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Climbing with Catherine on Mount Sallvania
From Knock we came to Crough Patrick. I knew of Knock from my study of Marian apparitions, a subject I've ever found fascinating since letting go of some of my prejudice. Crough Patrick I'd only learnt about that morning: from the proprietor of our bed and breakfast, a lady whose husband's grandfather was one of several 'visionaries' who'd witnessed the Blessed Virgin Mary atop a gable of Knock's Parish Church. So Lisa and I decided to make a second pilgrimage in as many days: the first planned, the second piously spontaneous. In just twenty-four hours time, we'd worshipped in a place graced by the one called 'full of grace' by an archangel, then walked up a mountain chosen, at the behest of his guardian angel, as the preferred retreat of Patrick, Patron Saint of Ireland. The events surrounding both of course are told in the language of pious legend, which the Irish have aplenty. It's one of that great people's many gifts.
Alas, we did not reach the summit of Crough Patrick, or Patrick's Mountain. Instead, pressed for time, Catherine and I ascended a smaller hill below, or rather I followed her up it. Once atop, she dubbed it 'Mount Sallvania'. She has just supplied me its spelling. But spelling aside, she has a surreal sense of saintly sonority – a muse perhaps? -- for just the evening before, in the Knock shrine, I'd said the ancient hymn 'Hail Holy Queen'. Its first word in the Latin is Salve. Lisa and Catherine were not present.
Legend states that Patrick fought the forces of darkness on Crough Patrick, also called the 'Mount Sinai of Ireland'. We all know he chased away the snakes; it happened from that summit. But he also faced foes far fiercer than serpents: dragons, demons and above all, Druids. A nearby Druid chieftain named Crom Dubh opposed the Faith preached by Patrick. So the saint, in a somewhat unsaintly moment of pique, struck the ground with his bishop's crozier and split the ground, creating a new island on which stood alone the astounded but still obstinately pagan Crom.
Our trip had begun beneath the shadow of another Crom, the infamous Oliver Cromwell, who in 1649 landed near Dublin and with several thousand battled-hardened 'Ironside' troops massacred all who opposed him. Along the way he casually desecrated churches. One of them lay ruined in the village of Quilty, where we stayed the first two nights. John, the proprietor and a devout Catholic, showed us the Norman church (a newer one was built nearby), and explained to Catherine the carved Christian inscriptions on the grave stones. I was pleased to see buried side by side Catholics and Protestants, though there are very few practising Protestants in Ireland. The Anglican Church of Ireland has declined steadily, from 8% of the population in the nineteenth century, to a paltry 2% at present. The ancient Quilty parish church is now a crumbling heap, but its surrounding graveyard is still consecrated and used accordingly.
On the otherwise grim subject of death, my heart warmed to hear on a Galway radio newscast the names of all who had recently died, and the time and place of their requiem masses. All of them had one, of course! 'Secular' television broadcasts ended with a prayer and meditation, a wholesome way to end the day. Though Ireland has no 'established Church', religion calmly permeates the media, and does so with civility. There was none of the self-righteous ranting of televangelists I grew up listening to in Bible Belt America. I sensed in the souls of the Irish what once was surely felt by the British: we are a Christian people.
We ended our journey with sandwiches on the bank of the River Shannon, the 'broad, majestic Shannon' of sentimental poets, 'the Shannon that kills' of a more grave and grim Frank McCourt, bestselling author of the excellent autobiography Angela's Ashes. Apparently, the river, though indeed both broad and majestic, was once a source of grave disease. But on that day, to us the river seemed anything but deadly. It was calm and we were calm. We said a prayer and broke some bread, a wonderful family communion. Then it was back to Shannon Airport.
And Catherine said it was the best holiday ever. After all, it's not every day you get the muse to name a mountain!
Darryl Jordan. |
