Killarney Ireland

A vibrant town, Killarney is busy with tourists. Coffee shops, craft shops, restaurants, pubs, even the bookshops are crowded. People promenade the streets in the evenings. Mostly it seemed, reviewing places to eat and drink. The National Park a hiker’s paradise, as Molly Darcys nearby pub is. A great meal with wine never cost an arm and a leg. The Fairview Guest House, where we had booked B & B has a superb restaurant. With so much deliciously tempting cuisine on offer, a small breakfast became essential. The Dingle, The Ring of Kerry, Innisfallan, Valentia Island, Bantry Bay, Galway Bay, we were there.

The hire car climbed the mountains with ease, skipped along the narrow winding roads. The driver was pretty good as well. We went to Slea Head in the Dingle, where beach location shots for Ryan's Daughter were made. My memory of the beach scenes, are as fresh as when I saw the film in London...way back. The audience at the Leicester Square Cinema, were on the edge of their seats during the love scenes. Not from what we actually saw, more what we had imagined. I had never heard an audience sigh so deeply with unison, as we did on that night.

The red rider in the mist an unexpected occurrence, on what had been a long empty beach. One of those lovely surprises, when I had the camera poised like a telescope. Then the pink rider came trotting along. Where they had come from a mystery. Had they been in a cave, sheltered from the whipping rain?

Ambling

The village playing field with its broad swathe of trim green grass evokes a peaceful world. Walking with our hiking poles, a boy kicking a ball creases a smile. “Do we look odd?” Eileen exclaims. “Possibly,” I say unconcerned. "We’ll do a complete circle." The sun high in the sky has a gentle beat. The air canters along with an ear to conversation. This stretch of land knows the people who tread here, play cricket, football, take shortcuts to the farm for eggs.

As we walk the motion of the day becomes timeless. Children with their mother pick blackberries from the hedgerows. Old men on wooden seats, smoke their pipes reminiscing. We rest for a while on scruffy cricket club chairs. This high curve of the land beyond the tree-tops has a shallow valley, where the hazy edge of the town melts into the river. Eileen sighs, something has stirred her. “Forty years ago, Jim and I fell in love with this village.” Silence sits with our thoughts. Eileen drifts with Jim.

We complete the circle chatting. “Eileen, let’s do lunch on Saturday.” She ponders the merits of the nearby pubs. Her preference, for the garden centre. That suits me. We amble along the lane to her house for tea. Give grades to the gardens as we pass by. The quirky corner house, with its abundance of red, white, and yellow roses, has the highest.

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Innisfallen Island Killarney

The ever changing contrasts of the light in Ireland, surprised, frustrated, and delighted. A gift for photographers, provided that is, one has a deft eye. The rain tilted this way and that. The sun blessed us with briefly glorious interludes.

Blue smoky mists veiled the Killarney mountains, spiralled like serpents tails, curved sensuously, and playfully teased. Those could also be grimly somber, densely hiding the peaks. Fickle as they were, the mists captured my imagination. A landscape of visions, evoking the light and dark mystery of the soul.

Ross Castle Lough Leane Killarney



Innisfallen Island Silent &Tranquil




Innifallen Monastery Founded 7th Century



12th Century Augustinian Priory Innisfallen




Boatman Mr Murphy 21st Century Reading Newspaper



Of all the places visited, Innisfallen will live on in our memories. For the strong feeling of peace experienced on the island. For the continuity with those of the centuries past. Of solitude, prayer, and a presence greater than ourselves. From the deep well within,this island is an ideal hermitage to seek what that contains. But mostly we have to be our own islands, to find peace with self. Life is a circle of becoming, a long road upon which the journey is never completed. As with many a weary traveller, there are pauses to rest then continue. I had a deep desire to see Ireland. This is not unsual for those with Irish ancestors. It's that seeking the missing history of our roots.

Innisfallen is mostly dense with bushes, deciduous trees, and wild flowers. Mr Murphy said, deer swim over from the national park. There were four of us on the island. The other two, a young Danish couple. From the 7th century, the island was an important centre of monastic learning. Lough Leane means "lake of learning." As the monastery was founded by Saint Finan the Leper, I see why he would have gone there. Although in close proximity to Killarney, the island is just far enough from the town, for monks to live in seclusion.

As to how the monks survived on the island, I can only surmise. The lake contains salmon and trout, a tasty meal. Did they have a few sheep, goats or cows, grow vegetables, make herbal medicines from the plants? I'm curious about those aspects. I never saw evidence on the island, that they could be completely self-sufficient there. Some would have gone into the town. Probably for staples like flour, to make bread.

I imagine there are days, when Innisfallen becomes inaccessible. When dank mists hide the island. When storms turn the lake into a dangerous, heaving, cauldron. Transformed by the seasons, the island is bleak in winter, vibrant in spring, greenly verdant in summer, and gloriously amber in the fall. For the tranquility and the beauty of nature all around, Innisfallen is healing balm. Inspiring for writers and poets.

Illusion

It began with a room, the room where she writes. I had different views of her room, sometimes that was a prison. Gazing through a window with bars, her only solace seeing the sky. She wrote of sunrises and sunsets, as if those were tender kisses. Then the dark suffocating room where she hid, fearful of being found. A heavily draped room, where no sunlight filtered. Bleak, mysterious, and dangerous, the room where she shivered and wept, afraid the demons would engulf her. When she opened the window to write of her longing, warm light glazed the room. Her longing etched into my heart. I had never before witnessed such longing.

This is her story, the glimpses she gave from her room. Her name is fiction and her life real. You ask is her story real? Within the lines are many truths.