In Ireland, myths seem a lot less distant from everyday life than they are in my home country, the United States. Myth becomes attached to ordinary places, making them extraordinary. But even within the "mythical" places of Ireland, you can see the presence of everyday people going about their lives.
The coexistence of myth and ordinariness was most present at the
Hill of Tara. It is not just any old hill. In Irish myth, Tara was the dwelling place of the ancient Celtic gods, the
Tuatha de Danaan ("too-uh-huh de dane-an"), and the entry point into the Land of the Ever Young. Tara holds an important place in Christianity, too: the hill is rumored to be the place where Saint Patrick first confronted the Celtic gods. Finally, Tara was the seat of
the High Kings of Ireland, the mythical and/or historical rulers of the whole island. Choosing the Hill of Tara as a seat for the ruler of all Ireland made perfect sense to me once I saw it: our tour guide
Dave Yeates told us that about 40% of the entire island is visible from the top of Tara.
The Hill of Tara is so swathed in mythology that I couldn't help but think of the stories I'd read before going. As I stood on top of it, I could almost see the kings of Ireland in their magnificent forts, celebrating
Samhain or
Beltaine. The look of the hill helped me visualize the myths: it is covered with little mounds, called
raths, that are sites of mythological forts. A huge tree covered with scraps of clothing, coins, and other small offerings marks Tara as a "thin spot," a point where the boundaries between the human and fairy worlds are unfixed and the inhabitants of those worlds can mingle freely. I even felt the presence of myth and magic physically: when I left a couple of coins on the fairy tree, a branch that I'd sworn was nowhere near me poked me in the face! I later joked that the fairies were angry because I hadn't left them enough money.
And yet, at the same time, the Hill of Tara seemed quite ordinary to the locals. While we tourists were madly snapping photos and recalling old myths, a local woman was playing a game of tag with her two children. The kids skittered up and down the raths with a sure-footedness that suggested they'd been to Tara many times before. Another local, an elderly man, walked his dog nearby. Farmers are even allowed to use the hill as pasture, as evidenced by the ever-present piles of sheep poop. Tara was a place of wonder and mystery for me, as a foreigner, but it seemed that to the locals, it was a very interesting public park. Seeing everyday life rub shoulders so easily with myth and legend was a novel experience for me.
The Hill of Tara was a place where magic and life met. And they did more than just meet: they existed harmoniously side by side. It was this ease with which myth and life could mingle that made Tara such a special, memorable place for me. The entire site was a thin place, where the spirits of Irish legend could come to play with everyday mortals.
Memories of Glendalough are among the happiest ones I have of my trip to Ireland. The whole site was breathtakingly lovely, with the spectacular views of the surrounding valley and the lakes on each side. A rushing river enhanced the feeling of peaceful closeness to nature. The buildings themselves were even intimate with nature: I took a photograph of a button fern growing out of the wall of St. Kevin's Church. I remember sitting on a rock in a little grove of trees beneath the round tower, taking a moment to appreciate the beauty of it. As I sat there, a bird landed in the tree above me, and all of a sudden I understood the simple pleasures of nature that the monks who lived at Glendalough must have enjoyed.
