Ancient Stones

the deserted village of Slievemore on Achill Island, Ireland  ©A.Rutherford

In many, many places all across Ireland, out of all the dreaming, planning and building, living and loving in a place, only the stones remain.

Slievemore is one such village on Achill Island, off the northwest coast of Ireland.  Achill is one of the best places to just go and be in Ireland.  The remains of the village are perched high upon the south slope of  Slievemore (Sliabh Mór) mountain, and consists of the remains of about 100 stone cottages set along what must have been a pathway or road that extends for about a mile.  These cottages at one time would have been thatched, and would have housed a thriving community.  For generations these people lived out their lives amongst the spectacular scenery of this place, until something happened.  No one is quite sure, but the consensus is that the Great Famine of 1845-49, created by the potato blight, caused the villagers to slowly die off from hunger or disease.

Despite its tragic history when you go there today, there is an overwhelming sense of peace.  The village is far from any neighboring towns, yet it is not a lonely place.  It is a place I return to because it is a blessing to me.  For me, Slievemore is one of those “thin places” the old ones in Ireland used to speak of . . . those places in the landscape which are sort of thresholds where two worlds meet . . . the temporal and the eternal . . . the inner and the outer . . . the spiritual and the physical . . . the past and the present.  

The aspect of patience conveyed by the stones and the sky strikes a chord with me.   It's like the earth is saying, "I've got all the time in the world. Be here with me now."   And to connect to that timelessness is either healing and invigorating, whichever one is in need of at the time.

The Deserted Village 

I have come here to this place to be alone,

And for my restless spirit seek some calm.

I lay my hand to rest on ancient stone

And feel the captured sun upon my palm.

My fingers trace the crevices and moss,

The tangled vines speak like some ancient braille.

The softly moist breezes play and toss

Time’s curtain to the side like a veil.

I see mystic forms flit along the lanes

That mark the intersections of their lives.

I hear empty echoes of their joys and pains,

These stones their only vestige that survives.

Ruined houses sit in order row by row,

As if some meaning once was there,

But now between the cobbles grasses grow

And leave the world no trace of their despair.

Each morning mists rise from atop the mountain

Which sheltered life and love along these lanes.

Each evening mist rolls down again,

To rest like a blessing on what remains.

With benediction too I leave this place,

And carry with me memories as a grace.

                                                               ©.A.Rutherford

The Irish poet William Butler Yeats took an old stone ruin near Galway, a square, four storied Norman castle keep, and restored it to a place where he could settle and write, but still be in touch with the continuity of Irish history.  I guess you could say he built his own “ivory tower.”

He created this inscription which was placed on the front wall:

I, the poet William Yeats,

With old millboards and sea-green slates,

And smithy work from the Gort forge,

Restored this tower for my wife George,

And may these characters remain

When all is ruin once again.

That's becoming part of the flow of history, to be sure . . .

Of course, for people of Faith there is a more sure foundation . . .

Psalm 118:22-24 

 22 The stone that the builders rejected
      has now become the Cornerstone.
 23 This is the Lord’s doing,
      and it is wonderful to see.
 24 This is the day the Lord has made.
      We will rejoice and be glad in it.

Isaiah 26:4 
 4 Trust in the Lord always,
      for the Lord God is the eternal Rock.

And yeah, I gather stones from various places I visit as mementos . . . I guess no one looking at them sitting on my shelves would know where they "belong" or what memories they “contain,” but that doesn't matter to me.  *smile*

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