Wandering Around Ireland

Kilmainham Gaol

Kilmainham is a big old stone historic prison in Dublin. Over the front door is a fascinating carved design of a five-headed serpent or dragon. (I have so got to make a sculpture based on it).

The old jail (gaol) is close to the Irish Museum of Modern Art, so we got to drive around this beautiful 18th century building, which was recently fixed up according to the bus driver, Matthew. Behind the museum, we saw a very beautiful French garden, with statues and carefully trimmed shrubs that form geometric pattern, very symmetrical set up. Toward back are two mazes made from shrubs. Front gates—just enough room to get the bus through, dark grey, have upper part of armor on posts on either side of gate. But there wasn’t room for the bus to get to the prison through there, so we had to turn around and use a different route.

In one jail yard, like a courtyard, stones were pulled up, body placed under, and quicklime poured to dissolve the body—make room for more bodies.

Great Famine—jail was crowded, because people committed crimes (stealing) to get in jail so they’d be guaranteed one meal a day. Before it was two a day, but they wanted to discourage people from committing crimes just to get in prison. Didn’t work.

The cells were build for one prisoner each, but sometimes it was overcrowded, like five in one cell during the Famine. 170 cells total.

1921—Three prisoners tried to break out, didn’t work first and second nights. On the third night, one (Mike Mahoney?) decided not to participate because 1) it didn’t work before and 2) he was innocent of the crime and expected he’d be set free after his trial, which was coming up soon. But the breakout was a success the third day, and the guy who decided not to escape was falsely accused by a false witness and hanged.

West Wing—oldest remaining part of Kilmainham Gaol, built in the 1700s, and that’s where DeValera’s cell is—or down the hall.

Room with green fireplace: Charles Parnell’s cell, furniture from his house, fire every day, visitors and his own family. Special because he was politician, wealthy and famous. He was allowed to leave his cell, walk around, even take a walk to the park. When his nephew died in Paris, he was allowed to go out for two weeks, as long as he promised to return. He went for the funeral in Paris, and kept his promise: returned in two weeks.
He attempted to gain independence through nonviolent means, through communicating with the English parliament. His speeches, however, inspired some people to rebel not so peacefully, and that resulted in his going to jail.

East Wing—Victorian, open and airy (looks like Reading Gaol, in the film Wilde). Glass ceiling, like a conservatory. Inside painted white, archways, natural light. Some of the cells have artwork you can see through the peephole—it’s all relevant to the prison’s history (particularly as a political prison—all the rebels of 1916, 97 men, were executed there). One painting was called “When Love Dies” and had as the background full-size white bricks that blended with the wall, and grey, black—that at some point I thought looked like a penis and at some point I thought looked like a chain that was breaking. “Woman weeping” was abstract-ish—face with a hand on the cheek, I think, and mostly in red—and a cloth was draped over half the canvas.

“The Prison Cell”—messy ball of rusty wire/metal, about three feet tall and six feet wide, reminiscent of a nest. Also, in the big open center space, there are metal walkways for each of the three levels, and metal stairs. Spiral metal staircase leading to top level and used for feeding time. With this set up, one guard could keep an eye on many cells at once. Also rolled out a carpet as he moved along so he cold sneak up on prisoners. Some prisoners carved messages over the outside of the cell door, such as the town they came from. One said “To let” and another gave the name of a hotel.

Graffiti decorates many of the cell walls. Steps are generally very worn, some even slanting downward. It took 26 years to renovate starting in the 1940s, but there are still some unsafe places, and some walls in corridors have a derelict, crumbly look. ("I do not like yon Cascius. He hath a derelict and crumbly look." OK, that's not quite Shakespeare.)

Kells

We took a one-hour drive to the town of Kells, where some of us had lunch at the Heritage Centre (tea, potatoes with Mediterranean vegetables). Liz mentioned at lunch: Americans for the Arts has a website that gives statistics on stuff like how many artists in a town.

After lunch, I lost track of where everyone was and wandered up the road. I saw a really old—medieval—round tower in the distance, so I went for it. It was at St. Colum’s Church, build in 1805 and the yard is full of extremely old tombstones, a few of which are high crosses, as in Celtic knotwork. Also, there’s a round tower in ruins (missing the pointed roof) and I drew a quick sketch, since I forgot to put a new disposable camera in my purse and don’t want to ask Matthew (the driver) to open the luggage compartment just so I can get a camera out of my bag. I was concerned about time, because it was an hour by the time we left the Heritage Centre, so I only had one half hour to wander through the town. I met up with a couple more people-Dave & Lynn—and we walked back to the Centre, where they went in for brochures and I sketched the medieval high cross in front of the Centre.

Something I didn’t get around to writing in Dublin: not all Irish people have red or blonde hair. Some have brown or black hair. Some have pink, or maroon and black, or yellow and black. I saw one guy with butt-length blonde dreadlocks. Also, there are Asians and Africans, some English or Japanese tourists, and people speaking what sounds like Slavic languages. Bosnian refugees? This of course all applies to Dublin, not the rest of Ireland.

I just saw a stone hawk with a horse’s head. It was in front of someone’s house.

Here I am writing on a moving bus, tricky as it is, and we’re listening to pretty Irish music. Bob McWilliams, being the radio announcer, bought some CDs in Dublin and is sharing them with us. Later they will no doubt be on the air, and I might even turn on the radio and recognize them. Dave joked that he could do his radio show right here on the b us. Bob also mentioned that he’s already recorded Sunday’s show in Kansas.

Bush=Terror
(Graffitti on back of highway sign—I had to smile, glad I’m not the only one who’s noticed that Shrubco is the most dangerous terrorist organization on the planet.)

The Iron Mountains—visible from the bus, not as high as the Rockies, but beautiful. A big one is flattish.

Enneskellin

We’re in Northern Ireland! Duck! Just kidding. No wonder I saw a British flag on top of a tower down the highway; that sort of weirded me out. Dave didn’t announce that we’re in Northern Ireland (by the way) until after we’d passed that flag.

Royalist flag: white background, red cross, white star in center with red hand, British crown above star and small British flag in upper right corner. These flags and British flags fluttering on many street light poles—every bloody pole. Showing off loyalty to England. Enneskellin is very Protestant and Royalist, but Dave said this isn’t as militant about it as other towns in Northern Ireland.

It’s just as well that we’re just passing through on our way to Ballyshannon, because this place gives me the creeps. To think my psycho relatives make such a big deal about our Irish ancestry, when this is where my Scotch-Irish ancestors came from! But then, that’s the side of the family that I am utterly disenchanted with—weird that I could have been brainwashed about relatives for all these years. For that matter, it’s gotten so anymore it’s hard not to be ashamed of being white. Sure, I know we’re all a part of this planet and everyone is part of the human family, but this attitude I've recently developed is thanks to Shrubco, Bigotville, and my Evil Stepfamily.

Ballyshannon

Last night, still in Dublin, we arrived at the Cultural Center—a beautiful yellow Georgian house—and went downstairs, through a room, upstairs, etc, like it was a maze, till we were in the balcony of an auditorium. When we went through what looked like a living room, there was a lovely fireplace and I could smell a peat fire (and see it) for the first time. Strange, smoky/earthy scent. (Actually, later Dave explained that that was a particular type of wood fire, not peat. So much for that.)

We just arrived in County Donegal—a yellow house had green words painted on the facade: “Welcome to Donegal.”

“79 people killed on Donegal roads in 2004”—sign we just passed, right after talking about the perilous road.

Stuck in traffic just outside of Ballyshannon--street sign ahead:
Beal atha Seanaidh
Ballyshannon

The first person to use the bus toilet was Matt the judge, and at least one person took a picture of him opening the door, amidst much giggling. We’ve been on the bus a bit too long. Noel took a picture, and Dave (not the guide, the other Dave) said, “We know what you really want to take a picture of!”

Ballyshannon is the oldest town in Ireland (according to the welcome sign).