Tara

I haven’t written a post in a very long time, and I have a lot of things to write, mostly to document for myself so I can remember what I’ve done, and partially for the benefit of whoever might be reading this. I should stop caring about being clever and start remembering that I want to keep this blog as a diary. But where to begin is so daunting. So I think I’ll start with briefer overviews of my activities and move onto more in-depth accounts later.

My account of the hill of Tara is long over-due. That place was so fantastic. I realize that more history has been attributed to it than is factual, and that some of the history is quite fanciful, but that doesn’t detract from the awe I felt. The site has been used in various rituals and ceremonies for THOUSANDS of years. At first, the hill isn’t much to look at. It could hardly be called a hill. You climb to rolling summit. There’s a mound (which probably wasn’t used as a passage grave,) which is impressively old. Like, a couple of millennia old. The grass is a vibrant, outrageous green. It’s lush and thick, as the time its trimmed is when sheep graze on it.

You get to the top of one of two circular mounds, and there’s a memorial to the 1798 rebellion. There is also the penis stone. To become a high king of Tara, a man had to ride his carriage through to stones, which would move aside for him if he was the right candidate for kingship. He then had to touch to Lia Faill stone, or penis stone. If the stone screamed his name at his touch, then he was destined to be king. We all touched the stone, but it didn’t scream for us. When St. Patrick came to Ireland he lit a fire at Tara, something which was never supposed to be done. This act disrespected the king, and signaled the end of native Irish religion. Tara’s history is not only ancient- Daniel O’Connell held one of his monster rallies on the sight.

Although Tara doesn’t seem like much of a hill, it positioned in just the right place, and Ireland is so flat, that on a clear day one can see 1/5 of Ireland from the summit. No wonder the kings chose this place. Bridget and I frolicked off the summit, sliding in the mud a bit, and found a knoll to claim as our own. I laid down in the grass, which was a softer bed than anything made by man. I matched my heart beat to that of the hill, and we shared secrets. It was truly awful to have to leave. I could’ve made my home right there, hiding behind one of the mounds until everyone else had gone. Tara, with its view of mountains and cities and farms, seemed like Ireland incarnate.

I didn't take this photograph, but then again nothing I could take would encompass the hill as nicely as this picture does.