006-Gaeilge.txt

006-Gaeilge.txt

Gaeilge is a member of the Goidelic (Gaelic) language branch of the Celtic languages originating in Ireland and historically spoken by the Irish people.

I had no knowledge of Ireland. I knew nothing of its past. No idea who the President was. I didn't know they had their own language, Gaeilge. No one speaks it, but all children must study it. In fact street signs are in Gaeilge. Announcements on buses are in Gaeilge. No one understands it. Its just a way of keeping their heritage. I did eventually find out who their President is, Michael Higgins.

"Let me tell a story about our President. I met him a while back and he said to me 'Young man are you registered to vote?' And I said no. He looked at me and said, 'Well lets walk over and get you registered. I don't care who you vote for, but you ought to vote.' He's an incredibly tiny man, with white hair, but every since then I've been voting and voting for him" explained a drunk Irishman in his late twenties.

"Now what do you think about this heat?" asked my new found drinking buddy.

"It's not that hot, its kinda like Spring" I replied.

"Not that fucking hot! I don't care who you are, 30 degrees is fucking hot" he replied in disbelief.

Ireland was experiencing a massive heatwave. Eighty-six degrees was unheard of for Ireland. It hadn't rained in weeks. There wasn't a cloud in the sky. Under this foreign sun the population was sunburned and many had passed out at beaches do to heat stroke. Though for an American it was tolerable, I could understand how the Irish weren't equipped. Most houses didn't even have air conditioning.

I woke with a muddy mind once again. I was in Kinlay Hostel in Galway, Ireland. Galway was a small town, a popular destination for the Irish, particularly stag parties. I had seen enough of the town by now, mostly by stumbling drunk through the Spanish Quarter.

I decided to take a day trip to the largest of the Aran Islands, Inishmore. I had been told the locals here speak in only Gaeilge. That the Aran Islands were too far flung for the British to care about when pacifying the Irish people. I sat down at a bar on Inishmore for some food and drink. To much disappointment this was not the case. I briefly played with the idea of asking the staff to speak Gaeilge for me. I quickly reneged on that idea. These weren't monkies or dolphins. They were above performing cheap tourist tricks. I finished off a fabulous fish soup and washed it down with a Smithwicks and Jammeson.

After leaving the bar I rented a bicycle. The primary attraction for tourists on the island was a fortress or castle of sorts, Dun something or other. I paid the clerk and peddled up hill. Residents waved as I went by. I've traveled to a few places that I felt were retirement worthy. Inishmore was one of them. It was quiet, clean, and had an amazing view. In fact all of Ireland, perhaps minus some spots in Dublin, felt retirement worthy. I hadn't really felt this at peace in a tiny sleepy  seaside town since Rockaway, Oregon. Maybe I'd retire here some day. Maybe Rockaway, but certainly somewhere far away.

After about twenty minutes of the most workout I'd had in months, to my left, I saw a rather dilapidated castle. A castle was being generous, it looked more like it had once been a stone inn, perhaps a small walled residence. It was a ghost town. There must have been two-hundred people on that ferry and not a soul at this landmark. I looked around and noticed a dry stone wall, about six feet tall.

I climbed over that wall and about eight feet in front of me stood a circular dry stone pillar mound of sorts with a flat top. It matched the height of the wall and was about another ten feet in width. I imagined this must have been thousands of years old. I was amazed and baffled at the purpose of this structure and further confounded by the absolute lack of humans around. Where had they all gone? No one rented bicycles to see this amazing feet of human ingenuity!

So I sat. I'd eek out what remained of my day trip to the Aran Islands in the middle of this rocky structure. I wanted to bring friends to this magical spot. I wanted to drop LSD or mushrooms and party like ancient Druids or whoever built this. We'd build a bonfire and dance naked to strange electronic music. Watch the sky bend and hug us. Then gently set us down as the drugs wore off. I had a feeling of tranquility and purpose that is not easily transcribed. Silence was fine. Solitude was warranted, but it was getting time to catch the ferry back.

I coasted down hill. The ultimate reward for the trek upward. You always felt like a kid again when reaping this reward. I turned my bike in and the clerk gave me my deposit back.

"There was no one at the castle, can you believe that?" I said to the clerk.

"Thats not possible, I must have rented out fifty bikes today" he responded.

"Here I'll show you" as I pulled out my phone showing the pictures I had gathered.

"Ahh, thats an ancient fortress or ritual place of some sort. It's not the castle, thats another few kilometers up the road from where you were" he responded.

"Fuck me. I blew my chance at seeing that?" I responded.

"I don't think so, people are drawn to that place. Maybe you were drawn to it for a reason" he replied with a smile.

Purpose or impatience? Drawn or hasty? I'm still not sure.