Guinness at the Source

Today was our second to last full day here in Ireland.  We leave Tuesday morning.  So the question was pressing- how should we spend our time?  View the famed Book of Kells?  Go to the Irish Heritage Museum?  There were endless choices, but the right one was obvious:

Could we really leave Dublin with our heads held high if we didn't have a pint at the source?

The Brewery is set up for tourists- lots and lots of them.  We walked through a series of displays that explained the brewing process.  There were bins of barley...

...a waterfall, with a plaque explaining that, contrary to popular belief, all the water used in Guinness comes from the Wicklow Mountains, and not the River Liffey, which I can assure you is a very good thing...

a huge shop and replicas of previous ad campaigns (he's playing Hurley, by the way, if you don't recognize the sport.  It's a Gaelic game)....

...and of course, numerous bars, all of which will pour you a perfect pint if you want one.

Which we did.

Why You Should Never Drive in Rural Ireland After Dark (plus religious dilemmas and a beautiful island)

Well, I've fallen behind again.  We had two late, late nights and by the time I could write, my get up and go had got up and went (a hank of fur, a hunk of cheese, anyone?)  I'll still write separate posts for separate days.

    So, back a few days we were debating whether to stick with our original plan to travel down the west coast, ending in the busy southwest, or avoid it and stay longer in the north.  We loved Sligo so much we decided to stay another night and then spend our last night in County Mayo.  It meant missing nearly every well known part of Ireland, but we kept hearing how tourist clogged that whole area was.  So we made our decision, and I don't yet regret it.

    There were so many aspects of Sligo we still wanted to see- ancient sites, the places referenced by Yeats, areas associated with Irish myths...But we still didn't have enough time. So we finally settled on trying to find Tobernalt Holy Well.  

     The Tobernalt Well is now a pilgrimage site for Catholics, being closely associated with St. Patrick. But before St. Patrick used the well, it was a holy site for those practicing the older, earth centered faith. In particular, the festival of Lughnasa, which honors the sun god Lugh, was held at the well.  That practice is not entirely lost- the traditional day of Catholic pilgrimage is intentionally the same weekend the Lughnasa festival would have been held in ancient times.  (And I've seen a number of flyers, actually, for Lughnasa festivals in various places we've been- it's this weekend).  

    But while I could find information about the well, no where could I find directions to the well.  The best I could come up with was that it was by a pier on Lough Gill.  So we dutifully hopped in the car and began driving around the Lough.  After all, if it was a pilgrimage site, wouldn't there be signs?

Not so much.

At least, not where we were driving.

      We cruised along, Michael trying not to drive the car into the water and me peering up every dirt road we passed.  At one point, seeing a crumbling wall and gate, Michael pulled over and I climbed out to see if that could be the spot.  I went into a small courtyard, through the rock wall (if you look really hard, you can see the hole I climbed though), and out the other side.  By the water there was a building almost completely destroyed, with a huge tree growing through the wall.  And it should have been beautiful, but it was CREEPY.

Now it's true I've been reading a collection of old Irish fairy tales in which the fairies are almost always malicious, or at least devious.  And it's also true that the longer I'm here the more vivid my imagination becomes. But I swear, it just felt wrong there.  I practically ran out. 

    Finally, we gave up and asked directions.  Several times.  But we did finally find it, and it was marked near the well itself.  And it was very.....Catholic.  it had an altar, numerous stations for prayer, a sound system tucked in the trees, candles for burning, small altars with various white statues tucked into every nook...

    And I was, truth be told, completely put off at first.  It felt like it had been the Catholic version of Disney-ified.  Any inherent sacredness or power seemed to have been utterly subsumed by the inordinate amount of stuff that had been placed there.
    Now to be clear, I take no issue with Catholic worship in general.  Despite being a UU minister, I actually love the high ritual of Catholic worship.  But this well had been holy for thousands of years. Did people really need so much guidance to step into that holiness?  

   But what was really bothering me, of course, was the act itself of taking an old sacred site and covering it so thoroughly with Christianity that the rest was essentially lost.  It felt like a very concrete manifestation of the ways in which (some, some, some, not all, or even most!!) Christians judge so arrogantly and fiercely anything non-Christian, or not Christian enough, while utterly disregarding the ways in which Christianity is indebted to older religions for not only its practice but its sacred stories and beliefs.  (Garrison Keillor's ridiculous diatribe about UU's and Christmas comes to mind.)

   Which, needless to say, is not fair of me.  The well site was much simpler until it was largely destroyed in a storm.  It was somewhat recently redone with great care by people doing their best to honor the sacredness of that place as they saw it.  And it does have power for some.  We saw a number of people come and silently pray at those altars that I found distracting.  And tied to one of the trees were various offerings, each of which held their own prayers and stories, some of them likely heartbreaking.

    Eventually, as we sat in the quiet of that place (there are multiple signs asking for silence) I found myself revising my own inner narrative about St. Patrick and his conversion of Ireland from pagan to Christian.  I have always seen it as a story of religious violence, not physical but spiritual: ripping people from the earth honoring tradition of their roots and pushing them into the physically violent Christianity of the Middle Ages.  But we've been here long enough for me to understand that life was already physically violent- wholesale slaughter, rape, and slavery was the norm.  And the message of love, dare I say catholic love (small "c" intended),  offered by St. Patrick, himself a former slave, is the same revolutionary message I try to offer today in my own work.
    I am still pretty ignorant about St. Patrick's history.  But the visit to the well has ensured I will take the time to learn more.

    You may think I'll wrap up after that long, long ramble.  But no!  There's more.
We left the well and headed to Achill Island, pronounced Ah-kill, in County Mayo.  Achill Island not only had blue flag beaches, but numerous stone circles and dolmens, along with the highest sea cliffs in Europe, which we hoped would make up for missing the cliffs of Moher.  It was also a Gaeltacht region, meaning Gaelic was the primary language spoken, so we hoped it would be somewhat traditional culturally.

    All of the above was true.  It is absolutely gorgeous, filled with old sites, and an artist's enclave.  But there was a reason we were the only American tourists to be seen.  Oh my lord did it take us forever to get there.  The drive was beautiful- like stepping back into Donegal.  But by the time we got to the Island, we didn't have time to do much of anything.  Kai and Tess were burnt out on driving, and we had a two hour drive to the B&B ahead of us. So I kept them on the beach (such a hardship) while Michael went up to the cliffs- he had given me some good time to myself and it was time to repay the favor!
    It was cold on the beach, and if you look closely in the photos, you'll see there isn't a single person in the water not in a wet suit.  Everyone has them here, including kids, because the water is frigid.  But oh so, so beautiful!!  Despite the drive, if you are ever in Ireland, Achill Island is worth a visit.  Just leave yourself some time.
    Speaking of drives, we still had a long one ahead.  Which brings us to the last story of the night.  We left the Island around 8pm, planning to stop in Westport for some dinner before heading to our B&B in Cleggan, near Connemara National Park. Which meant we would get to Cleggan around 11pm.  After dark.  Gulp.
    The B&B was on a peninsula, in another one of those places to which  googlemaps and mapquest can't quite give you directions.  We made it to the turn off to Cleggan just fine.  But there were three different roads, and we had no idea which to take.  Because this has been a long post, and I'm tired, suffice it to say we drove for an hour up and down that bloody peninsula.  And I can now assure you that very narrow roads, crowded with purple loosestrife and meadowsweet, running along loughs on one side and dead ending into the sea, with no street lights anywhere and multiple unmarked turn-offs, are surely beautiful in the daylight.  But on the night in question, there is a small possibility that around midnight, as we were still driving up and down the roads with absolutely no idea where we were and two small girls in the back of the car wondering when they could go to bed, I asserted that I would like to stab said beautiful roads.  I don't know what that would have accomplished.  But I really, really meant it.
    Thank God Michael is an extrovert.  He noticed lights on in a house, and while I insisted they must be asleep, he pulled in.  We could see a whole family mysteriously up.  He knocked on the door, asked for help, and God bless the Irish, the elderly man of the house got into his car and led us to a turn off we'd missed.  Ten minutes later we were at the Hazelbrook Bed and Breakfast.
Thirty minutes later we were sound asleep.
Can I get a hallelujah?

Knocknarea: cairn of a warrior queen

    Oh, there isn't nearly enough time to see everything there is to see here.  We could spend a month and still not know all of Sligo's secrets.  So we were grateful again today to have my new little book about Sligo, written by a man who grew up here and both knows and loves the land.  Once again it pointed us in directions we would otherwise have missed.

    After a very large Irish breakfast at our B&B, we headed out to Knocknarea (Cnoc na Reidhe), pronounced knock-na-ray, and meaning hill of the smooth slope.  The hill itself would have been beautiful, but we were there with a purpose in mind- to climb to the top of the hill to the cairn of Queen Maeve (Queen Meadhbha).  Maeve was an Iron Age warrior queen.  She likely did exist- a daughter of the High King.   but she is now wrapped in myth.  Legends tell of her fierceness, courage, and pride.  One of the most famous tales explains that Maeve was proud of the fact that she was equal to her husband in all ways except one- her husband had a big, brown bull and she did not.  She set about to remedy the inequality by first trying to buy, and then successfully stealing, a neighbor's bull.  Equality restored.  But when the two bulls got together, they began to fight, and eventually killed each other.  Well, equality maintained!

    She was a protector of her people and much beloved of them.  The cairn on the top of the hill would have stood as a beacon.  They say she is buried with her favorite sword and shield, standing and facing the North, ready to fight her enemies for all eternity.  

    When we started up the hill, all we could see was cloud shrouding the vast majority of the hike.  We decided to start up anyway.  Consummate hikers, fear not, we weren't being stupid.  The hill is only around 1100 ft and largely devoid of trees.  So the worst that could have happened, slips on rocks aside, is that we could have gotten very wet.  Which we did, as far as that goes.

    And who could have resisted it?  Is there any better way to climb to the cairn of a great warrior queen, half lost to myth and legend, than through cloud and rain and wind?

    The climb started gentle enough- up a path surrounded by tall grasses, wild flowers, and rock walls on either side, beyond which were fields filled with cows and later sheep.

    But as we went further up, the landscape got a bit wilder and rockier. The cows disappeared and the nimble sheep took precedence.  

    We were also going deeper and deeper in the clouds, and our range of visibility got smaller and smaller until finally it seemed like we were in a cocoon.  We could have been anywhere or nowhere. We had no idea how close to, or far from, the top we were.  We thought we must be getting there, but how could we be sure?  We couldn't see anything.  It was pretty wild.

    Then, literally appearing out of the mist, we saw Queen Maeve's cairn.  It was so much bigger than we had expected.

    Legend has it that if you carry a stone up Knocknarea and place it on the cairn, your wish will be granted (and if you remove a stone from Maeve's cairn bad luck would follow you).  So we had all brought up a small stone.  When we got to the cairn, we took some quiet time to place the stones on the grave.

    During the walk down it started to rain in earnest.  Attentiveness to slippery rocks and the increasing comments from Kai and Tess about their wet feet made the trip slightly less romantic, but it was still beautiful.  And I noticed the path was strewn with fossils.  I would have collected one, but I was afraid of Maeve, so I didn't.  

    After a lunch of crackers and cheese purchased at a gas station and eaten in the car (guess who does their work for love and not money?), we headed over to Carrowmore, another neolithic graveyard.  While these mounds dated to around the same time as Newgrange, there was only one mound that looked similar.  Most of them were just a stone here or there, a few circles.....so little left of what was once clearly a hugely sacred site.  

    And the site is sprawling- many of the dolmens are in adjoining fields.  There are at least 60 separate graves/dolmens in the area, but they estimate there may have been over 200 originally.  And all of the surrounding hills have cairns on their tops as well.  It's hard to imagine the importance this site must have once had.  

One of the mounds is around 7400 years old, making it "earliest known piece of freestanding stone architecture in the world."  Though we somehow missed that while we were there.  Not the mound itself- I remember looking at it.  Just it's age.  

    To be honest, we weren't really into the power of the place.  We'd been to Creevykeel the day before and had just had the intense hike at Knocknarea.  Kai and Tess were cold and tired and wet, and Michael and I...well, I think just needed some downtime.  You can't exist in a constant state of awe.

Well, I can't.  Maybe you can.  I need to regroup after a while. Step into a little schlock.  Thank goodness then, for our next stop (again care of the little book) "Gilligan's World" aka the Fairy Park, nestled at the foot of Knocknashee (Cnoc na shidhe) pronounced knock na shee, and meaning "hill of the fairies. "  

    The fairy park was the cheesiest..... 

schlockiest place perhaps in all of Ireland.  But Kai and Tess absolutely loved it.  Poor kids, they are such troopers for the most part as we haul them from place to place.  They really do love a lot of what we do- and I love being able to share with them the old tales and stories of strong women (a queen powerful in her own right!).  But they deserve a treat, every once in a while.  And if they find magic at the fairy park, then I say Amen!

To close, here is a photo of Knocknashee- which actually does translate as "Fairy Hill".  Of course, it's cloaked in cloud.

Sligo: The Ireland of my wildest dreams (and Yeats' dreams, too)

It's been too many days to cover all in one post.  Yesterday I can skip- it was an excellent kid's day at the Dublin Zoo, Pheonix Park, and a playground.  Good times, but no need to elaborate.  The day before, though, we went to County Wicklow, in particular to Powerscourt and Glendalough, both of which deserve some time (and photos).  But I can't write it up today, because I'm so anxious to write about County Sligo- beautiful, magical, myth-filled, Yeats beloved Sligo.  We've only been here half a day and I am already completely and utterly bewitched by this place.  Not a surprise, I suppose, since we're just on the other side of Donegal Bay, and I fell in love with Donegal, too.  

    County Sligo is the northwestern-most part of Ireland, barring Donegal itself.  It's wilder and more open than a lot of Ireland, and so far north there are few tourists here.  We are, we think, leaning toward making the difficult decision to avoid most of the more southern places for which Ireland is most famous. We just don't have the time or money to visit every place.  And even though we'd always planned on it, it now seems hard to justify going to Dingle, for example, for the "real Ireland" experience, when there will be thousands of tourists for the few hundred Irish who live there.  Meanwhile, it is glorious up here, it wasn't too far to drive, and we're not swamped with anyone other than other Irish folks getting away.  

    We arrived at our B&B around 3pm (having passed a random stone circle in someone's field along the way) and immediately set out for a snack and someplace interesting to visit.  We ended up right up the street at Drumcliffe Church.  Most immediately pressing, it had a tea shop.  After we ate something, we became significantly more interested in the fact that it was also the burial place of poet WB Yeats, the location of a medieval circular tower (left from an ancient monastery) and home to one of the best High Crosses in the country, erected in the 9th century.

    Yeats is, I am discovering,  a beautiful poet.  I am shamefully ignorant of his work, despite his being well known.  But we are in Yeats country now...as numerous signs reminds us. Yeats called Sligo "The Land of Heart's Desire."  His poetry is full of references to natural landmarks in our immediate surrounding area, some of which we'll probably visit tomorrow.  Yeats fell in love with Sligo during his numerous visits to his grandparents here.  He moved to France for his health in the years before he died and was buried there.  But he had made it clear, in the 6th stanza of his poem Under Benbulben, that he wanted to be buried at Drumcliffe Church, where his grandfather had served. 

Under bare Ben Bulben's head
In Drumcliff churchyard Yeats is laid.
An ancestor was rector there
Long years ago, a church stands near,
By the road an ancient cross.
No marble, no conventional phrase;
On limestone quarried near the spot
By his command these words are cut:

Cast a cold eye
On life, on death.

Horseman, pass by! 

And he was finally re-interred here, at the foot of Benbulben Mountain.  

    I almost got a book of Yeats poetry to read tonight, but opted instead to get a book of watercolors and descriptions of places around Sligo.  I was hoping it would offer insight beyond what we were able to find in the books and online about what we might see in our far too short time here.  And boy did it come through!  I skimmed it in the car as we were trying to decide where to go next, and came across a very brief entry in the back, mentioning a place called Creevykeel Court Tomb, another neolithic passage tomb. I checked all three of the books we had brought- Frommers, Lonely Planet, and Hidden Places in Ireland (our host family's book). Nothing.  I checked the map and couldn't find it anywhere.  Finally, I spotted it, not too far up the coast from us.  We drove up and almost past it- nothing but a small, empty parking lot and a tiny sign.  We backed up, parked, and walked up the very short path that led behind a huge hedge.

At the first glimpse of stones, we noticed dozens of prayer flags had been tied twigs and branches.

We stepped into the clearing, and beheld Creevykeel.  

And it was amazing.

Built the same time as Newgrange, Creevykeel has been left as it fell.  There are standing stone circles and clear passages surrounded by masses of smaller stones.

    With the exception of about 10 minutes when another couple blew in, snapped some photos and blew out again, we were completely alone the whole time we were there.  

We were able to walk around quietly, pay attention to details (like this spiral of moss growing on one of the rocks)...it was another place where it was easy to fall into reverence. 

    Kaia and Tessa sensed it as well.  Tess, after I told them we would tie prayer flags before we left, went over of her own accord, put her hands on one of the flags, took a deep breathe, and started to pray.  I would have given just about anything to know what was in her little heart right then.

And both Kaia and Tessa wanted "alone time" in one of the open circles, so we all sat in our own sections, out of sight from one another.  

    And it wasn't in the books at all.  It just sits there, in the sun and rain, holding 5000 years of sacred history within its circles, waiting for whoever is lucky enough to happen upon it.

    After Creevykeel, we needed some dinner. It was around 7:30, after all.  So we arbitrarily decided to head down to Mullaghmore, because we passed it on the way back to the B&B and because it was a village on the water, which we thought might be nice.

To say the least!  The first two photos in this post are of the area.  

    Again, practically no-one there. How is it possible?  It was a beautiful little town, with a sweet little beach (a blue flag beach, as the best are called here), at the foot of high, cliff-like mountains.  I thought it was the other side of Benbulben, but having checked my watercolor book after we got back, I'm now pretty sure it was Benwisken. Benwisken is similarly shaped in many ways, but has a wedge from one angle, like the prow of a ship.  

    We ate, walked on the beach (it's around 9:30 pm in this photo.  We love Ireland's long daylight hours!), and finally headed home.

    Just in time to pass, way off in the distance, Classiebawn Castle at Sunset.

A castle, an abbey, and how to tell when you're not welcome in a pub

Today we headed out of the city again (hallelujah) and down to Kilkenney.  Frommer's describes Kilkenney as the Irish town of many visitor's imaginings.  I didn't have any imaginings of Irish towns before I got here, though, so it mostly looked cute and slightly touristy.  But we didn't choose Kilkenney because of Frommer's anyway.  I had stumbled upon it when I was researching Letterkenney in Donegal, discovered that there was a huge amount to do and see there, and then realized I was reading about Kilkenney by accident.  Shush- it's an easier mistake than you might think with all the towns here that are so similarly named.

    We started with Kilkenney Castle.  If you're wondering if all these castles are really so different that we need to visit them all, the answer is no (except Dunluce, which is, as far as we all are concerned, in a class by itself).  But we have two little girls who love castles, so to castles we go.

    Kilkenney was reputed to be one of the most fairytale-esque castles in Ireland, and it was, at least on the outside.  Of course the glorious blue sky after a week of rain might have helped.
[argh...side note.  Sorry about the formatting below. Blogger is screwing up and won't let me put text next to photos beyond this one here.]

Later, we drove over to Thomastown to visit Jerpoint Abbey, a medieval Cistercian ruin.  It was so nice to be in the country again, where the fields are green, the roads are curvy, and the hedgerows are close.

We arrived well after closing time, so we couldn't go into the ruin itself, which I regret.  It was one of the loveliest sites I've seen since we've been here.  

What I don't regret is that since we arrived so late, we were completely alone.  We were able to walk around the perimeter, peer through the (barred) windows, wander through the small graveyard, and look at the old, old stones in stillness. Well, as much stillness as a 4&6 yr old will allow. 

It was incredibly peaceful.  There was a gentleness at the abbey that I hadn't yet felt any place else here in Ireland, North or South.  I was aware that I was walking on ground that had been considered holy for a long, long time.  And unlike at the cathedrals, which insist with their grandeur on being given their due respect, here I instinctively fell into reverence.  

For all the hours we spent wandering around the cathedrals, I'm already beginning to forget them.  But this little abbey, where we spent all of 20 minutes, I'll remember 20 years from now.

Our last adventure for the night has no photo, because alas, I didn't think to take one until it was too late. But here is the tale in brief:  upon leaving the abbey, we decided to eat in Thomaston instead of Kilkenney due to an emergency potty situation.  So we stopped at a little pub with a blackboard outside advertising sandwiches.  In we went.  

    The pub was small and dark, and there were only 6 or so people sitting around.  There was no creepy vibe, however, so I wasn't concerned.  As I walked past the first man sitting at the bar, I gave him a smile.  While he looked into my eyes for an extended beat, he most decidedly did not smile back.  Uncowed, I gave my most winning smile to the next man at the bar I walked past.  He also looked into my eyes for an extended beat.  And did not smile.  Now he did offer a head nod.  but I know lots of people disinclined toward smiling for whom a nod is at least a neutral acknowledgement, and this nod was not one of those nods.  

Hmmmmm

    Michael took the girls to the bathroom, and I could hear him chatting with the bartender, who was clearly being quite friendly with him.  Reassured, when the bartender came back front, I offered him my biggest smile yet.  He looked at me...and did not smile in return.

Then the phone rang, and when the bartender answered, all he said was, "the eagle has landed" before hanging up.  

Huh. 

     I was pretty sure he was just joking with a friend.  But there was a slim possibility that in fact we had stumbled into that weird Steven King story where on one day every year in one small town unsuspecting visitors are caught and then sacrificed to frogs with needle teeth.

Unfortunately it turned out that the pub didn't serve food that late anyway, so we had to cut our visit short.  I'm sure they were devastated to see the back side of me.

    We headed back to Kilkenney, ate at a pub that had absolutely crap food, and then wandered back to the car, passing on the way a hen (?)  party, aka bachlorette party, that was waiving over their head an enormous, blow up penis.

You just can't make this stuff up.

of Vikings, Cathedrals, and the Queen of Tarts

   Today we headed downtown, and after nearly a week of gray, rain, and cold, we even had a few spots of sun to cheer us on our way.  Our goal- the Viking Museum, Dublinia, (which was supposed to be great for the kids) Christ Church Cathedral, and hopefully the Beatty Library again.  We did manage the first two.  And then we found a treat shop to end all treat shops. But that was at the end of the day.

Our day started, as always when going downtown, with the Luas- a relatively new, fast, quite, and clean public train system.  We hopped on and got off at St. Stephen's Green downtown.

We headed up to Dublinia on foot, passing on our way the famous statue of Molly Malone.  You probably know the tune...In Dublin's fair city, where girls are so pretty, I first set me eyes on sweet Molly Malone. She wheels her wheelbarrow through streets broad and narrow, singing "cockles and mussels alive, alive oh!"  I will only casually mention that it does not look like just cockles or mussels that she is selling in the above statue.  

    Dublinia was, in fact, a great little museum.  It has lots of interesting info (of which we did manage to read a little bit) but also lots of clothes for the girls to try on, tile rubbings for them to do, short movies to watch, etc.  

    It has three floors.  The first explores Dublin's history during the Viking period, around 1100 A.D.

    The second floor described Dublin during Medieval times.  Reconstructionists here in Ireland often include bathroom scenes, we've noticed.  The scene on this floor not only had a medieval bathroom, but a dummy sitting in the bathroom, making what sounded like a good old college try. 

Yep, there were sound effects.  

I couldn't bring myself to include a photo, so instead here is a photo of Kaia and Tessa in the stocks, looking tragic.  It is something to consider if naughtiness gets out of hand.

    I also took note of these fine shoes.  They were the height of style for men of means. And the wooden clogs beside them slipped over the shoes for those times when walking in mud was unavoidable, even for the rich.  

   Since everything old once again becomes new, I think we can all agree that I've found my niche products, should I ever need to supplement my church income. 

    Minds expanded and financial problems solved, we headed across the street to Christ Church Cathedral.  Christ Church has an interesting history, shifting from Catholic to Church of Ireland and also battling with St. Patrick's Cathedral (also Church of Ireland) for power.    Thus serving as a reminder to all religious professionals that we will apparently never be rid of church politics.  The power struggle between Christ Church and St. Patrick's was resolved in 1872, when Christ Church was named the diocesan cathedral for Dublin and Glendalough and St. Patrick's became a national cathedral.  

    Like St. Patrick's, Christ Church had amazing floor tiles.  I don't know why I'm obsessed with these old tiles. I just love them. 

 On the off chance someone else also loves them, here are just a couple more shots of the tiles.

    The tiles to the right are the original medieval tiles.

    The cathedral also had a number of things I found fascinating, in a macabre sort of way.  For example, this room is the "peace chapel."  Pilgrims come here and pray for peace every evening.  

Lovely.

But see that metal cage hanging on the wall?  Inside it is a metal heart shaped box- appropriate enough for a peace chapel. But inside the metal, heart shaped box is a heart.  By which I mean a human heart.  The heart of Bishop Laurence O'Toole, to be precise, placed in the cathedral upon his (natural) death with "solemn rejoicing." I don't understand his history with the cathedral enough to know why that would be appropriate. Ahhh, within the worldview of those who would consider hanging a human heart inside a chapel to be appropriate.  

    Not passing judgement.  Just admitting to being rather startled.

Beneath the cathedral are the crypts.  We were allowed down, but given access to only a small section. We did not see any interred remains- that section was, I'm assuming kept closed, for which I'm glad.  Some things deserve to be kept sacred.  The part we were given access to held the cathedral's treasures.  There was a very....crypt like atmosphere going down the stairs- low ceilings, dim lighting, old statues.

    Until you rounded the corner, and ran into the gift shop and cafe.  

Again, not passing judgement- after all, they have to pay their oil bill, too.   And apparently during the 16th and 17th centuries, the crypts were accessed through separate doors and rented out for shops and "tippling rooms,"so they're hardly breaking with sacred tradition.

Directly across from the gift shop is displayed this mummified cat and rat, found  a while back in the pipes, where they had apparently been trapped.  I would have been more surprised, but then, I had just seen the caged heart.

    All teasing aside, I had a very good feeling inside Christ Church- as if they took themselves seriously enough as religious folk (a prayer service was beginning as we left), but not too seriously.  I thought they were probably my kind of people.  And, just in case I'm assuming knowledge you don't have, many Catholic churches (and, I'm assuming, Anglican, of which Church of Ireland is one) hold parts of the human remains of saints to be holy relics.  So as startling as it was to me to see a heart in the chapel, it is probably not startling to people within the tradition. Instead it likely really is received as a blessing.  And though I've been joking, I'm really not judging.

    We left Christ Church in search of a treat before we made our way home.  And oh my, did we find it, here, at the Queen of Tarts.  There are actually two in Dublin- we were at the larger, but this photo is of the smaller.

Lovers of baked goods, we have found your paradise. If you ever find yourself in Dublin, find this shop.

You can thank me when you get back.