Unequally Yoked
My favorite part of my trip to Ireland avec ma mère occurred on our last full day when we visited Kilmainham Gaol, a prison built in the Benthamite style and used to incarcerate (and execute) many of Ireland’s most famous political prisoners. As you can see above, the panopticon design of one of the prison’s wings lets guards observe all of the prisoners as easily as possible.
The museum and tour were excellent. I wish I’d gone earlier in the trip, since this was the stop that gave me my best overview of Irish history and some of the major players. I got a little verklempt more than once. Including when the guide told us that Kilmainham’s last prisoner, Eamon de Valera, went on to become Ireland’s president, and presided over the restoration of the prison as historical site. In the museum, I also discovered this:
Valera wasn’t the only politician to rise from the prison, but I was still struck by these campaign posters:
There was only one contender for my least favorite activity in Ireland. Before arriving, I had definitely gotten the impression that touring the Guinness Storehouse meant touring a factory, but there were no machines (active or inactive), very few detailed looks at the how, and a whole lot of creepy hagiography of a beer.
The strangest moment of the tour came when we followed signs for a “tasting” and wound up walking through a very dark corridor and emerging in a bright white room with four columns puffing smoke. The Guinness employee told us that the corridor was meant as a sensual palate cleanser, and that our current room was white to remove distractions as we wafted the perfumes of hops, etc (the aerosolized smoke) to familiarize ourselves with the flavors of Guinness.
From there, we proceeded to another, darker room with wood paneling where everyone was given detailed instructions on how to taste their samples of stout and then discarded their empties on little plinths (as above). I was reminded of this passage from Mere Christianity:
You can get a large audience together for a strip-tease act—that is, to watch a girl undress on the stage. Now suppose you came to a country where you could fill a theatre by simply bringing a covered plate on to the stage and then slowly lifting the cover so as to let every one see, just before the lights went out, that it contained a mutton chop or a bit of bacon, would you not think that in that country something had gone wrong with the appetite for food?
Madness. Insanity. And speaking of which, when my mom and I were out in Galway, we had a lovely trip to the Cliffs of Moher, which you may recognize from their role in The Princess Bride as The Cliffs of Insanity.
Walking along the cliffs was fun, but my poor mother did yeoman’s work driving us around Connemara where she had to drive on the ‘wrong’ side of the road along curvy, cliff-facing roads that were two-lane in name only. Bizarrely, many of these roads were labelled with speed limits of 100km/hr. Even though obstructions as below were not uncommon:
I prefer my encounters with livestock to be a little less perilous and a lot more whimsical:
I’m not sure if ‘whimsical’ is the best word for what I found in the gift shop that followed the Book of Kells exhibit at Trinity College. To refresh your memory, the Book of Kells is an illuminated copy of the Gospels, and if that piece of background knowledge gives you any insight as to why Trinity would be selling this, you’re a wiser woman than I.
Chapter titles included, “Life on Mars” “A Return from the Dead” “Escape into Egypt” and “The Tao Weapon.”
I didn’t pick up a copy, so I can’t shed any more light on that topic. My on-topic vacation reading turned out to include:
- A Book of Saints and Wonders (1906) by Lady Gregory
- Christine Falls (2008) by Benjamin Black
- Angela’s Ashes (1999) by Frank McCourt
- Irish Wonders The Ghosts, Giants, Pooka, Demons, Leprechawns, Banshees, Fairies, Witches, Widows, Old Maids, and other Marvels of the Emerald Isle (1888) by D. R. McAnally [currently reading]
- Strumpet City by James Plunkett (1969) [starting on the plane home]
And I can’t resist sharing this passage from the story “How Conchubar the High King died for Christ” from Lady Gregory’s compendium:
[Conchubar] asked his druid that was with him the meaning of that great change. “It is Jesus Christ the Son of God” said the druid “that is at this time meeting with his death.” “It is a pity” said Conchubar “that he did not call out for the help of a High King. And that would bring me myself there” he said “in the shape of a hardy fighter, my lips twitching, until the great courage of a champion would be heard breaking a gap of battle between two armies… beautiful the overthrowing I would give his enemies; beautiful the fight I would make for Christ that is defouled…”
And with that he took his sword and he rushed at an oakwood that was near at hand… And from the greatness of the anger that gripped him, the wound in his head burst open and the ball started from it brought away the brain with it. And that is the way Conchu King of Ireland met with his death.
And with that, I’m homeward bound. I’ll put up a link to the video of my talk at The Irish Catholic after the holiday weekend, and, for now, Slán and Tá m’árthach foluaineach lán d’eascanna!
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