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Jerpoint Abbey.
Aug. 9th, 2008 12:10 pmFrom there I returned to Dublin, from whence I took a series of day trips to towns a bit further to the west. I spent my first night in a hostel, and my first trip was to Thomastown, where I intended to find a place called Jerpoint Abbey.
As I've mentioned, I've been doing a bit of walking on very narrow, winding country roads. I don't mind the lack of a walkway much, except for when the road bends, and I realise that whichever side of the road I might choose to walk on, there is no way a car could possibly see me coming around the bend. And Ireland is known for its traffic accidents. So I was expecting a bit of that getting from the town's bus stop to the abbey. Up until that point the roads had always been quite small, so when I found myself on a very large road without a walkway, one with trucks, big ones, I was a little surprised. I stopped in a shop that made and sold pottery to make sure I was going the right way, and the girl I found there, whose face and hands and apron were covered in clay, assured me that the abbey wasn't far, that I couldn't miss it, but that I might want to reconsider walking. I smiled nervously. "I've been doing a lot of this," I explained. "Alright," and I made a hand gesture meant to demonstrate that I was bracing myself for something that I was already fully aware was a terrible idea. "Thank you." She laughed, and I left.
Shortly thereafter I was feeling very, very sorry for my poor mother, whom I expected was about to find out both that I was dead, and that she'd birthed an idiot. The crows and jackdaws had lined up along the road, waiting for me to become roadkill and making that noise they make that sounds like your grandmother laughing at you from her deathbed.
Every few months some new article hits the internet, amazed to proclaim that crows are brilliant and can not only effectively use tools, but also create them. And the crows all rasp and pick at their feathers, pleased at the success of their most recent tool, a thing they named the internet which they invented so that we could say nice things about them. As a reward for our co-operation we may occasionally look at pornography and funny pictures of cats. In my walk to the Abbey it seemed clear that wide expanses of human history had occurred specifically to create a religion that would build this abbey to lure me out, that humans had been tricked into believing that they themselves had worked out smooth roads, distressingly high speed limits, automobiles, and the efficient shipping of goods exclusively that I might be maimed in a place where my clever malefactors could conveniently get a fresh bite. "I am delicious," I shouted to the ones staring from a telephone wire, "but there are easier ways to find out. Haven't you ever heard of buying a bloke a drink?"
I made it, though. I got to the abbey, touched the first wood I found, and swore I'd never do anything half so stupid again. Excepting, of course, the walk back.
Jerpoint Abbey is a very pretty ruin, and however harrowing the walk may have been, I'm glad I made it. (I think.) You're first greeted by graves, and then a visitor centre you can ignore, and then a roofless and crumbling cathedral, and a lovely cloister. Snakes, knights, and saints are carved into the stone. The crows followed me there, roosting in the tallest tower, flirting and fighting and biting at one another and still watching the meat walking about and taking pictures down below.
On the walk back to the bus, which I also managed safely, I wanted to stop in to let the pretty kiln worker know that I hadn't been struck down on the road as I'd deserved, but the shop was already closed.
As I've mentioned, I've been doing a bit of walking on very narrow, winding country roads. I don't mind the lack of a walkway much, except for when the road bends, and I realise that whichever side of the road I might choose to walk on, there is no way a car could possibly see me coming around the bend. And Ireland is known for its traffic accidents. So I was expecting a bit of that getting from the town's bus stop to the abbey. Up until that point the roads had always been quite small, so when I found myself on a very large road without a walkway, one with trucks, big ones, I was a little surprised. I stopped in a shop that made and sold pottery to make sure I was going the right way, and the girl I found there, whose face and hands and apron were covered in clay, assured me that the abbey wasn't far, that I couldn't miss it, but that I might want to reconsider walking. I smiled nervously. "I've been doing a lot of this," I explained. "Alright," and I made a hand gesture meant to demonstrate that I was bracing myself for something that I was already fully aware was a terrible idea. "Thank you." She laughed, and I left.
Shortly thereafter I was feeling very, very sorry for my poor mother, whom I expected was about to find out both that I was dead, and that she'd birthed an idiot. The crows and jackdaws had lined up along the road, waiting for me to become roadkill and making that noise they make that sounds like your grandmother laughing at you from her deathbed.
Every few months some new article hits the internet, amazed to proclaim that crows are brilliant and can not only effectively use tools, but also create them. And the crows all rasp and pick at their feathers, pleased at the success of their most recent tool, a thing they named the internet which they invented so that we could say nice things about them. As a reward for our co-operation we may occasionally look at pornography and funny pictures of cats. In my walk to the Abbey it seemed clear that wide expanses of human history had occurred specifically to create a religion that would build this abbey to lure me out, that humans had been tricked into believing that they themselves had worked out smooth roads, distressingly high speed limits, automobiles, and the efficient shipping of goods exclusively that I might be maimed in a place where my clever malefactors could conveniently get a fresh bite. "I am delicious," I shouted to the ones staring from a telephone wire, "but there are easier ways to find out. Haven't you ever heard of buying a bloke a drink?"
I made it, though. I got to the abbey, touched the first wood I found, and swore I'd never do anything half so stupid again. Excepting, of course, the walk back.
Jerpoint Abbey is a very pretty ruin, and however harrowing the walk may have been, I'm glad I made it. (I think.) You're first greeted by graves, and then a visitor centre you can ignore, and then a roofless and crumbling cathedral, and a lovely cloister. Snakes, knights, and saints are carved into the stone. The crows followed me there, roosting in the tallest tower, flirting and fighting and biting at one another and still watching the meat walking about and taking pictures down below.
On the walk back to the bus, which I also managed safely, I wanted to stop in to let the pretty kiln worker know that I hadn't been struck down on the road as I'd deserved, but the shop was already closed.
