Do you know
how many shades of green there are? I
do. I know because a child, whom I love,
once ventured into a forest deep. And it
was there that she picked those things of green and compared and sorted,
counted and counted again. And while she
was counting a hue unlike all others made itself known. This shade seemed magic, but oh, so much
more. For not only was it a delight to
the eye but for the ear it sang the song of a princess - a song lovely and
true. All the while laying candy sweet
on the tongue, placing the scent of bread baking under the nose, and tickling the
skin with feathers of down.
Then the green said to the
girl, “Hello. I am the place where God
sends His small parcels of joy when they’ve completed His task.” Now the princess child giggled and then she decreed,
“You, green of joy, I name you Gisella!”
Well, the count was
determined and the number she shared.
So, now I’ll tell you and you’ll be the wiser as well. Thirty three.
But the shade of Gisella, the child kept for her own.
All that to say that green
holds intrigue, if not mystery, and green is where this story begins. Or should I say ends? No matter.
For this is a simple, whimsical tale with no real purpose other than to
bring a smile to the mind and perhaps nudge those “small parcels of joy” that
can so easily get lost in our travels to a time where fond memories reside
somewhere in the future. So come
along. The green is waiting.
Our saga is set in an
ancient, mystical land – a land the Gaelic people call Inishmore. A place where great cliffs at the end of the
earth dive headlong into the icy depths of that great and fearsome sea. That sea known to all as Atlantic. Here, the stone pricks the deep and the wrath
of the vastness is enraged. And the age
old conflict erupts anew. The eye of the
deep opens in anger – phosphorescent blue at its center with green at the edges
along the gray. The struggle explodes
white and a din resounds from the depths.
The froth of the battle rises
up and over the mighty cliffs as if to warn mere mortals. Yes, warn us of danger for the danger is
real. As this is a barren, windswept
landscape where only the most tenacious gain a hold on a very tenuous survival. Nonetheless, some three millennia past, brave
souls built fortresses here – Dun Aengus and Dun Duchathair. Meaning Fort of Aonghas and Black Fort to you
and me. Half moons of stone enclosed to
the land. The diameter clinging
precariously to the precipices and defended by the sea far below. History does not reveal the fate of these
builders. Vanquished by foe? Surrender to the elements? Only the remnant walls of stone remain –
their testimonies both silent and haunting.
Hold quiet now…..there…..and
again. Did you hear it? Notes set against the drone. The harmony of bagpipes. Sounds that for centuries have stirred
countless souls towards battle while sparking fear in the hearts of foe. But on this day the song is searching,
forlorn, and with mood. Lonely
notes. Looking for companionship. Or is it rest? They rise and fall with the wind. Over the stony track and between the walls of
time. Rock walls that stitch plots of
green pasture together in a quilt work of endless shapes and sizes. And again the harmony comes - darting to and fro
before racing out to sea towards the motherland.
And we follow on ship –
modern and sturdy of steel. And good
thing too. For soon the waters gather up
green before us and the fall to the trough shudders the keel. Again and again and again. But before long, small islets come into view,
followed by rocky shoals with bank, and finally harbor, calm and safe.
Our journey continues on foot
- the harmony always one step ahead.
Hushed back roads enveloped by greenery and punctuated with flowers –
hydrangeas, fuchsia, heather, and wild roses.
The quiet lanes give way to more stony tracks before transforming into
mere pathways engineered by generations of sheep more so than man. But the sheep are wise. They stop short as the bogs come into view
while we venture forward despite the gray now falling with purpose. Watch your step. The green vegetation underfoot oozes water
from the organic matter underneath that has been building for oh, so long.
We learn that peat is cut from the bog using
a two-sided spade called a slean. Upon
removal, the turf is dried by stacking the elongated bricks in various
pyramidal structures, each unique to its architect, with air holes for
ventilation. And once dried, the “logs”
are burned for heat. The smell held captive for
untold generations escapes up the chimney and lingers. Sweet.
Wood-like. Earthy – but no. Herbal, yet musk. A primitive and venerable aroma. Be quick now.
Snatch it! But it's not to be. The fragrance, now free, evades our efforts
to hold it. One brief, final whiff to
tease. Then the fragrance joins hand in
hand with the harmony and the wind moves both ahead of us once again.
But we must stop as the bog
has poured water over the gunnels of our boots on many a step. The innkeeper is pleasant and friendly - eager
to please. Her wit is quick and dry. “We Irish never bother with shoes in the
morning – our feet are gonna get wet no matter.” She places our footwear in a “warming room”
along with our other failed efforts at staying dry. And soon our stomachs are warm and full with
pork pie and Irish stew made of lamb.
Bedded down, warm and snug, our weary feet find rest while the harmony
and the fragrance give sway over our dreams.
Awakened by a ruffle at the
window and the prickle of drops on the pane, we are dared to continue our
chase. Along the shores of loughs
(lakes) shrouded with fog we follow.
Ghost-like islands slowly appear, only to fade again into the gray. Then we climb mountain passes that slowly
transform from deep emerald in the river valleys to a pale mint further up
where the ground is of rock and the sure footed sheep casually graze. Down and on we go.
Soon we reach the majesty of the Killary
Fjord and find ourselves traversing a track along the southern brim, eye to eye
with sea birds on a mission of their own.
The track is called Famine – a road built by starving farm workers in
exchange for food when the potato crops failed in the mid 1800’s. Back breaking work, but preferable to charity
in those Victorian times.
And still we go. Along deep, green rivers appearing black as
they run and eddy. Into deep forests –
Lackavrea and Tawnyard by name. Over the
Irish uplands and the green, open moorland the path leads. In the distance, lies a mountain concealed in
cloud. The gray hangs heavy like a
blanket but swirls soft and delicate, with gentleness below. Watch closely now. For in the blink of an eye, the mist unites
with the harmony and the fragrance. And
the three – the harmony, the fragrance, and the mist – continue their quest as
one.
Not far on lays another
mountain. Silhouetted in black, the sun
illuminates the front. And almost as if
ordained by God, a rainbow appears. The
three – the harmony, the fragrance, and the mist – quickly recognize a shade
within that was once christened Gisella by a princess. And without hesitation,
the three small parcels of joy dance gleefully to one end of the spectrum to be
greeted by countless friends and peers that have made the journey before them. Home at last.
And they invite us to take comfort there as well. But at the opposite end, half a world
removed, our own home awaits. And it
beckons with remembrances of security and family, love and warmth.
And this might be where our
story ends. But the three – the harmony,
the fragrance, and the mist – continue to quietly call. And perhaps we’ll meet them again. Some time.
Some place. In a different
hue. In a different band of color near
the apex of the arc.
Other small parcels of joy:
