Mainistir Ros Oirialaigh
Today was the day. The day I meet the people I would embark on this experience with. It was like the first day of school all over again, multiplied by a million. What if they didn’t like my personality? What if they hated me, or worse, my story? I would be stuck, on international land, touring a new country with those people. Again, my crutch, or my fault depending on how you look at it. But I was determined, forcing myself to reach far, far…far out of my comfort zone.
It turns out I didn’t need to reach that far.
Within two seconds of meeting my group, I knew that I was going to be just fine. Even the guest author, Heather Webb, knew me on sight, welcoming me with smiles as we all squeezed onto the tiny bus that would take us to our home for the next week.
A short trip through vast open hills and we were in the small town of Headford, pulling up to the Anglers Rest. It was a tiny, quaint sort of town, not as bustling as Shop Street, and not as grand as Galway, but it had that simple charm that makes you go instantly at ease.
After dropping our luggage and getting checked in, we jumped right into our activities with a tour of Ross Errilly Friary only 5 minutes down the road. It shocked me how close to absolute beauty I’d be staying. Ross Errily, Mainistir Ros Oirialaigh, is the best-preserved monastic site in the country, so well, in fact, that people are still occasionally buried on the grounds with tombs dating back to the friary’s active days. Tales date the friary back to 1351, but architectural cues put it closer to 1460.
The story of Ross Errilly begins with the plague. Through all the suffering, Archbishop MacHugh offered last rights to those who were dying and would pray for those who were sick. Tales say he entered a trance after a long night of prayers, begging God to lift the plague. His prayers were answered in the form of a vision. An angel came to him, instructing him to head west to the town of Headford and build a home for the poor friars. Only then would the plague be lifted. "But where," he asked. The angel replied, "Go west to the shores of Black River and a sign will be given to you." So MacHugh did exactly that, gathering his men into the chariots and heading west. As they came over the rise looking down onto Black River, they saw three swans, all of which had bright blue flowers in their beaks. The flowers turned out to be flax flowers. Flax flowers bloom in late May, but it was February, and it was then that Archbishop MacHugh knew he had been given his sign. After laying in their foundation stones in 1349, the plague was lifted. However, the sad tale also ends with the plague, as it claimed Archbishop MacHugh shortly after.
The story is not the only haunting thing about Ross Errilly, sitting high up on the hill overlooking Black River. Its ruins tell a long tale of hardships and disruptions. It was constantly in the throes of the English Reform, going back and forth between English and Franciscan ownership. Through massacres, imprisonment, confiscations, and plundering, through the Nine Years’ War, religious rebellion, and the Cromwell era, the friary stood. It wasn’t until 1832 that it finally closed due to neglect.
Walking through the dilapidating hallways, and climbing up crumbling stairwells that lead to the skeletal walkways made from walls missing their roofs. Façades of outer walls still piercing the gray sky with their massive archways and Gaelic shaped windows. The inner cloister is still preserved, with its pillars standing firm, allowing a decorative frame to the grass courtyard within. From the eerie Jesus carving revealed through the remains of a second story wall to the chilling cold spot tucked away in the only stairwell still intact this place tells a story filled with sadness that started out with the noblest of intentions.
As we drove out, we stopped at the end of the long dirt pathway that led us up to Ross Errilly. The view, even from so far away, is intimidatingly haunting with its shell of triangular walls plastered against the sky, and skeletal bell tower reaching up into the clouds.
With a taste of Ireland and all its magic now on my tongue, I hungered for more. We headed back to the hotel for a welcoming banquet with our host, Fiona, and our two guest authors, Heather and Loriane. I think things are just magnified here. Tapas as full plates for one, and entres consist of enough meat and sides to feed a small army. A large face sized bowl of chicken caesar salad (yes, that’s right, meat on the salad too) was served before a platter of sirloin and potatoes, smothered in gravy, and followed by the most delicious apple pie I’ve had in my entire life. It could have been because it was more of an apple puree than apple chunks, of which I savored every bite of the brick-sized slice.
After a meal fit for the Gods, I needed to move around before heading back to my room for the night. Lissa, Nicole and I headed out for a walk down main street; not because it was named that but because it was the only road that consisted of what one might consider shops or eateries. But that aside, it was just as indulging. Sprinkled with old homes, balls of hanging clover, and stained glass accents, the street had an old world charm; like we were strolling down a street untouched by time. Unbeknownst to us, the gold at the end of this rainbow was another abandoned church; then again according to the sign near it, you could throw a rock and probably hit a monastery in Headford. Although it was gated, and with our cameras left behind because of the threatening rain, we headed back with the intention of returning to our discovery later on.
Full, tired, drenched and drunk on wanderlust we retired to our rooms, and I was able to spend my final hours of the evening reflecting on all that I had seen and learned. Of a land rich with the exuberance of history, and a place I was slowly falling in love with.
