It’s an Ireland kind of morning. A mist rises over rivers and lakes. The ground is damp with rain, the air is crisp and cool. Beneath the stillness and calm, mystery lurks. Always, mystery, reminding me of that distant, enchanting island nestled like a green emerald in the Irish Sea.
One of the fascinating features of the Irish countryside is the “fairy ring” or fairy fort. 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 of time like watchful spirits creeping down from gorse-covered hills past the crumbling remains of castles dotting the landscape. A feeling of enchantment stirs in the air.
This morning, I am far removed in time and miles from the mysterious history of the emerald isle. The coffee is hot; the morning, clear; but, there’s something in the air–do you feel it? Maybe it’s the niggling feeling that the secrets of the past are only a thought away, and 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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