A Seaside Holiday

I’ve only just sat down to work when I hear the sound of a car door shutting. I glance out the window and see a whole family approaching the house.

This is not completely unusual. People occasionally show up out of the blue to visit the art gallery that my host runs. It’s really supposed to be Visit By Appointment Only, but few people seem to read the fine print on websites or elsewhere.

I shut my laptop and head downstairs. As I’ve been left to myself for a couple weeks while my host and her kids are off on their summer holiday, I catch myself filling in as (a not too unwilling) host (“Should I put the kettle on for tea?”), gallery opener, animal water refiller, slave to the cat, and sporadic gardener.

While I always find it amusing how little true solitude there is in the world, it’s also been a great relief to have these intermittent distractions. They save me from the loneliness that has (surprisingly) been showing up at strange times with a basketful of tedium as a gift. For certainly, they provide me with interesting interactions, I’ve met people from Dublin, Cork, Belfast, Ardmore, Berlin, and London. And, most importantly, they keep me from forgetting that I’m in Ireland.    

I could be anywhere in the world, but I’m here.

When I open the door, I recognize the man. I’d met him once, a weekend or two ago, when my host had had a gallery exhibition opening.

Today, he’s brought his mother, sister, and two nieces to try and help him find things with which to decorate his new-ish house.

The nieces (somewhere in the six to eleven year age range) make themselves right at home. They let the chickens out to scratch, say hello to the rabbit, and run through the garden the way only children can.

“Would you care for tea?” I ask the adults after they’ve seen what they came to see.

“That would be wonderful,” they say. So, I put the kettle on. Eventually, the water boils and we all sit down at the table.

“We’re going for fish and chips and a walk in Ardmore,” the man says, “you’re welcome to come along if you’d like.”

I almost decline. But then I think, why not go? My work will wait for me. I haven’t been to Ardmore yet. It’s a nice day and an excursion would be welcome. Also, why would he bother to extend an invitation if he didn’t mean it?

When our tea has been drunk and the chickens returned to their coop, we pile all together in the little car and head off to Ardmore. It’s only about a fifteen minute drive and then we’re there. The plan is to get them fish and chips, to see St. Declan’s cathedral and monastery, and to take a clifftop walk.

The man pulls into a parking spot in front of a little Take Away Restaurant and they all order fish and chips and I, thinking that lunch sounds like a fun idea, order a veggie burger and chips. The grandmother pays for all of our food despite my protests that there’s no need for her to pay for mine.

“It won’t break the bank,” she says. And I thank her.

The woman, with her coat zipped up and scarf tight round her neck, finds an extra jacket in the trunk of the car and loans it to me. I’d brought along a light jacket of my own, but she, feeling cold herself, feels it might not be enough. They find the weather cooler here than in Berlin. I find it very summery. I’ve got a short sleeved shirt on. I’m thinking about pulling out my sunglasses. Nevertheless, I tuck the loaned jacket around my bag just in case.

When it’s all ready, we take our food down to the beach, cozy up against the stone wall, and eat our lunch while looking out to sea.

Ardmore is a seaside and fishing village reported to be the oldest Christianized settlement in Ireland. This, because St. Declan came and established a monastic order in the southern area before anyone else thought about it. His establishment even pre-dates the greater-known St. Patrick and his missionary work.

What I can see before and around me is charming. I eat my veggie burger and fries and think that seaside villages make a day into a holiday. After the lunch things are tidied up, I take off my shoes and socks, roll up my pants, and follow the woman, the grandmother, and the nieces into the sea. The man comes along too. The water washes up over my feet and up to my ankles. It’s delightfully cold. The sand is soft and impressionable under my arches, heels, and toes. Paddling, as they call wading, makes a seaside holiday feel like a distinctly summer holiday day.

The sun is warm. The breeze not too cold. The jacket unneeded but near to hand. I’m content.

I feel at ease with this family, as if I were part of it—distantly anyway. As if we’d planned long in advance to take a daytrip together. How strange and wonderful people are. How strange and wonderful life is. How strange I am.

After a bit of time—the girls looking for shells and mollusks and who knows what else and then having to be convinced to leave it all behind—we brush the sand off, dry our feet, and put our shoes back on.

We’ve got other things to see and a limited amount of time to get it all done. The man has a priest coming for a BBQ at his house only a few hours from now. He’s got the priest coming to bless each room of his home with Holy Water. He doesn’t want to be late to greet him.

The girls aren’t especially eager to leave the beach. Nevertheless, we pack ourselves back into the car and drive over to St. Declan’s Cathedral. The man has been selling its charms with the promise that there is an image of Solomon. The girls aren’t convinced that this is exciting.

However, I do find the image of Solomon something to look forward to. Will it be Solomon on his own? Solomon with his wives and 700 concubines? Will it be a story showing proof of his purported wisdom?

I know that the man has recently published a book on the Song of Songs (aka the Song of Solomon) and so I can understand why he’d emphasize as interesting anything to do with the Israelite king.

The image, when we come around to view it, is a Romanesque Arcade (according to a website about Ardmore) with multiple biblical images including Adam and Eve, The Adoration of the Magi, and the highly advertised Judgement of Solomon.

We admire it. The girls walk the borders of the graves as if they were gymnast beams. These children are energy, bright and endless energy. We move onward.

I trail along behind the man and the nieces and listen to the facts that he passes on to the girls who may or may not be listening. The mother and the grandmother have lingered behind somewhere. Other visitors walk by. 

As we wander past the gravestones and over to the little oratory where, we’re told by the man, St. Declan used to go to get away from the other men in his order for some peace and quiet, I am reminded how little I know about Ireland and its history.

I try to think up some sensible questions to ask about the place and the history. I come up with one or two while we’re sitting on some stones next to the Round Tower. The Round Tower was originally a bell tower and also used as a refuge during invasions. The man tells us that the only entrance is on the far side from where we are and only reached by ladder. I go around the tower to see. Sure enough, he’s told the truth. About 13 feet off the ground is a smallish window-door. It’s the only way in or out. We ponder the tower as a refuge.

“Invaders would only have to wait around until food ran out,” I say, thinking about what it’d be like to be inside with invaders below.

Even though it’s four stories high, it seems a small space to live in. I ponder peace and war. I ponder desperation and invasion. I ponder the clouds moving overhead.

And then, after we’ve all seen what we can, we take the car up the road, park once more, and begin our clifftop walk.

We pass St. Declan’s Well. We pass the stone wall with crosses etched into the surface. The trail narrows and then widens slightly.

A mist has moved in since we left the beach. Now, the air has a mystical quality to it. I feel above the entire world, isolated, islanded, enchanted.

The man forges on ahead of us all. He’s checked his watch and stated that we don’t have much more than twenty minutes for our walk. The woman and the younger daughter go ahead of me.

The grandmother and the older daughter are behind.

As the path ascends, I take some moments to look down. The cliff faces grow taller as I go. Then there, below and before me, is the rusted out frame of an old crane, blow in and wrecked by a 1987 storm. Off to my right is a Gothic Watchtower. It stands alone in a field with the mist moving around it like a forgotten castle. At the top is a World War II Lookout Post, not much more than a cement bunker looking out over the sea.

“I told my daughter that if she looks that way she’ll see America,” the woman tells me as she and the daughter head off toward the Gothic Watchtower.

“Maybe on a really clear day you can,” I say. I go to stand in front of the Lookout Post, gazing into the mist, thinking about America being the next stop by sea. Thinking of all the nautical miles in between.

The clock clicks on. It’s time to go.

The man and I are the first ones down to the car.

“They’re snails,” he says of his family, checking his watch. He looks over his shoulder to see if they’re in sight. They’re not. “I’d better go collect them.”

I hope they hurry along, for his sake. I know what it’s like to have a plan for something. I know what it is to want to be on time, to want to be prepared.

“You should come,” the woman had said to me earlier. “It’d be an interesting experience for you to see a house blessed with Holy Water.”

That’s true, it would be. But I’ve had my adventure. To get back home from the Blessed House would take some planning. It’s too far for me to easily walk. The man has a fixed schedule for the next few days and couldn’t drop me home again. And a taxi, though feasible, seems an expense and hassle I’m not in the mood for.

“You’re welcome to come,” the man tells me, before going to find his family of snails.

“Thank you,” I say. “I think if it’s not too much trouble, I’d rather go on home. I do appreciate the offer.”

When we’re all together again and settled once more in the car, he drives us back the way we came.

“What have you decided?” the woman asks me.

“I think I’ll go on home. It’s been a really nice day, though, thanks for inviting me to come.”

The man speeds along, checking the time once or twice with a sideways glance. As he does, the woman, his sister, asks, “Does the Holy Water expire if you’re late? Does it go off?”

I hold my smile in to myself as I think of Holy Water with an expiration date printed on the top of the bottle. I don’t catch if the man replies to her or not. I stare out the window and soon the hedged road, the trees, the bends become familiar again. I know where we are now. I’ve walked this way before. A few turns later, the man stops at the top of the road where I live. I clamber out of the car and bid them many thanks for such a wonderful day. I bid them all goodbye.

“If you’re ever in Berlin,” the woman says through the open window.

“If you’re ever in London,” the grandmother says.

“Thank you! I’ll visit if I am,” I say.

Goodbye, goodbye, safe travels, goodbye. A turning of wheels, a rounding of the corner, and they’re gone.

Full of holiday and happy, I walk down the boreen and to the house.

At the door, the cat greets me and tells me its food bowl is empty. Obediently, I fill the cat’s bowl. Then I go upstairs. There’s still time in the day to do some work.