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Yesterday was a sad day for Eoin and me because my daughter, Kate, headed back to Chicago after spending a week with us in Kilkee.
The actress hams it up at the fireside.
Kate’s enthusiasm and the delight she takes in her surroundings – from admiring the grandeur of the cliffs to the tiniest details, like the cup her tea is served in – makes her a kindred spirit and we have great fun together! We laughed our way through The Burren in search of The Burren Perfumery; scared ourselves investigating a holy well at the side of a dark, country road; walked along cliffs and admired the ever-changing views of the sea; took countless drives around Loop Head on bright Irish summer evenings; marvelled at dolphins and ruins; and explored the Pollock Holes – cringing at sea creatures, which Eoin handled with ease.
Kate's "eww" face
We oohed and ahhed over beautiful scenery, baby animals in fields, Irish pottery and handcrafts, cozy, quaint tea shops and even the perfect shade of blue paint that trimmed the windows of a stone cottage!
During our long journey through The Burren in search of the Perfumery, I joked that the three of us were “Thelma and Louise – and Bart Simpson”!
…well Louise, Bart and I had a great time exploring West Clare and sharing the cottage with you and hope you come back again and again! Slán abhaile a Kate!
"Louise" and "Bart" having tea at the quaintest tea shop in The Burren.
Waves and and a seaweed whip - what more does a boy need?
Here is a boy who, even after a winter of taking private swimming lessons to prepare for his summer in Kilkee, still didn’t like to get his face wet, let alone put his head under water!
Now he spends hours in the sea playing in the waves and riding them with his boogie board; looking for, and even picking up, marine life at the Pollock Holes; using seaweed as a toy; exploring the rocky ridge called Tucker; observing the changing tides, crashing waves, rock formations and wildlife around the cliffs; and in general enjoying a life near the sea. Now I am even hearing enthusiastic talk about his plans to surf one day… a prospect I am not as enthusiastic about!
Much of the new Eoin, I credit to his time spent this summer at Nevsail Watersports Summer Camp . Thanks to Nevsail, Eoin is now willing to spend hours in the wild and cold Atlantic Ocean, both at the camp and on his own, afterwards. In the camp, he has had the opportunity to try his hand at such watersports as kayaking, canoeing, boogie boarding, snorkeling and more – and has even spent some time building a raft! The enthusiastic young instructors at the camp have been great about encouraging this shy, hesitant boy to try activities that he would never have attempted otherwise and their kindness and sensitivity have made him feel welcome and comfortable in the camp.
Eoin’s daily explorations around the bay of Kilkee and his experience within the camp, have made him, not only more confident and comfortable with the sea, but more confident in his own skin. This makes every minute I’ve spent squeezing him into, and prying him out of, his wetsuit – and then properly cleaning it after each use – well worth the effort!
How long would I have to live here before the surroundings became routine and not worthy of wonder, excitement – and photographs? I doubt that the dramatic beauty of this place could ever become mundane to me, in any amount of time.
A boat in the Shannon Estuary at Loop Head this foggy evening.
Tonight at dinnertime, Eoin and I decided to drive away from Kilkee and further into Loop Head for a bite to eat. During our many journeys around Loop Head we have often passed a pub that sits along the shore of the Shannon Estuary, which borders the southern part of the Loop Head Peninsula with the Atlantic on the northern shoreline. Keating’s Pub is in the townland of Kilbaha, just a couple of miles from the very tip of the peninsula where the lighthouse stands. The beautiful setting of this pub and the remoteness of the site have beckoned me to pay a visit.
Dinner itself was a pretty basic affair, with Eoin opting for the usual Chicken Goujon and me, the vegetarian stir-fry with rice. Following our meal, and after a pleasant conversation with the pub owner about a local man whose book I am currently reading, we said goodbye and headed for the car to make our way home. Much to my surprise, in the hour or so we took to have our meal, a cloud had descended upon Loop Head and the whole area was thick with mist. Dusk quickly approaching and the fog around us, the sensible thing to do may have been to head straight home, but I couldn’t resist driving further up the road so that we might see what the lighthouse looked like in such a thick, foggy mist. Visibility made it difficult to see beyond about two or three car lengths so I drove slowly along. Somehow, Loop Head, even in these conditions, didn’t seem eerie to me. It simply presented a scene of peacefulness and a bygone era. When we arrived at the farthest tip of the peninsula the fog was so thick that the lighthouse was just a barely visible outline of light grey surrounded by white.
We didn’t stay long at the lighthouse but we didn’t rush home either. I drove slowly for safety’s sake and we were able to take in the passing scenery with the attention it deserved. The Atlantic on our left and the Shannon on our right were invisible at the narrowest part of the peninsula. It looked as though the world ended at the cliffs. As we proceeded further down the road toward Kilkee things cleared up just enough to see a bit farther into the Shannon and we were able to ponder the fishing boats anchored offshore, wondering aloud about what it was like sitting in a boat in the water on a night like this.
Keating’s Pub in Kilbaha in a cloud.
We passed Keating’s again on the way back and I decided to stop at a clearing at the side of the road to take a photo of the pub surrounded by the mist. Wandering a bit further along the road, we stopped again at a rocky shoreline where seals sometimes visit. No seals were present at the moment, but Eoin had fun looking for them! As I took photos of him on the look out for seals, we heard cows mooing in the mist behind us.
Pretending to spot seals on the rocks!
Back in the car, we drove on toward Kilkee, only to stop again as we passed a mother horse walking about with her youngster, peacefully nibbling on the grasses of the field, appearing unconcerned with the mist surrounding them. This idyllic scene called for more photos, which not only show the horses, but the beautiful field they were grazing upon. Mother and child looked back at us curiously, perhaps wondering what sort of lunatics would be out driving and taking pictures on such a night!
Mother and child observing mother and child – the fog barely showing up in the photograph! Photo by Eoin.
By the time we entered our cottage through its newly installed half-door, we were both physically satisfied from our meal and spiritually satisfied by the delightful drive home afterward. Here on the Loop Head Peninsula, non-events become events and a simple dinner can become a journey through the mists to a place out of time.
Sr. Bernardine- photo by John Kelly courtesy of "The Clare Champion"
I just love seeing nuns… sort of like I love touring old churches – even though I’m not particularly fond of actually attending church! There is something ‘Old World’ about the sight of these entities and something enticing about ancient tradition, either religious or not. Being around devout people and spiritual places can transport a person out of the routine of modern life.
There are a group of nuns who make part of their living in my town running espresso stands in our local library and train depot. This particular order of nuns dress from head to toe, in a habit that makes these very young women seem like apparitions from Medieval Europe. When my son was between apartments and back home with us for a month last summer, I think buying his morning coffee from the nuns at the train station was a highlight of his day because it took him outside of the morning rush hour and gave him the feeling, for a brief time each morning, that he was coming into contact with a different world. And I must admit to purchasing a few mochas at the library just for the opportunity to interact with these “strange” creatures. My curiosity and slight fascination with nuns, probably springs from the fact that I am not a Roman Catholic, therefore I have minimal experience with them or knowledge about them, and carry no nun-related baggage. In any case, this photograph of Sister Bernardine Meskell, mother abbess of the Poor Clare Monastery in Ennis, grabbed my attention while I was glancing through The Clare Champion newspaper online yesterday. Happily, the article attached to the photo gave me an excuse to include the photo here!
The Clare Champion is a County Clare newspaper, which I have linked to my desktop, so that I may browse through it now and then to see what is going on in the Rose Cottage neck of the woods. Most of the articles in the paper are not very interesting to me at the moment, since I am not attuned to the local issues. However, now and then a photo or article will entice me to read past the title, which is what happened when I beheld Sister Bernardine standing there with her umbrella and jolly smile! The purpose of the article was to announce the launching of an interesting new book entitled, Salty Faces and Ferocious Appetites – A tapestry of stories from a Seaside School, written to mark the founding, 80 years ago, of St. Joseph’s Secondary School in County Clare’s Spanish Point. The reason for the Sister’s prominence in the article is that she not only was a student of the school from 1958 to 1963, but the book’s title comes from a story she relates within the book about her years as a boarder at St. Joseph’s. The article, for the most part, quotes her story. Sister Bernardine begins,
“The sea was magic… I particularly loved the rough winter waves and those walks by the White Strand or down the Racecourse Road coming back with salty faces and ferocious appetites. A winding trail of maroon with a hint of blue regularly moved with the coast road. I still cherish the memory of those school walks. Water always held something special for me, even the rain. During the school term in Spanish Point there was plenty of both sea and rain.”
Following this enchanting beginning to Sister Bernardine’s story, the article goes on to give her recollections, described in vivid detail and with the same joyful tone as her smiling photograph portrays, about her experiences at the school, the friends she made there, the nuns who taught her and the story of what put her on the path of becoming a Poor Clare nun. Along with the reminiscences of Sister Bernardine, another 38 former pupils and teachers are featured in this book, which celebrates the many years of St. Joseph’s Secondary School. Salty Faces and Ferocious Appetites promises to not only paint a detailed picture of this one-time boarding school, but should also give interesting historical insight into a time past in County Clare, and in Irish education in general. Needless to say, this is a book I will be on a quest for, during my next trip to County Clare!
Ennis, photo by Peter Choi
One of the things I learned during my first trip to Ireland, was that often it is the mistakes and mishaps that can turn a vacation into a bit of an adventure and lead to unexpected delights. Don’t get me wrong; sometimes a mistake is just a mistake. Like the Jury’s Hotel my travel agent booked me into for my first two nights in Dublin. I had requested a hotel that would put me within walking distance of the City Centre so that I could do all my Dublin sightseeing on foot. She assured me this was the case, however, the rather fatherly taxi driver who drove me from the airport to the hotel, immediately set me straight on this particular mistake when he warned me that the neighborhood north of the Liffey, where this hotel had recently been built, was not safe to walk around in at night and that I should also, never venture north of my hotel even during daylight! It didn’t take me long to find out that the taxi driver was right and I was forced to hire the taxis I had hoped to avoid hiring when I booked my room from the States.
Also, there are the awkward, embarrassing mistakes that can happen when traveling to an unfamiliar place on your own. This type of mistake happened to me at Trinity College Dublin when I went to see one of the main sights on my list, the Book of Kells. When I approached the building that the map I was carrying had led me to, sure enough there was a sign posted on the wall stating, “Book of Kells” with an arrow pointing me toward the right. I turned right and proceeded until I got to the far end of the building, where I came upon another sign stating, “Book of Kells”… except this sign pointed me back in the direction of the other sign. A bit flummoxed, I stood between the two signs facing an oversized, unmarked, ancient looking wooden door with an old brass doorknob at its center that looked as though it had not been opened since ‘Dracula’ writer, Bram Stoker, attended the institution. I shrugged my shoulders and decided to give it a try. First I jiggled the doorknob, but it would not budge. Then, beginning to feel foolish but not wanting to give up too easily, I knocked. Nothing. Finally, while I stood between those two signs knocking on that old, locked door, a student walked up to me and said, “That door doesn’t open. I’ve never seen it open.” I indicated the two signs and their arrows and the student just shrugged it off as though that was to be expected and proceeded to lead me around the the corner to the large, quite modern looking entrance to the museum. Red faced, I felt like I had just fallen for the “make the American look like a fool with the fake signs pointing to the useless relic of a door, gag.” This all happened before I learned to never completely trust an Irish sign!
However, some mistakes turn out to be what artists call “a happy accident”. That is when something unplanned and initially unwanted occurs, but ends with a positive result. I had a few such ‘happy accidents’ during that first Irish adventure, and the most memorable of these occurred on my last full day in Ireland during that first trip. I was spending the last day and night in the town of Ennis and, after checking in at the Queen’s Hotel (chosen because James Joyce in his book “Ulysses” referred to this particular hotel as “delightful”) I went out searching for a place to eat. At this point, although I had enjoyed a wonderful trip, I was tired and ready to go home. I missed my children, was tired of eating out, and more than a little bit worn out from the previous days spent immersed in and navigating a culture that was different from my own. I just wanted a quiet table in a corner to sip some tea, have a bowl of soup with buttered, brown bread on the side and to read my book.
After a bit of a search, I finally came upon a little shop down a side lane that turned off what passed for a main street in this medieval town of cobblestone and footpaths so narrow that they forced one person to step down into the gutter when walking side by side with another. When I entered the little cafe it was the middle of a rush and packed with customers. By the time I received and paid for my food at the counter, there was not a free table in sight. At a point when I was beginning to become annoyed and to feel hassled, a waitress approached and asked me if I would mind sharing a table with another woman. I did mind. I didn’t feel up to one more conversation with a stranger. Shy by nature, the previous days had taken a great deal of pushing myself beyond my comfort zone, and though it was well worth it, I was drained and didn’t want to do it anymore, not on my last day.
But, lunch in hand I needed a place to sit, so I replied to the waitress, “I’d be happy to share” and proceeded to follow her around a corner into another room to a small table for two. Sitting across the table was a petite, and charming looking, Irish lady of an age hovering somewhere between 75 and 80. She introduced herself to me and held her hand out for me to shake. I can’t remember her name, but I remember her face and how pleasant looking it was. Her eyes were lively and her face was framed with shiny, gray hair pulled back into a small chignon at the back of her neck. She was dressed very neatly, in pale colors that flattered her complexion and, in general, had a glow about her. I remember that the first thing she said to me after introducing herself was, “I suppose you won’t be surprised to know that I am a widow.” Due to her age, I wasn’t. But when I responded that I was also a widow, she was surprised… after all I was only 41 years old at the time. She said, “Only yesterday I was telling my daughter that all I meet anymore are widows, and when a young person like yourself sat down at this table, I was sure I was finally meeting a woman who was not a widow!” All this was said in a very good-natured manner and led to probably one of the most pleasant conversations and most enjoyable company I had throughout my entire trip, coming at a point when I really needed it. She told me that she was originally from Galway but had married an Ennis man many years ago and had lived there ever since. She talked about the booming Celtic Tiger economy in Ireland, but remarked that with all the money floating around there were more people begging in the streets than she remembered ever seeing back when nobody had much money at all. Most of all, she expressed amazement at what she saw as my ‘courage’ for venturing out to a foreign country all by myself. She said it inspired her to listen to her daughter’s plea that she get out more and try new things. Finally, she said she had to leave to make it to mass on time, something she did every afternoon. When she said goodbye she told me, “I believe everything happens for a reason and that I was meant to meet you and talk with you today.” I’ll admit, I was somewhat surprised at this mystical statement coming from an elderly, Irish, Catholic woman. She wished me the best of luck and told me she would light a candle for me that day in church. What she didn’t know was that she had already brightened my day and left me with a wonderful memory on this, my last day in her country.
Poulnabrone Dolmen - from burrenpage.com
I’ve been home all day today with my 7 year old who is, thankfully, recovering from a bout of stomach flu. Between the sick child, a lack of sleep last night and being deprived of my daily iced mocha… I haven’t a thing to write today, nor the energy to type it even if my brain would allow me to think clearly. So, as a bit of a cop out, I thought I’d drop in a pretty cool photo I found online, showing the Poulnabrone Dolmen that I mentioned in my post yesterday. This dolmen stands in a farmer’s field somewhere out in the Burren. The first time I visited it I entered the field through an open gate. On the ground next to the gate there was a bucket containing some coins and above the bucket a hand written sign was posted stating, “Donations, for upkeep of gate” !
Wildflowers in the Burren from myopera.com
An bhoireann, the place of rocks. During my first trip to Ireland I became acquainted with an Ice Age treasure.
The Burren, is a landscape made up of limestone criss-crossed with massive cracks to form slabs that cover roughly 300 square kilometers of north-west County Clare. My first glimpse of this Irish natural wonder was from the Coast Road, where the Burren borders the Atlantic coastline. Parking my car on the rough shoulder at the side of the road, I walked as close to the edge as I could safely go and stood on slippery rocks watching as huge, violent Atlantic waves pounded gigantic, limestone blocks. Standing within that surreal landscape, in nearly gale force winds with the deafening sound of the crashing waves filling my ears, was both frightening and exhilarating.
This haunting landscape stretches for miles from the Atlantic shore into Clare, covering mountains and valleys and is home to caves, ring forts, ecclesiastic sites, megalithic tombs and human relics that date back 6,000 years. The most famous of these is the Poulnabrone Dolmen, an ancient portal tomb also known as ‘The Bed of Diarmuid and Grainne’, once believed to have been a place of shelter for these star-crossed lovers from the mists of Irish mythology.
At first glance, and in most photographs, the Burren appears no more than a bleak, barren moonscape. However, this place is full of surprises. When I caught my first glimpse of the Burren I was quite surprised to see cattle grazing on the limestone terrain. I wondered what they could possibly find to nibble on in such a place. It was only after I took a closer look on foot, that I became aware of all sorts of tiny, colorful wildflowers, herbs and even the occasional wild strawberry, growing in the cracks between the stone slabs. Part of what makes the Burren a natural wonder, besides its geological formation, is that both Alpine and Mediterranean wildflowers, normally not found in the same country, exist sided by side in the small amount of soil available between the stone… apparently a delectable salad for cattle and a delicious treat for Clare bees as well, judging by the jars of ‘Burren Wildflower Honey’ found in most local gift shops!
Exploring the striking and mythical landscape of the Burren was a highlight of my first trip to Ireland and I recommend it to anyone planning a visit to that part of the world. But these days, my interest in this particular place is of a more personal and homey nature. Although I am by no means a gardener, it is my hope to turn the wild, weedy overgrowth that surrounds Rose Cottage into a bit of a wildflower garden featuring blooms specific to the region. I’ll work on this project a little at a time, beginning with an information gathering visit to The Burren Perfumery which lies in the heart of the Burren. It is my plan to stop there during our week-long stay at the end of March, if we can manage the time. Meanwhile, I will be content to browse their website… and invite you to take a look as well!
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Doesn’t Curious George look content gazing through Eoin’s Rose Cottage bedroom window? He should be feeling content, after all he’s enjoying a lovely view! By the angle of his head, I’m guessing that he may be focused on the rustic sight of the outbuilding at the front of the property… perhaps making a game of guessing what we might find inside that little building, after the big brush clean up. If George was able to turn his head to the right, he would have the pleasure of looking out toward the wooden fence that separates the property from the road. Beyond that, is a vast expanse of countryside consisting of bog and farmland, that spreads out at a slight incline. Toward the right on a small hill, a house is visible, its lights already having served as a comfort to us, on pitch black Lisheen nights. Beyond that house at quite a distance is another hill. One morning my very excited 7-year-old came running to tell us about a herd of animals he spotted grazing on that hill. The distance and our untrained eyes kept us from being able to figure out whether the creatures were cattle or sheep. But not to worry… because the previous owner not only foresaw our need for a tea kettle, he provided us with a handy pair of binoculars… much to my son’s delight! Binoculars in hand Eoin determined the creatures to be cattle. This sight of grazing dots with legs became a daily fixture in the landscape… just as the binoculars were a constant presence hanging by a strap around my son’s little neck throughout our stay.
As much as the cottage was a physical manifestation of my idea of what a cottage in West Clare should be, it was the surrounding countryside and views from the house that sold me on this particular place. As I’ve described the view from the front of the cottage, the view from the back is equally lovely. Since the cottage is on high ground, from the back windows we look out on a decline across a great expanse of land leading down to where the main road lies and beyond… and if we look a bit toward the left, a two room school house is visible just a couple miles from our little cottage. And though we can’t see it from where we are situated, it is an added bonus just knowing that the rocky, Atlantic coastline is just a few miles away in the distance!
An element of the landscape we had not anticipated though, is the sky. The open, and for the most part, treeless expanse of land, combined with the vibrant and ever changing Irish sky, which seems closer to the ground than the Midwestern American sky, is a sight I’m not sure I can describe here. I know the photographs we took of spectacular sky performances, came back a disappointment. Like trying to capture fireworks with a camera, it’s just not possible to come even close to the beauty or the energy of the actual experience. All I can say, is that to witness a storm rapidly approaching from the distance is an awesome sight to behold and after the storm passes and the sky is still grey to one side with the dazzling Irish sun approaching from the other, you can almost count on the grand finale of a rainbow.
My young son is a boy obsessed with weather to the point of taking real pleasure in watching the weather channel. So this bedroom window of his, coupled with the binoculars that came with the cottage, seems to be pointing him in a particular direction in life. Either that of an artist or a weatherman!
Outbuilding, a dó
My two sons are accompanying me on a one week trip to the cottage at the end of March. Originally, the plan was for me and my youngest son to go alone, because although my husband cannot get away from work until the summer we felt that somebody really needed to get back there sooner to check on our “little housheen” to make sure things are in order and to attend to a couple of matters we were unable to address during our last, short visit. This would include arranging to have a new, painted red, wooden ‘half door’ built for the cottage as well as the purchase and installation of a few electronic mouse repellent devices, because after all, when the cat’s away – ! However, much to my delight, my oldest son agreed to come along for the trip. Having him along not only provides great company for us and lightens up my burden with the addition of another adult, but it also provides me with a pair of much needed, strong work hands. So, in addition to taking care of a few odds and ends while I’m there, I can also address the ‘brush’ issue.
Knowing back in December that my eldest son, Anton, will be accompanying Eoin and me on this March trip, I had the foresight to prepare a little “Clare Survival Kit” as a Christmas gift to him. The ‘kit’ consisted of only two items, but these are two items he cannot be without on this excursion, and with his size 14 feet, two items we would probably have a lot of trouble locating for him in the little town of Kilkee. So for Christmas my son received two large shoe boxes, one containing a pair of sturdy, warm, Australian sheepskin slippers and the other, a Cabela’s box containing something I’m sure my son would have never in a million years thought he would own… a pair of Wellies! The slippers are a must have for the cold floors of an old cottage. The brown, Wellington boots are a must have for a city slicker prepared to muck about in the bog and do a bit of ‘brush clearing’!
You see, our property contains two… count them, two… stone outbuildings in varying degrees of repair, or disrepair, depending upon how we choose to look at it. I emphasize the number ‘two’ here for future reference, when I one day tell the story of how it would have been only one outbuilding and less property, if not for the diligent work of a couple of Dublin solicitors, nudged along by our persistence. These outbuildings probably once functioned as a shed and perhaps a small barn, maybe for a donkey or a few chickens. The larger of the two stone buildings is toward the rear of the cottage and borders the back of the property. That building is in great need of a roof and it is our hope to one day not only provide it with a roof, but to do the work needed to turn it into a guest room for the comfort of the many people Declan and I hope will come to visit from both the Chicago area and Dublin. The other building is at the front of the property and, though smaller, appears to be in better condition. However, we have been unable to peek inside, or even see a door for that matter, due to the brush, weeds, furze and whatever else has spent years growing around the structure. This is where Anton comes in.
The plan is that my son, all wellied up, will do his best GW Bush imitation and get rid of the brush, so that we can discover what is or is not, within the smaller outbuilding. Now, my son is a hard worker who has continually been employed since he began his first job, at a local coffee shop – Chocolate Moon Espresso Co., the weekend before his 16th birthday. And I have no doubts about his ability to work hard and to get any job done. However, this is a gentleman who has done very little in the way of manual labor during his 27 years and I doubt he has ever had the experience of calluses or even a blister on either of his hands. Now that I think of it, perhaps I should have included a pair of XL heavy duty, work gloves in the Survival Kit…
Our Hearth
“Níl aon tinteán mar do thinteán féin.”
The first time I ever heard or read this very old Irish proverb, I was in the sitting room of my husband’s uncle’s home in Mitchelstown, County Cork. The phrase was written on paper and taped to the fireplace mantle. It was an Irish welcome home from Declan’s cousins to their father, recently returned home after a six-week stint in a Dublin hospital where he was treated for a very serious, life threatening illness. Thanks to the wonderful medical care he received in Dublin, his future was deemed bright and thanks to the Irish National Healthcare System, he was not debt ridden… but this delicate and timely subject we can save for another day! My husband’s aunt and uncle were both aware of, and supported, my attempt to learn the Irish language. Retired teachers that they are, they couldn’t resist the opportunity to quiz me about this Irish sentence, which at first glance was pure “Greek to me”! However, they were patient and didn’t rush in to help me out right away. So, I looked for words that seemed familiar and gave my weak translation, pointing to each word in turn as I recognized it… Níl, I remembered means ‘is not’, or, the negative. And aon, means ‘any’! Hey, I was getting somewhere! Ok… I knew do, is a word used to indicate possession, and féin, means ‘the self’ or ‘own’. I wasn’t sure what tinteán meant, but I did know tine, means fire… and since this sign was taped above a fireplace I asked, “fireplace?” Bravo! Finally, I was awarded for my noble effort when Declan’s aunt said, “Very good” and proceeded to translate the phrase for me. “There is no fireside like your own fireside.” Basically, this would be the Irish equivelant of “Home Sweet Home”.
At that moment I knew, at least hoped, that one day I would have a fireplace, a hearth, and when I did, I was determined I would put those words above it. ‘Níl aon tinteán mar do thinteán féin.’ You see, I have never had a fireplace. During my life I have lived in several apartments, a dorm room, a Chicago bungalow (my favorite, by the way) and a series of three, post WWII, ranch houses… with not a fireplace between them! And, not only have I never owned my own fireplace before, I had never in my life built a fire in one. Until Rose Cottage.
The hearth in Rose Cottage is the heart of the place. The focal point of the main room, it’s the first thing you see when you enter the front door and because it has been kept intact and virtually in its original state, it is a treasure. At one time this was an open hearth and would have contained a swivel hook where pots were hung and swung over the flame and where the kettle was kept in order to provide a ready supply of tea for the family and for neighbors dropping by for a visit. But, like most of the open fireplaces in these old cottages, a wood burning stove has been installed and takes up part of the space where once an open fire would have been. Our stove is a rather rickety black ‘yoke’, or device, that I hope to one day replace with a sturdy Aga. Now, to American, suburban eyes used to clean and new… the value of this old hearth may be missed upon first glance. It would look quite rustic, the beam of wood above the opening, slightly crooked, and the soot covered stone, dirty and in need of a good power cleaning. However, that would be missing the beauty of it. The old, wood beam, is slightly tilted due to the many years of endurance and settling of this old, stone house. The soot covered stone is evidence of a century of daily use, when this fireplace not only held the fire that cooked the family meals, but was the sole provider of heat for the inhabitants of this little farm cottage. These are the very features that make this hearth a treasure and a joy to behold! Its age, so visible in the stone, wood and soot gives our hearth an aura of the ‘sacred’. And when we built our first fire at the onset of our first evening in residence, it felt like a solemn occasion, a nod to all the fires built before.
So, on our first day at the cottage we bought some turf, yes turf, and built a fire. And, to the turf fire a single piece of firewood, brought all the way from Declan’s mother’s house in Dublin, was added for continuity. Soon this fire roared… the sweet, earthy scent of turf filled the room and the smoke, thanks be to God, went in the right direction… up the chimney!
Now all that is left for me to do is to place that old Irish proverb on the stone above the hearth.
Blogging from the Bog 