“Scenic route” said the sign on the side road, and nothing more. Too quaint to pass up in this quaintest of countries, so I took it, motoring on up into the hills for miles, until the road faded into a shadow of a goat path, replete with real goats. I shivered. It was just after Christmas, and I was traveling in the offseason to see the land of my forefathers, the place my mother told me stories of, wild stories of warriors and artists and wild Irish shenanigans. During the touristy summer months, the mild weather and luscious greenery hid the bones of a brilliant country. But here in the damp chill of January, the bones were laid bare.
My mother had told me tales of a legendary land and people. “In 472 BC,” she always began that way, “An ancient warrior king, Milesius, came to Ireland from Iberia to avenge the death of his son. We are descendants of this king.” I had no reason to believe her stories any more than any other child would believe a fairytale told at bedtime. Still, it was better than the usual sleepy kid fare.
The road ended at a small parking lot and a gate. I parked and approached the gate on foot, finding a small tin box and another quaint sign which said “Admission – 10p.” I looked around. There was no one to see whether I paid or not. Tickled, I plunked my pence into the box and listened as it hit other coins. This was already worth the price of admission.
I was high up in the mountains above the coast of Killarney, and the breeze picked up a bit. A goat watched me for a moment, then disappeared over a ridge. I followed him, hiking over the rise to a grand scene. He turned out to be my tour guide to an ancient ringfort, a monstrous monument built of stone upon rough-hewn stone. Shaped like a huge horseshoe, the fort commanded an incredible view of the ocean. The walls were at least twelve feet high, six feet deep, rock tucked deftly into rock ages ago. The entire thing was open to the sky, and the goat was grazing contently as I turned around in the middle of the fort taking it all in. It was then that I found the plaque.
“In 472 BC, King Milesius invaded Ireland…” I was standing directly in the middle of my great ancestor’s landing place. As I gathered myself, the fort seemed to spin around me, and I wondered at the odds of the world whirling for nearly 2,500 years to have me come round to the very same place, with the same blood flowing through my veins as had this vengeful king, while the wind swirled around me and history.
The goat and I peered out at the ocean. We could see the skelligs, natural, sharp, stone spires sticking out of the ocean hundreds of feet high. Beautiful but brutal, legend has it that monks would climb up and out on the skelligs to kiss a cross and hopefully live to pray again.
There was something about completing a life ring, of coming full circle around to stand in the spot where my brave ancestor stood, that made taking my time a bit more reasonable. After 2,500 years, what’s a few more days? Stumbling upon such a personal, historical point gave me a perspective beyond words, beyond my little life, to know that my strength came from the valiant ones before me, urging me to be bold in my life, to venture into vast, uncharted places and conquer that which others fear.
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