MY COLLECTIONS: COLORS

A series of essays.....

MOUNTAINS, BLUE SKIES, GREEN FIELDS AND SO MANY MEMORIES!

.....as seen through my eyes!






By: Jacqueline E. Hughes


This September, 2018, Dan and I return to visit the Emerald Isle of Ireland along with two wonderful and adventurous friends who have, also, become frequent visitors of this enchanting place. In honor of our trip together to a land that always fills our hearts with joy and stretches the imagination, I am recounting a story I wrote about My Collections. This narrative encapsulates, accompanied by my own photographs, our fourth trip to one of the most magical places on earth. Believe me when I say that Walt Disney World has nothing on Ireland!

Green...

The color green is such a beautiful color to me. And, forty different shades of green certainly describes the Ireland we have come to know and love. Thanking Mr. Johnny Cash for expressing this feeling so beautifully in song....!

THE COIFFURES OF 1960's ROCK & ROLL STARS

Like many occasional visitors to this colorful island, my attention is drawn to the many variations of the color green (my favorite color) when I scan the rich, glossy darkness of green valleys, or the olive tones of unending fields bathed in golden sunlight. The dark green moss clings to, well, just about everything in Ireland, as does the vegetation washing in from the sea, and I am particularly fascinated by the large rocks at the water's edge that look like the coiffures of rock & roll stars, circa 1965.

I am constantly being drawn in by the blue/green hues of an 'ancient forest,' often bisected by a gravelly path that's quietly begging to be explored; its secrets waiting to be discovered around every shadow and each bend.

My eyes absorb the deep purple/green of the expansive shoreline of Ireland's many inland lakes, outlined by volcanic rock washed smooth by foamy waves day after day and resembling a child's coloring book picture outlined in black crayon and accentuating its vast perimeter. Oh, the pure joy of the color green!

Grey...

With my own two eyes, as well as my trusty camera lens, I can attest to many other shades of reflected light (color) that is predominant within the beautiful landscape provided by this amazing island. One can witness sturdy shades of grey and ochre that exemplify the solidity of her many mountains and hills. There are numerous rock walls and ancient structures built by man from this incredibly abundant source of material found above and below the earth's surface.

I see fifty shades of grey, at least, and guarantee a much better 'read' on life than that offered by the best selling book trilogy of the same title! Who isn't enamored by the sight of a quaint stone cottage replete with thatched roof and a weathered, wooden entrance door painted sky blue many years before? Add to this collection of 'living engineering' the astounding construction feats demonstrated by the existence of the many ancient castles, abbeys, and hunting lodges that sweep the Irish countryside. 

Blue...

The color blue fills in the spaces between the white clouds above us, as well as the green fields below. Not only does this rich color surround the land in terms of the Atlantic Ocean and the Irish Sea, but its inland lakes offer varying shades of it anywhere from cold, steely greys to cheerful summertime aquamarine with one changing into another within a matter of moments depending upon the sunlight, cloud cover, or rainfall.

We began walking the Newvillage Recreation Area's moderate trail one morning which turned out to be a three and a half mile, cardio-intense gravel walk in the shape of a horseshoe. It meandered through the undulating woods on the outskirts of Oughterard, a small village in Connemara, and we found ourselves within a fairy tale world of canopied vegetation dripping with sparkling raindrops and pierced by sporadic rays of sunlight. 

Stopping to breathe and take it all in, we discovered the soothing sounds of a gurgling stream and crisp, late September leaves crunching under the weight of invisible predators! Navigating the horseshoe bend, we discovered we were elevated high above Lough Corrib that dazzled us with its trail of royal blue water punctuated by contrasting white caps in the distance below. We felt so alive within this harmonious state of sounds and brilliant colors and knew there was no other place we'd rather be at that exact moment in time.

THE VIEW FROM THE SUMMIT OF
DIAMOND HILL IN CONNEMARA NATIONAL PARK

THE GREY OF THE MOUNTAINS AND THE
GREEN OF THE LAND FLOW DOWN TO LOUGH CORRIB

I recall looking out over land and sea from the summit of Diamond Hill, the tallest of the hills making-up the Twelve Bens Mountain Range near the western coast of Connemara. I could catalog the shimmering blue dots of Lough Auna, Nahillion, and Kylemore Abbey far below. My eyes scanned the wider blues of Killary and Ballynakill Harbors that lead out to the darkening depths of the Atlantic. From this height, one can easily observe the harmony between land and water and better understand how masterfully this intriguing island was formed so many years before.

As my husband graciously chauffeured us around and through the colorful and natural beauty of Connemara, I grew to appreciate each and every aspect of the land, hills, and sea. It's a treat for me to look back on my pictures and see how I'd categorized my Collections by their color. I preface each with a color description such as, grey fences, brightly colored boats, crumbling grey houses, and mucky brown bog lands.

BRIGHTLY COLORED BOATS

MUCKY BROWN BOG LANDS

GREY STONE FENCES

CRUMBLING GREY HOUSES

The integrity of each color is heightened and intensified for me when I'm in Ireland. The meandering expanse of the River Shannon becomes the intense blue water of the River Shannon outlined by the bright green grasses along her shoreline. Ireland enhances the senses and allows me to see deeper into the natural beauty of her landscapes, man-made engineering wonders, along with her delightful, colorful, and extremely hospitable people. I, quite naturally, feel at home in Ireland.

My heart wishes to share the color grey with you as I sit here in my home in Florida holding tightly to my souvenir rock I lovingly released from the chilly waters of Lough Corrib. I want to share the color grey with you, yet again, in the form of very personal places lived and loved in by Irish families many years ago and left to decay in harsh weather from season to season as forgotten testaments to what once was....

Within each structure my heart feels the birth of a child and the death of an aging grandparent. I am able to celebrate birthdays in them and understand that marriages were consummated there. From the whitewashed, smoke-laden stone walls, I smell the pungent, acrid odor of thousands of peat fires that kept many of their occupants from freezing to death in the night. I detect the tension of sad, overworked women, mothers, who wait desperately for their husbands to return home with food to feed the young bairns. I listen to the echoes of family discussions bouncing off the walls trying to figure out if they should stay and wait things out, or just pack-up their meager belongings and abandon their birthright for a ticket to Amerikay!

WEDDINGS, BABIES, SMOKE-LADEN STONE WALLS

My emotions exhaust me to my very core. I feel so much life surrounding and from within each structure as if they were still occupied today. I want to know if the inhabitants found time to appreciate the sweet beauty of the world that surrounded them. Or, were they working long and hard just to survive? In fighting for what they needed, did they lose sight of all that they already had? I often wonder....

As modern day visitors of this incredible place called Ireland, and manned with rental car, camera, and sustenance to be found at the nearest restaurant or pub, we can luxuriate within unrestrained time, walk the paths, climb the mountains, fish the lakes, and capture a more simple way of living with each picture and breath we take.

DILAPIDATED MANOR HOMES

A WALL WITH A VIEW

We, as tourists, have been elevated to new heights as we ride along on the 'memory train' that was built and navigated by so many lost souls. May we always live to remember and appreciate all of their long, hard work! Color this one: Sadness in Shades of Blue. 




Copyright © 2018 by Jacqueline E. Hughes
All rights reserved
Photo Copyright © 2018 by Jacqueline E. Hughes
All rights reserved

WHO ARE YOU CARL SANDBURG?

 A series of essays.....

A TRUE LOVE STORY: CARL AND LILIAN SANDBURG 
Photographed by Edward Steichen, Brother of Lilian 

.....From a letter to his wife in 1908:

" I would rather be a poem like you than write poems.  I would rather embody the big things as you do than carve or paint or write them.  You inspire art....and that's living!"





.....as seen through my eyes!

By: Jacqueline E. Hughes



Recently, a thirty-something and I were discussing my travels up to North Carolina a few weeks back when she asked me, "Now, exactly who is Carl Sandburg?  I know I've heard of him in school but, I can't place who he is or what he's done?!?"

Did I bristle at this lack of recall?  Well, maybe just a little.  The truth is.....the question had been posed and I was more than willing to fill-in the blanks!

It all began when we saw, yet again, along Highway 26, just south of Hendersonville, North Carolina, the sign reading, 'Carl Sandburg Home, National Historic Site.'  "Please tell me why we see this sign going up to Maggie Valley but never take the time to stop?" I seriously asked my husband.  "I truthfully don't know," Dan replied.  "Maybe we will on the way back home this Sunday if we leave right after breakfast."  Sounded good to me!

Carl Sandburg

Robert Frost

Growing-up learning to love literature and poetry as much as I do, two tousled, gray-haired gentlemen, authors by trade, have always guided me down a path of awakening and simple joy via their passion and love of the written word.  Thinking back now, I believe that Robert Frost and Carl Sandburg epitomized the quintessential 'Grandfather' figure for me as I was voraciously reading, reading, reading everything written by them in order to satiate my lust for poetry and prose. 

Both men were still alive in my early lifetime and each worked hard as a teacher and a journalist, a farmer and a factory worker, as they struggled to make ends meet, and continued to write and contribute their works to the world for all to enjoy.  Physically, I believe, these distinguished men resembled one another as the years progressed giving them an uncanny feeling of 'brothers' in a literal and symbolical sense. 

Seven Pulitzer Prize awards are shared by these 'Literary Brothers' with Robert Lee Frost earning four within the years 1924 to 1943 for his poetry collections.  Carl August Sandburg achieved three awards from 1919 to 1951.  Two Pulitzers were awarded for his collections of poetry, The Complete Poems of Carl Sandburg and Corn Huskers.  In 1940 he won the Pulitzer Prize for History for his biography of Abraham Lincoln entitled (Abraham Lincoln: The War Years).

A strong Michigan connection can be attributed to both men, as well. In 1921 Frost accepted a fellowship teaching post at the University of Michigan, Ann Arbor, where he resided until 1927 when he returned to teach at Amherst. While teaching at the University of Michigan, he was awarded a lifetime appointment at the University as a Fellow in Letters.  The Robert Frost Ann Arbor home was purchased by The Henry Ford Museum in Dearborn, Michigan and relocated to the museum's Greenfield Village site for public tours. 

Stollaway Cottage in Harbert, Michigan

Carl Sandburg and his wife, Lilian Steichen, purchased a home in Harbert, Michigan, located in Berrien County, where they lived with their three daughters, Margaret, Helga and Janet along the beautiful Lake Michigan shoreline.  Carl Sandburg Library first opened in Livonia, Michigan, on December 10, 1961. The name was recommended by the Library Commission as an example of an American author representing the best of literature of the Midwest. Carl Sandburg had taught at the University of Michigan for a time.




Sandburg Family

Eventually, the Sandburg family claimed that the Midwest's cold winter temps and the lack of owning enough property for Lilian to raise her prize-winning milk goats for the making and selling of domestic goat cheese brought them to a small slice of heaven in the North Carolina town of Flat Rock. 

Connemara With Family Home Off In The Distance

Having just parked the car and now luxuriating in the early October sunshine of this beautiful late Sunday morning, we walked down the small, stone path leading to the Sandburg home.  Affectionately called 'Connemara' due to the rolling green hills surrounding the main structures, there were ponds, trails and wide-open spaces scattered among the over two-hundred acre estate.  After crossing a bridge spanning a large pond, we enjoyed a short, tree-lined walk up to the main house.  "Shall we take the half-an-hour tour of the house?" I asked, knowing that our time was limited.  "I think we can do it," my husband graciously replied.  He knew this meant so much to me.




Our Docent, James

Our docent, James, was a treasure, making us laugh, answering our questions and enabling us to immerse ourselves in the amazing history behind the four walls, as well as intimately discovering the colorful people who lived, loved and thrived within them.  He allowed our little group to see and understand that real people had celebrated birthdays and holidays here; read the newspaper while sipping their coffee; laughed and cried in good times and bad.  When you are asked to 'Support America's National Parks,' people like James make it easy to do so!






Mishmash Room

Looking into one of the upstairs rooms, I discovered a mishmash of stacked boxes, filled bookshelves living on the floor and furniture pieces in disarray.  James told us that even though the family slept in the remaining four bedrooms upstairs, this room still housed most of the Michigan items brought here from their home in Harbert that Lilian failed to unpack.  "You wouldn't find a room like this at Biltmore," he said, grinning at me.  "This place, for now, is the 'real deal.'  You are among the final few to see this place as it exactly was when the Sandburg family resided here.  Next month it will be completely packed-up and everything stored in order to allow workmen to repair and restore the structure.  We are looking at reopening mid-2015, if we're lucky."

I knew it.....I knew it!  This visit was meant to be! 






This is where he wrote....!!!!!

Enjoying the luxury of taking pictures in every room of the house, I was able to capture its ageless spirit!  We stood one thin, swagging rope line away from everything!  I heard the giddy girl I felt like that day saying things like, "He sat on that chair and typed on those keys!" and, "This is the guitar and piano he composed his music on!" or, running my hand gently along the multitude of books on shelves in any given room in the house, "These are the volumes he collected and read!"  The essence of his being infused within the hardwoods of each floorboard he walked on seeped up and into my soul and enlightened me with each step I took.  I was truly a writer in a 'candy store' of endless possibilities, hopes and dreams.



Sandburg Formal Living Room



Our small group crowded into one of the last rooms we were to learn about on our tour that day.  Located on the ground floor and incorporating a beautiful bay window seating area and a lavender area rug sprinkled with a Spring flower motif, was the room Carl Sandburg had passed away in.  The year was 1967, July 22 to be exact.  He had lived 89 years among us and 'represented the best of literature of the Midwest,'......of the world, in my lifetime.  It was the summer between my junior and senior year of high school.  I stood in this room a few extra minutes letting everything sink in.

Lilian's Handbag

Books Everywhere!

"Thank you for finally stopping in Flat Rock," I told Dan as we climbed back into our car for the seven hour drive to Orlando.  "Wouldn't have missed it for the world, Kiddo!" he said smiling at me. 

Doing a bit of research on the Sandburg cottage located in Harbert, Michigan, I discovered that the family lived there from 1928 until 1945.  During their time in this beautiful home overlooking Lake Michigan, Sandburg wrote many of his poems, as well as his two-volume biography of Abraham Lincoln. 

Today the Sandburg Cottage is a rental resort called The Stollaway and the listing companies, HomeAway and VRBO (Vacation Rentals by Owner), decidedly omit any mention of the cottage's historical import within the description of the property.  I am sure they have their reasons.  I wonder how many of the world-wide travelers enjoying the property each glorious Michigan summer are aware of its historical and literary importance?! 

Kitchen At Connemara Home

Thank goodness Lilian Sandburg was determined to preserve her husband's legacy and home in Flat Rock, North Carolina!  Following his death in 1967, she gave her support to North Carolina Congressman Roy Taylor and Secretary of the Interior Stewart Udall in authorizing the Carl Sandburg Home as a National Park. The park was officially authorized on October 17, 1968 and the property was sold with its contents and cultural resources donated to the park service. The site officially opened in 1974.

Who are you, Carl Sandburg?  This is how I would answer this question:

You are the echo of the typewriter keys clicking away morning, noon and night.....The shadow behind the birch tree high up in the mountains just waiting for the right moment to emerge.....The spirit of my beautiful Chicago, the crystal blue Lake Michigan shoreline and the majestic, purple mist shrouding the Smoky Mountain ridge lines off in the distance.  You are my past, present and future and the Grandfather I wish I had known.  You are my mentor...my guide into the world I find so fascinating and most compelling.

Many thanks to both yourself and Mr. Frost for always being here for me.....





Connemara Mountainside Home

View From Front Porch

Copyright © 2014 by Jacqueline E. Hughes
All rights reserved

WHAT YOU WAITING FOR?

A series of essays.....

"Down the Rabbit Hole" Directed by Tim Burton, 2010

.....as seen through my eyes!


By: Jacqueline E. Hughes


Gwen Stefani.....What You Waiting For?.....popped-up while scrolling through YouTube music videos so, I watched it again.  It had been a  little while since seeing it last and, the storyline behind it is cute, fresh and who doesn't like a good 'Alice down the rabbit hole' theme?  It often equates to my sense of adventure.

It never fails......as humans, whenever milestones approach, we begin to reflect upon the past while viewing what might, or could, lie ahead for us.  Suddenly, the words Inspiration, Writer's Block, Creative Pathways and 'Pay Whenever You're Finished' loom large in my mind.  Adding another year, this month, to a growing list of 'Wedding Anniversaries' will do that to you! 

Did I happen to mention possible 'missed opportunities' in the above list?

Hey, listen!  There are few complaints coming from me on this one considering September has been reserved as our 'major travel month,' especially when including our Anniversary in the mix, and it has served us well throughout the years.  Couple this with the fact that traveling through Europe in September is such a beautiful and enriching experience!

Farmers Bringing In Their Grapes

In France it is harvest time.....the ritual of harvesting the grapes (The Vendanges) for another year of delicious French wines rich in the traditions of Old Family beliefs, as well as youthful and imaginative new blends sporting colorful labels on the bellies of their corked, glass bottles. 

Photo Courtesy of Domaine Rouge Bleu

It was a joy to witness the pride etched onto the farmer's faces via deep-set creases and wrinkles as they pulled their precious crop behind ancient tractors smeared with rust and bits of color.  In The Cave, the grapes are separated and/or mixed according to variety and depending upon which 'blend' each farmer or vintner is looking for.  Near the village of Sablet, a Côtés Du Rhône Villages, and our home for a week in September of 2009, the local wine is made from hand-harvested grapes.  People from all over the world flock to these areas in September to become a part of this ritual filled with spontaneous camaraderie and the pure zest for life or joie de vivre!


Kissing Balloons Over The Loire Valley

September is the perfect time to ride high up in the clouds and sail over the Loire Valley in central France like a bird taking advantage of thermal air currents and updrafts in order to prolong its flight.  Even though we tasted the crisp and fruity wines of this beautiful valley also, our thirtieth Anniversary back in 2003, took us to great heights above the vineyards and the numerous and notable châteaux of the region in the form of a hot-air balloon adventure. 

Replica of First Balloon Aircraft

The first successful, untethered manned flight in a balloon aircraft happened on November 21, 1783 in Paris, France.  Here we were, nearly 220 years later, ensconced within an oversized basket (gondola) with eleven unknown faces (including the pilot) surrounding us, gliding majestically above ancient slate roofs, cows grazing in lush, green fields and treetops so close we could pick the uppermost leaves to bring home as souvenirs!



Solitude and Tranquility

Our evening flight originated in Amboise which lies on the banks of the Loire River and is seventeen miles east of Tours.  After briefly meeting our fellow travelers, we were whisked away in a van as the balloon pilot hung out of the window brandishing a large red flag used to calculate the wind direction.  Stopping occasionally, she would hold the flag high and then direct our driver to the best spot for assembling the hot-air balloon.  Her information was instrumental in pre-guiding the pick-up vehicle to our approximate landing destination based on wind direction, as well as visually chasing our balloon's path.

What struck me most was the solitude of this flight.  Even though there were people around me and occasional bursts from the burner directing a flame into the envelope (balloon) mimicking thermal lift, we were mesmerized by the historical scenery below and the tranquility of balloon flight in general. 

When the sun began to disappear, our expert pilot landed our machine in an open field where we all became a part of 'the ground crew' gathering pools of the deflating nylon envelope in our hands.  We were all as giddy as small school children high on the vapors of pure excitement pulling together to smooth the colorful fabric, fold it into one, long strip and proceed to roll it up as if it were a gigantic sleeping bag.  Working as one unit, we could hear others speaking in German, Italian, Spanish, French, English and more, laughing and enjoying the international company of their fellow travelers.  Was this a fine example of how the people of this world could work and enjoy being together devoid of racial and religious differences?  We were proud to be a part of this moment in time....




Looking For A Spot To Land

Administering high fives amidst a cacophony of wild cheers as our job was completed, our pilot began popping champagne corks from the stash of bottles in the back of the van.  Waiting for everyone to hold their filled champagne flute aloft, a loud, magnificent cheer arose from the darkened field, now pierced by the headlights from the various assembled vans, as we toasted a perfect hot-air balloon flight together.  Each of us was presented with a signed 'certificate of achievement' commemorating our voyage and mutual respect for one another.

Last year, 2013, our September adventure included climbing Benbaun, the highest mountain in the Na Beanna Beola or, the Twelve Bens Mountains of Connemara that span the Wild Western Way along the western coast of Ireland.  This was the most physical and dangerous of all our exciting experiences to date.  However, the bounty of spectacular scenic views gathered from the summit of Benbaun was worth each and every step and rocky foothold it took to reach it!! 

Standing On Top Of The World!!!

I stated once before in an earlier blog entitled, IRELAND: 2013, Mountain, where I described our wild and crazy adventure in Connemara National Park last year, "...the pride and self-
confidence I brought down that mountain with me that day was beyond compare.  Was I humbled?  You betcha..."

The lyrics to Gwen's song, "Life is short, you're capable," reminded me of why we help hand-harvest grapes in the Rhone Valley, glide high above Châteaux Chenonceau in France's Loire Valley and climb the beautiful and rugged mountains along Ireland's Wild West Coast.......

Life is too short not to and because, well, we can!!

I can hardly wait for what is yet to come!  I love September!!

So, what are you waiting for?

Hand-Picking Grapes, Courtesy Domaine Rouge Bleu

Copyright © 2014 By Jacqueline E. Hughes
All rights reserved

STAIRWAY TO HEAVEN

IRELAND...A RICH, ARTISTIC PERFORMANCE - PART III 

WISHING YOU A VERY HAPPY ST. PATRICK'S DAY!

Each visit to Ireland leaves me breathless....and, pining for more and this deep longing to return haunts me until I am finally back and enjoying the rich, artistic performance attributed to the genuine beauty that God has bestowed on this land...her people.

Today I dust-off yet another archived story in tribute to Ireland and St. Patrick's Day, the final in a three-part salute to a place that has always made me feel right at home. Her people, landmarks and history amaze me and are what stories and legends are made from. Today I honor St. Patrick himself and sincerely apologize for my short-comings when it came down to the wire the day I stood looking-up at Croagh Patrick and declined your offer to climb.....

Hopefully, I have since made-up for my indiscretion.

Yes, I see Ireland as a rich, artistic performance, alive with nuance, as in forty shades of green! Please enjoy Part III lovingly entitled, Stairway to Heaven, and dated October 24, 2013.  

CASHEL

Second in a series..........



Croagh Patrick ~ County Mayo

A Series of Short Stories 




By: Jacqueline Hughes


We were waking up on Tuesday morning, the fourth day of our trip in Ireland, and going back home to Orlando was the furthest thought from our minds.....


The Boat Inn located in the center of Oughterard soon became our home away from home....away from home.  It's where we rubbed elbows with the locals and learned interesting tidbits about the history of this beautiful area, if not interesting tidbits about the locals themselves.  This establishment soon became our haunt, refuge, thirst and hunger quencher, and source of laughter and good cheer after an exciting day of traversing the Irish landscape.  With the condensation from our pints of Guinness creating small, circular pools of water on the wooden tabletop, many major decisions were made there each evening.  Yes, what shall we have to eat and should we order another pint were among them, but not exclusively....


Allow me to flip back several months before, during the planning stages of this Irish adventure to celebrate our Wedding Anniversary.  We decided we wanted to climb a mountain!!  Not just any mountain.  We knew in our bones that Croagh Patrick would be conquered by us paying homage to this beloved Saint, as well as to the Catholic upbringing of our youth.  No....we would be practical and walk up the mountain and not crawl on our hands and knees or bare feet as many penitents do, especially on the last Sunday in July called Garland Sunday.  And, we firmly believed that climbing Croagh Patrick was an attainable feat.  No questions asked.....outcome practically written in stone, so to speak.


Sitting at our table at the Boat Inn that Sunday evening, the end of our third day in Ireland, we were singing a completely different tune......and, with good reason.  We'd spent the day driving up to Westport and then taking the R335 to check out this ancient, stony monument that had placed us in its shadow for the last 45 km and evoked a real sense of foreboding in me.  Initially, I didn't share these dark thoughts with my husband and by the time we had parked and walked up to the Visitor's Center at the foot of Croagh Patrick, my hands sweating, my knees buckling, he asked me what was wrong.  At this point, I was beginning to think of the proverbial theme of Good vs. Evil with the mountain oozing Love and Kindness and me.....well, I won't go there.  Anyway, I told him of my trepidations and anticipated his concerns for me but, oh no!!  No.  He wanted to conquer Croagh Patrick!  Plain and as simple as that.

 

FAMINE SCULPTURE OF MURRISK, COUNTY MAYO

 

Realizing that instead of driving us closer together along this 'Journey of Life,' St. Patrick, at least his mountain, was parting us like the Red Sea.  It was not pretty and that's all I will say.  Not saying much of anything to each other, we walked down from the lower footpaths of the mountain, through the parking lot and made our way across the road to the Famine Sculpture of Murrisk, County Mayo.  Anytime you can pay tribute to scores of people willing to sacrifice everything in order to escape the nothingness that made up their current existence.....it is a powerful experience.  We stood together looking at this superb bronze sculpture, big as life, depicting the refugees it carried as dead souls hanging from its sides.  Walking around to the front of the piece to take another picture, we both slowly began to realize just what had brought us there that day.  It wasn't to balance strength and stamina with the mountain.  And, it certainly wasn't to prove anything or drive a particular point home by feeling uncomfortable and not speaking to each other.  Rather, it was to take this picture......the skeletal depiction of our own ancestors fleeing from a life so inhumane, degrading and brutal that this pain even seeped into their very souls because all was so hopeless, so exasperating.  Looming high above the sculpture from this angle and offering quite a spectacular backdrop, was the mountain, our bone of contention.  Except that now, this humble shrine made of rock, blood and tears, acted as the protector it always has been, opening its giant arms wide to enfold the souls that gave up so much, even their land and culture.  Simply, they literally were sacrificing the future of Ireland.


Who was feeling humble now?  That was quite a 'kick in the butt' there, Saint Patrick.  Always believing that things do happen for a reason, we smiled at one another and allowed the power of that moment, that scene, to sink in and bring us both back down to the size of a grain of sand.  We are all interconnected, an organic whole, and we can't do it alone.  Walking hand-in-hand, we strolled down to the chapel ruin just down the hill and through the trees.

 

KYLEMORE ABBEY

 

Having 'refreshments' at the Boat Inn Monday evening, we reflected on our visit to Kylemore Abbey earlier in the day and how the nuns still operate the Abbey as a school to this day.  Originally a hunting lodge, the beautiful structure is surrounded by lakes, mountains, sculptured gardens and Connemara National Park which was actually part of the original estate.   We began discussing the park in terms of walking trails and becoming one with nature....and all of that.  Sounded great to me because I really enjoy walking in the woods with gentle breezes and being surrounded by trees, birds singing and blue skies above.  My husband then mentions that the park is dedicated to a single feature named Diamond Hill.  Really, a hill?  That sounds reasonable to me.  Hiking nature trails and walking leisurely up and down a hill works for me.  After bending our elbows one last time that night, we collapsed into our bed back at the cottage with the anticipation of tomorrow quickly pulling us into Dreamland. 


Layering our hiking clothes due to an overcast sky with possible rain forecasted, we gingerly headed out Tuesday morning with destination....Connemara National Park/Diamond Hill.  I just love the drive to get there because it takes us through some of the most amazing hills and valleys shocking the eyes with many serious shades of green that are bisected by random waterfalls that spring from the mountains like majestic watering fountains for the gods!  We circle Na Beanna Beola or The Twelve Bens mountains that slither throughout Connemara as if together they were a dragon gliding low to the earth scouting out its prey.  Our journey takes us alongside the Wild Western Way, a walking trail that stretches across some of the most rugged and beautiful landscapes in Ireland and is an inspiration for all who seek out exercise and nature at its best.


Nearing our destination, I decide to pull out my trusty DK Ireland to get some useful facts about Diamond Hill because I'd noticed before turning in last night, my husband had been perusing the DK, as well.  Yes, Connemara ponies roaming semi-wild, strong and beautiful.  The St. Dabeoc's heath or purple heather should still be decorating our walk and helping to give some brightness and color to a hazy looking morning.   With any luck we may come across red deer, a wild fox or even see merlins, small falcons that nest in the scattered clumps of wild heather along the bogs.  Then it hits me, ".....four of the Twelve Bens, including Benbaun, the highest mountain in the range at 2,400 ft. and the peak of Diamond Hill, lie within the park's more than 5,000 acres!!"  I am so screwed!


Having been sheltered within the tree line while entering the park, I hadn't noticed the hulking behemoth that now stood between my physical being and my severely bruised ego.  Oh, and did I mention marriage, as well? 

Three paths charted as White, Blue and Red marked our way.  The White, simple, created a pleasant access to taking pictures of the handsome Connemara ponies that grazed within its circumference; the Blue offered a longer walk of stacked stone with occasional wooden walkways that navigated the bogs that surrounded the base of the mountain; the Red.....well, it went, for the most part, pretty much straight up to the summit and down again. 


Not many words were spoken between us standing at the base of path number three, appropriately colored (as in RED for Danger), I might add.  After the debacle at Croagh Patrick, things were only looking up.....straight up!  I remember repeating over and over in my head as we climbed how stunning my pictures will be taken from up there.  And, bonus....my social life progressed very nicely during the climb as I would literally have to squeeze into the side of the mountain to allow other hikers to pass us thus affording all of us a brief chat along the way.  This was a maneuver deftly acquired while golfing and allowing others to "play through."  I am nothing if not polite. 


Saint Patrick secured his penitents after all between softly spoken prayers and heartfelt promises to be a better person in the future, this climb was challenging, rewarding and truly a religious experience for both of us.  Finally, after a series of false summits and strong, loving hands boosting me up from behind, we reached the pinnacle of our desire; the culmination of our strength and determination.  An amazing German couple, who we had allowed to "play through" earlier, greeted and congratulated us and took our picture on top of the world to prove that all of our efforts were rewarded by the panoramic beauty surrounding us.  Soon they headed down and we became the greeters on the summit.  A young Irish couple stumbled over the top next and we shouted out our happiness for them.  She immediately acknowledged that it never would have happened without her companion pushing her up from behind and I confessed to the very same.  Her Irish gentleman, laden with layers of outer gear, looked at me and said, "At least you kept your own jacket on!"  That's true.


The view was spectacular and the photos outstanding, to say the very least, but the pride and self-confidence I brought down that mountain with me that day was beyond compare.  Was I humbled?  You betcha, and so grateful for the chance to be able to share this priceless experience with someone I love so much.  If you ever feel the need to measure the patience level of your spouse, just climb a mountain with them.  Mine was a rock!