Fading Past: Discovering the History of Ireland
By Martha Anne Gaston
This article appeared in Abroad View spring 2004
In Dublin, the ancient pastof harpsand fertility gods lives on in coffee mugs, immodest gift shops and signs over pub entrances. Evidence of Irish-English struggles abounds—Kilmainham Gaol, where the 1916 rebels were imprisoned and executed; Dublin Castle, the main seat of English tyranny in Ireland; and Glasnevin Cemetery, where political heroes and martyrs are buried. As in American cities, McDonald’s, The Gap and congested traffic decorate the metropolis of Dublin. When I arrive, I expect to find traces of life similar to those left by the Romans in antique German cities. After visiting a few museums, I realize that evidence of the tribes of Celts, who populated the island for centuries before the English colonized Ireland, would be difficult to uncover because these ancient people mainly used wood for building.
The Celts, a devout and agrarian people, inhabited the British Isles and several regions of Western Europe before the spread of the Roman Empire. Celtic faith involved the mythology and worship of many deities that varied by region and the belief in a type of reincarnation in which the soul of a recently dead person migrated to a newborn. Discovering evidence of pre-colonial Ireland will require searching, but I am willing to do a little detective work to find its remnants.
As the Dublin skyline disappears behind our tour bus, I realize that there are no signs pointing to the Celtic attractions off exit 5. The landscape unfolds into green fields and hills, speckled with ruins and mysterious monuments. In these remote locations I discover the artistry and few remnants of the Celts and a history beyond the English-Irish struggle.
The day we leave Dublin, we travel to the Wicklow Mountains. Walking through the double archway entrance to Glendalough in Co. Wicklow, I spy the round tower, which seems to stretch from the white landscape to the clouds, still heavy with yesterday’s snow. The monastic ruins, nestled in a valley, span a large area and seem to grow from the ground like petrified vegetation. I pick my way carefully over the icy path as the guide shows our group some of the features of the cathedral. The sidewalls of the building stand skeleton-like, leaving me exposed to the frigid January air. A chill runs down my spine, and I’m not sure whether it is from excitement or the freezing temperatures. How did the monks complete their daily tasks centuries ago without the comfort of Polartec fleece and central heat?
Gravestones appear to have infested the entire area. Crumbling stones over monks’ graves lie next to marble slabs of recent parishioners, giving the yard a haphazard appearance. This confusion of old and new disturbs my American sensibilities. Very little is being done to preserve this consecrated site. Do the Irish not worry about the importance and integrity of this place? Do they not appreciate the uniqueness of their history? I sweep snow off a weatherworn headstone with a black-gloved hand, barely conscious of my fingers touching something centuries old. The damp feel of the stone stirs something in me. Where are the ropes and “do not touch” signs?
The pre-Norman monastery Glendalough is one of many monuments that remain from a period in Ireland’s history when old Celtic traditions and newer Christian ones blended into a rich cultural and spiritual institution. Several days later I meet St. Patrick, who along with other missionaries brought the Word of the Gospel to Ireland around the year 432, at the steep mountain of Croagh Patrick. Foregoing the pilgrims’ traditional barefoot climb, I run up the trail against icy rain, my hiking boots barely gripping the gravel. A short distance up the path, the majestic white figure of St. Patrick welcomes me with a large, green shamrock. What did he witness of the Celtic people as he journeyed throughout this wild country? On this sacred site, catching my breath and enjoying the view of a nearby lake, I remember that Ireland is the one place in Western Europe where Christianity “invaded” without the influence of violent Roman legions. Gazing up at St. Patrick’s benevolent face, I appreciate why the Irish grasped onto the new religion with a zeal that prompted them to build abbeys and devote their lives to the Christian purpose.
As our group walks up the pathway at Monasterboice in Co. Louth into what is now chiefly a graveyard, two large, bulky crosses capture my attention. These high crosses, the epitome of Christian Irish sculptural achievement, stand as a testament to the importance of this period. Monasterboice’s crosses contain carvings meant to teach the Biblical story to the mostly illiterate population. Running my hand over the Tree of Knowledge and Celtic spirals that adorn the side panels of the Muiredach Cross, I notice the precise, yet rustic, chiseling of the baby Jesus, Pontius Pilate and other figures. Only someone with deep Christian convictions would have spent the weeks necessary to complete such a daunting project.
Suddenly aware of my fingers on the cool granite, I feel grateful that this nation embraces an interactive history—one that does not generally involve roped-off areas and glass cases. Yet the hand- and weather-worn stones show negative effects. Will these images be recognizable in a few decades if they are left outside in the sweeping rains and winds? The consequences of allowing such a tangible experience are apparent. Some of the crosses are already worn soft and smooth, the unique markings erased. Future generations may never have the opportunity to witness these crosses if the Irish state does not take measures to preserve them.
My hunt for the past culminates near the end of the trip at the imposing Rock of Cashel in Co. Tipperary. Cashel, one of the most arresting structures on the island, sits on top of a large hill overlooking the town. It is one of the best-preserved monastic sites on the island, probably due to its prominent geographical position. Most of each structure’s walls are still standing and the artistic flourishes are generally discernable. The walled community stands as a symbol of the Irish clan spirit and the communal society of monks. Bright sandstone buildings, in contrast with the clear blue sky and flourishing grass, catch my attention. The craggy, rock-strewn hilltop conjures up pictures of a moonscape awash in vegetation. The late morning sun casts shadows through archways and on the walls of the cathedral, illuminating the mix of sandstone and limestone carvings of gargoyles, fertility symbols and Celtic crosses.
The place is regal, with its prominent position, towering edifices and distinct architectural combination of Irish folklore, paganism and Christianity. It looks more like a castle than a place meant to inspire quiet servitude. An image of the gold foil drawings and richly colored Celtic ink patterns of The Book of Kells in Trinity College, Dublin comes to mind. Although monks lived without worldly riches, they seem to have spared no expense for the work of God. The tour guide leads us into a small chapel and explains that the site was originally the seat of the ancient Munster kings. The legendary Brian Boru took his seat as high king of Ireland here in 977. The guide points to what at first appears to be lichen and mold on the chapel ceiling and clarifies that the colors are actually part of what was once a brilliant fresco. Despite strong efforts at Cashel, the location is still subject to the destructive forces of time, weather and past indifference.
I need to preserve this moment, this place, this landscape, completely frozen like a scene in a snow-globe from a tacky Dublin souvenir stand. It takes determined searching, but I finally find remnants of Ireland’s past mingled with the structures of Christianity, an accommodating compromise between old and new. Though Ireland has begun restoration and preservation projects, I fear that these are insufficient to repair and prevent damage. Future tourists who wish to see a version of Ireland similar to the one I sought will have a difficult time. The inks on the sacred texts in the Trinity College Library will eventually fade, the top of the round tower at Glendalough will fall, and only written records of what once was will remain. I take one last picture of Cashel and trudge back to the visitor’s center. Eventually, memories like mine will be all that are left.
This bio was accurate at the time this article was printed: Martha Anne Gaston graduated from Agnes Scott College in Decatur, GA, in December 2003 with a B.A. in English Creative Writing and Literature and a minor in German Studies. She plans to pursue a career in periodical journalism.