It’s an Ireland kind of morning. Cool and damp. Only, our dampness is due to a thunderstorm in the wee, small hours this morning. I never experienced a thunderstorm in Ireland, but then, I was there for only a week. It is, however, cool and damp there much of the time.
Another difference is that we don’t have fairy rings and Ireland does. These are the circular remains of ancient fortifications built during the early Middle Ages or perhaps before. Huts and people, cattle and farm animals lived within the walls for safety. Nothing is left of them now but reminders: a scattering of stones, an earthen mound, and a mysterious tale passed down from one generation to the next. If you are walking through the countryside and come upon a crumbling circle of stones, leave it alone. Don’t disturb a single rock or blade of grass. Folklore says that if the owner of the land wants to do away with the fort to have more land for farming, he had better think twice. Bad things happen to anyone who disturbs fairy rings, these remnants of an earlier civilization.
It is easy to imagine ghostly shapes rising from the mists like watchful spirits creeping down from gorse-covered hills past the crumbling remains of castles dotting the landscape. But then, a feeling of enchantment always stirs in the air in Ireland; at least, that’s how I found it.
This morning, I am far removed from the mysterious Emerald Isle, but the morning is damp and rather brooding, and the secrets of the past are only a thought away. I wonder what it was like a few centuries ago, when within those fairy rings real people lived and dreamed their dreams. In Ireland. In April.
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