. Well, at least one of us doesn't feel like a stranger in her own country.
Finally we arrived to Turku in the small hours of the Monday morning and I even managed to get luxurious two hours of sleep at my mom's before going to work. Home sweet home...
I wanted to post this yesterday alongside some other Ireland-related ponderings, but life decided to intervene. The said other ponderings will have to wait, then.
You can expect them soon, though, but first things first. A warning, though: the following account of our adventures between 6th and 7th of April in Ireland is long. "Like, Tolstoy long" to quote Agent Michael Vaugh from Alias. Try to bear with me, aye?
As I told you before, we had booked a trip to Tara. The original plan was just to visit Tara, but oh, we got so much more than that.
On Saturday morning we were shivering in the morning chill in front of the Royal Hotel on the O'Connell Street as this black mini van with the text "Celtic Experience Mystery Tour" drove up. The driver jumped out and called us in, starting to call us "little Vikings" as soon as he heard we were from Finland. :D He was Pól (or possibly just Paul, but whatever), our guide, and he was awesome. We climbed to the front seats next to him because the rest of the van was filled by a Spanish group, and started the journey Northwards.
The first stop was Fourknocks (Fuair Cnocs, meaning either "The Cold Hills" or simply "Four Hills", as there are three other burial mounds nearby), a megalithic passage tomb dating back to the days of the Tuatha Dé Danann, the first tribes in Ireland before the arrival of the Celts. That makes it approx. 5000 years old, older than the Giza Pyramids in Egypt. How cool is that?
As Pól told us, it was the burial mound of a local tribe, the king and his family having been buried to the main recess opposite to the doorway. He also explained to us the possible meanings of the different stone carvings inside of the burial chamber, and how they suggest that the primordial Irish tribes already knew a thing or two about astronomy (for example, just like in Newgrange, the rising sun shines right in through the doorway on the Winter Solstice). Quite astounding, don't you think?
The atmosphere in the burial chamber was quite extraordinary, though I did feel like an intruder. Out of all the places we visited, it was probably the most memorable one.
The journey continued to the monastery ruins of Monasterboice and Mellifont Abbey, after which we drove to town of Ardee for a lunch break. One remarkable detail I have to mention before I continue: there were crows everywhere. They were flying around in pairs, building nests. That's something you don't see that often in Finland. Now I really understand why crows and ravens were so important to the ancient Irish. The presence of The Morríghan still lingers.
But anyway, the lunch break. We stopped to dine in a local pub (the main difference between a bar and a pub is that pubs serve food), and oh, I miss the Irish food. In comparison Finnish food tastes like cardboard and ash. Maybe I even could gain a bit weight if I moved to Ireland. ;p
After we had eaten we were sitting outside waiting for the Spanish folks to finish their lunch when a group of possibly local guys, our age and pretty cute, came to chat with us. They asked where are we from and what are we doing in Ireland etc. and looked suitably dumbfounded when Ella started demonstrating Finnish to them. :D
However, when we mentioned we might be coming back next year to spend a week or two in the West Coast, their de facto leader, Clive, decided to give us his phone number and told us to call whenever we're back in Ireland. *grin* But well, Ella can keep Clive, I was characteristically more interested in the group's dark-haired poet boy, Calum. A really cute one, in a quiet, thoughtful kind of way. *smirk*
Then the boys left in their car and our journey continued too, towards Slane this time. Our main destination was Hill of Slane, another of the highlights of the trip to me. The sceneries from the top of the ruins were amazing, you could see especially well the effects of the rapidly changing weather; how the shadows of the clouds moved across the land, how it was clearly raining in the mountains in the horizon even though the sun was shining brightly where we were. Didn't see any ghosts, though, even though Pól claimed there have been sightings of spectral monks, slaughtered by Oliver Cromwell's troops in the 1600s. But then again, is there a corner in the British Isles that isn't claimed to be haunted? *chuckle*
Then, before we proceeded towards Tara, Pól wanted to show us the Slane Castle, the locale of many famous rock concerts, even though it wasn't really a part of the tour schedule. But he's awesome like that. :)
What was also noteworthy and really nice was that Irish music was playing in the car the whole time. Not your stereotypical "traditional Irish music", but everything from Dubliners and Clannad to Snow Patrol and U2. I especially remember the moment when we were standing on the old stone wall taking pictures of the castle while Beautiful Day was playing in the background. :) Pól also, more or less jokingly, suspected I'm at least half Irish due to my knowledge and love of Irish music and culture. *chuckle*
He did manage to tell me something I didn't already know, though: that U2's The Unforgettable Fire album was not only recorded in Slane, but also named after the Paschal fire lit by St. Patrick on the top of the Hill of Slane. Don't know how much truth there is in that, though. Ireland, after all, is the land of legends, in more than one sense.
He also amused us by making fun of poor Bono, calling him "filthy rich little leprechaun" among other things, and was really entertaining company as it is. :) I suppose he was also glad to have someone to chat with, as the Spaniards didn't seem to know a whole lot of English.
Tara was not very far away, so we arrived there shortly. I don't know why, but somehow it was as an experience to me perhaps the least impressive one on the trip. One of the things that put me off was probably the church right next to it. I mean, what the hell does a bloody church do at Tara, the place where the pagan High Kings reigned in ancient times? And St. Patrick certainly had nothing to do with the place, yet there is a statue of him there. *snort* Ah well... Maybe I'd just need a certain kind of state of mind to be able to savour that place. It would be an ideal scenario to be there alone at night, but guess that's not possible. *sigh*
But while we were there, we naturally had to go and touch the Lia Fáil, you know, just in case. *grin*
Didn't scream, though, which either means that neither of us is the rightful High Queen of Ireland, or that we didn't do it right. Perhaps we should have sat on it or something. Yeah, that must be it. ;p
There were a couple of little souvenir shops full of all kinds of New Age-y stuff, books and fairy figurines and such. Wasn't interested, so I tried if I could find some Yeats poetry books from the tiny and atmospheric second-hand bookstore next to the souvenir shops. Didn't have much luck, but I did find a pretty nice Irish-English dictionary which I promptly purchased. <3
As we started back towards Dublin, the sky clouded over and sprinkled some hailstones on us, but the location being Ireland, the sun was soon shining again. On the way back, Pól demonstrated his awesomeness again by deciding to drive through the Phoenix Park, even though it wasn't, once again, part of the route. And boy, it's BIG. Took about 20 minutes to drive through. I can very well believe it's "the largest enclosed urban public park" (as Wikipedia puts it) in Europe. I think Pól claimed it's even bigger than the Central Park, and I might actually be inclined to believe him. Too bad we didn't see any of the wild fallow deer that reside there. Next time I really need to find time to pay a proper visit, maybe go to the Dublin Zoo, even.
And when he finally dropped us off at Grafton Street, we gave him a generous tip for his awesomeness so he could go and get himself a pint of Guinness. He was a great chap. So, if you ever go to Dublin and want to take tour across the nearby countryside, I'd recommend these tours.
On Sunday, then, before our flight back to Finland, was the time for the final stop in more than one sense: the Kilmainham Gaol.
It was the place I had both anticipated and dreaded visiting the most, due to my strange fascination/connection with the Easter Rising. And less sensitive people than me have prominently been quite shaken after visiting the gaol. However, it wasn't as bad as I'd expected. The experience, that is.
The gaol itself was far from being a cheerful place; oppression, hopelessness and desperation positively oozing from its old stone walls, just like the chilly moisture that must have been hell during winter months. However, to me probably the worst place was the prison chapel.
It's warmly lit and quite beautiful considering the surroundings, but the atmosphere... It doesn't have the same kind of aura of evil as St. Anne's Chapel at the Aboa Vetus ruins here in Turku (even though, as I later learned, some have allegedly sensed a presence of something malevolent in there), but the first time the hairs of the back of my neck stood up and I got teary-eyed was in the chapel where our guide gave us an audio-visual show about the history of the gaol. I'm willing to bet that the center of the paranormal energy in that place is in the chapel. *looks thoughtful*
In the 1916 Corridor where the rebels were held or at the Stonebreakers' Yard where they were executed I didn't feel anything special (except sorrow and the weight of the history), but then again, it's difficult to imagine any of them staying behind to haunt the place somehow (except maybe Pearse who could have probably stayed behind to haunt just for the sake of haunting, to show his pride of dying for his country. He was weird like that :p). The echo of their presence maybe, but not their restless spirits.
I would like to visit it again, though, if only to find out if it feels any different now that I know more.
Then we had to start hurrying towards airport, but not before one more rather interesting incident. We were standing in quite crowded traffic lights next to the O'Connell Bridge when someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around to find out two female Garda (police, that is) officers in civilian attire had caught this stoned-looking Romanian girl and her boyfriend who had tried to open my backbag. So, feeling quite gobsmacked we looked on as the officers put them against the nearest wall and handcuffed them. I also naturally had to give my contact information to them, so now the Irish police has records of me. :D
But wow, that's some effective law enforcement. I hadn't even noticed anything. O_O
On the airport we started bickering again (a recurring theme, but more on that later), as I refused to take any stress about catching the flight in time which annoyed Ella who at that state already looked forward to going home. Turned out the flight was late anyway due to foul weather in Britain and France, so even I was there in good time after all even though I had gone to grab some lunch instead of waiting at the boarding gate. So in wistful moods I gazed at the Wicklow Mountains in the horizon and read the quotes from famous pieces of Irish poetry and literature that adorned the terminal walls, swearing to myself I would return. In Irish language there is no such word as "goodbye", they say "farewell" ("slán (agus) beannacht" means more or less "go with blessings"). I will hold on to that.
Leaving Ireland was pretty tough, as I could see no positive sides in going back to Finland. I could have happily stayed for another week if it had been possible.
The flight was okay, though. As the plane was slightly different than the previous ones, the seats were more comfy. And this time we were near the cockpit in the front so we didn't have to endure the hellish noise of the engine. Flying over the snow-topped Scandic Mountains was also cool, the scenery was astounding.
But the landing. *sigh* I hate the landing part of flying the most as it is because the air pressure kills my ears and makes my whole body ache, but the uncomfortable experience was even added to by the absolutely miserable weather that greeted us upon our arrival. It was dark, chilly and rainy and the Pirkkala Airport looked even more ridiculously unimpressive after seeing the big, modern international airports of Stansted and Dublin.
Also, hearing Finnish spoken all around me felt strange rather than familiar and comforting and speaking English came still more naturally to me, but I soon found there's at least one good side in our decidedly unpractical and graceless language: swearwords. You see, we soon found out there were absolutely no public traffic going to Turku from Tampere anymore at that hour (it wasn't even 11 PM yet, it's ridiculous), so I was presented with a very good excuse to give this country some rather heavy verbal abuse as staying the night in Tampere wasn't an option because I had to be at work 9 AM in the morning.
Finally we decided to take the last Pendolino (and I bloody hate those things) to Helsinki and a night bus from there to Turku, which cost us probably more than it would have costed to fly back to Dublin. *snort* And I was sorely tempted, I tell ya.
Ella wasn't bothered by these setbacks, she was just glad to be back and started calling her friends as soon as we landed. Well, at least one of us doesn't feel like a stranger in her own country.
Finally we arrived to Turku in the small hours of the Monday morning and I even managed to get luxurious two hours of sleep at my mom's before going to work. Home sweet home...