Glendalough is also home to a place called the Glendalough Woolen Mills, which is a misnomer: it is in Laragh, not Glendalough proper, and there is no mill here anymore, just oodles of sweaters and the like. We stumbled across it some 12 years ago on our first visit here, and I bought a traditional Aran handknit. It was expensive, but Alfred said, "c'mon, how many times will we be here?" There are still some sweaters from that era there, as the price tags are still in Punt, not Euro. They also have a small selection of traditional yarns--Donegal tweed and Aran, as well as all the leprechaun and Guinness kitsch you could ever want (and if it isn’t, there's another purely kitschy place down the road apiece).
Which is why this past Saturday afternoon, after accordion and tin whistle lessons, we all piled into the Mégane and headed over the hill, into the mists to Glendalough. On our way up the hill, an oncoming car flashed their headlights at us: we stopped, thinking she was going to warn us of an impassable mountain pass (they call them gaps here) or an accident. Nope, neither, just a shepard moving his flock down the road.
Our first stop was the aforementioned mill, since Danny has been wearing his sweater ("Mommy, they call it a jumper here!") day and night, and it is getting both long in the tooth and short in the sleeves. The river by the mill was swollen from the recent rains, and had overrun its banks by a foot or two. But the damp was only mist, so we were confident we could have a quick walk at Glendalough itself afterward. We ducked in, where I bought a kilo of red Donegal tweed--on a single cone, not in balls. It should suffice for two sweaters, er jumpers. We also picked up another cardigan on the request of Alfred's mum, who was delighted with our Christmas offering.
Outside though, the mist had progressed to heavy mist. Undaunted, we trekked over to St Kevin's favorite spot, and poked around. The swollen creek and misty hills made it lovely, but the cold and rain were steaming up the camera lens, so we only spent a half-hour or so getting soaked to the skin before heading home.
Sunday, however, dawned sunny and nearly warm. Leaving Alfred to make pancakes, I took a long walk around the golf course without my coat and gloves, and wasn't the least bit cold. Besides hundreds of snowdrops, there were actually a few golfers, and even some poaching fishermen. Clearly, this was not a day to be wasted on housework.
So once Alfred got back from soccer, we piled in the Mégane (do you see a pattern yet?); this time we headed westward. Toward Old Kilcullen, because the name fascinated us, and because it had a little red notation on the map, "church and round tower." With Alfred behind the wheel, food in the backseat and me reading the map, we actually drove directly to our destination, which turned out to be a ruined church and a half a round tower (the bottom half, natch). There were even the bases of two high crosses, but there's a reason that vernacular homes here are built on the sides of hills rather than the top: it's really windy here. This also explains why the thriving town of (presumably new) Kilcullen is down in the valley, near the river.
Feeling emboldened, we continue westward, through the horse country of County Kildare, toward the city of that name. We pass by the National Stud and the Japanese Garden (closed, no surprise), and then Alfred does a quick u-turn. He's seen a sign for St Brigid's well, and didn't Danny weave St Brigid's crosses for her saint's day, and wasn't that today? Indeed it was, and the well was a delightful refuge of peace and tranquility, with a bubbling well and benches for meditation. It was also well-frequented that day, since Brigid is the patroness of Ireland (often in the shadow of Paddy, I'm afraid) and it was indeed her saint's day.
Legend has it that Brigid was so kind she would always give to people what they needed, much to her parent's chagrin. Young women came to live with her and follow her ways (again, much to her parent's chagrin), and she decided she needed a place to take them all. Happening to run into the king one afternoon, she asked him if he would give her some land. The king laughed, but when she asked for only as much land as her cloak could cover, the king agreed. Each woman took a corner of the cloak and walked away from each other. The cloak stretched and stretched to cover an enormous amount of land, and that is now the Curraugh, today roughly 5,000 acres of mostly natural grassland populated by sheep and racehorses. By the way, the King converted to Christianity after that little episode.
So, on February 1, when Americans are gearing up for a groundhog in a top hat, the Irish are walking the stations of the cross at St Brigid's well, cutting reeds and weaving St Brigid's crosses. Then they head to the pub for a pint in her honor.
Inspired, we headed into Kildare town, where we immediately find St Brigid's Cathedral, a small 13th century stone church that fell into ruin, and was rebuilt and consecrated in 1896. A choir is inside practicing for the saint's day mass (and they sound terrific), so we walk around the grounds. And there, in the corner of the churchyard is yet another round tower, this one complete.
The weather by now is chilly and grey, and the weather pundits are predicting snow for Monday and Tuesday. Alfred needs to pack and get ready for his trip to Brno. After a warm supper, Danny and I sit down and weave four crosses: one for us, and one for each of our neighbors. The crosses are green now, but will turn yellow and brown when they dry.
