The Blarney Castle was extraordinary. I climbed an increasingly tightening spiral stair case some one hundred twenty steps up to the top. At times it felt that my feet were possibly too large for the next advancing step. However, I completed the climb, large feet and all. I was well rewarded for my troubles: before me were miles of emerald, only mildly contained by the far-off majestic mountains. The breeze cooled my face and I realized that this air held no debris, no ripe city smell, no sorrow; it was clean. It was pure. Despite the grimy reputation of the Blarney stone, I layed down, scooted backwards toward the hundred some feet drop and planted my lips firmly upon it. You only live once, I guess!
However, it was the the non-man made creations that took my breath away. The meticulous kept grounds were the first thing you notice when entering the grounds. However what was beyond them, hidden in little coves, tucked behind castle walls, was where I was most impressed. Beyond the wild flowers, the poison garden, beyond the ancient castle walls, there is another world bursting through. It seems as is the wild life has not felt a man’s touch in many a year. Only God’s hand could have designed such chaotic beauty. With each overgrown leaf, with every flower, spring, and brook there is a sense of the divine. Lingering with the fairies and wee people under mushrooms, illuminating the sky line behind the mountains. I have felt an ancient presence whilst confronting the water bursting through the towering boulders. I found His voice much louder between the leaves and paralleling the vines as they twist and attach themselves to the trees, more than I did sitting in a pew, waiting for mass to come to an end. Listening for a spiritual essence is much too hard with the roaring trains, beeping cars, and the project children serenading the night with their curses in my hometown. Here when you listen- you hear. This outward spirituality, I know, I do not feel alone. Famous poet Patrick Kavanagh has also felt this, in much more elegant words, he expresses the divine in Ireland’s natural elements:
“O unworn world enrapture me, encapture me in a web/ Of fabulous grass and eternal voices by a beech,/ Feed the gaping need of my senses, give me ad lib/ To pray unselfconsciously with overflowing speech/ For this soul needs to be honored with a new dress woven/ From green and blue things and arguments that cannot be proven.”~ “Canal Bank Walk”