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"In some ways, I think travel is about learning how to see, learning how to pay attention. It's an alarm clock in some ways, and it's a jumpstart to putting our senses on the setting where they're universally receptive. I think theoretically we could do that at our homes, and yet somehow, surrounded by familiarity and the routine we know too well, our eyes tend to close and we don't notice the things that are so wondrous for a visitor. But as soon as we physically start moving we awaken to the beauties around us."
--Pico Iyer
Ireland is renowned for its Catholic faith. Everywhere you go in the South you find shrines on the roadside and churches EVERYWHERE. Traditionally people would stop to pray 3 times a day - 6am, midday and 6pm - and even now some of the TV stations will have a pause in viewing for people to reflect and pray.
If religion is what you are after then Knock is the place to visit. Located in County Mayo on the West Coast of Southern Ireland, it has been visited by the Pope and Mother Theresa as well as 1.5 million pilgrims annually.
During an 8 hour period on 21st August 1879 fifteen different people witnessed an apparition on the local church. The website tells the story as follows:
On the wet Thursday evening of the 21st August, 1879, at about the hour of 8 o'clock, Our Lady, St. Joseph, and St. John the Evangelist appeared in a blaze of Heavenly light at the south gable of the Church of St. John the Baptist. Behind them and a little to the left of St. John was a plain altar. On the altar was a cross and a lamb with adoring angels. The Apparition was seen by fifteen people whose ages ranged from six years to seventy-five and included men, women, teenagers and children.
The poor humble witnesses distinctly beheld the Blessed Virgin Mary clothed in white robes with a brilliant crown on her head. Over the forehead where the crown fitted the brow, she wore a beautiful full-bloom golden rose. She was in an attitude of prayer with her eyes and hands raised towards Heaven. St. Joseph stood on Our Lady's right. He was turned towards her in an attitude of respect. His robes were also white. St. John was on Our Lady's left. He was dressed in white vestments and resembled a bishop, with a small mitre. He appeared to be preaching and he held an open book in his left hand.
The witnesses watched the Apparition in pouring rain for two hours, reciting the Rosary. Although the witnesses standing before the gable were drenched, no rain fell in the direction of the gable. They felt the ground carefully with their hands and it was perfectly dry as was the gable itself.
Original sections of the stone church have been set into the wall of the new chapel where a depiction of the apparition looks out over the church yard. Pilgrims can be seen walking the yards, rosary beads grasped firmly in hand, repeating prayers and lost on their own world as signs point out the times for the daily Mass held in the main church.
The Shrine is open throughout the year, however the main Pilgrimage season is from the last Sunday in April to the Second Sunday in October. You may read here the 'TRADITIONAL STATION TO BE PERFORMED BY THE PILGRIM'.
Next on the cards was a trip around the village where my grandmother was sent from England during the war. Shramore is located on the West Coast of Southern Ireland in County Mayo. The village is built around a valley overlooking the lakes of Shramore with a bumpy road linking each farm house to the next.
When visiting in Ireland as soon as you walk through the door to any house big cups of steaming tea and plates of sandwiches, cakes and soda bread appear at the table and the chatter begins. Naturally you have to hear about everyone who has died and photo albums are brought out to go back through the family history and their private and public lives discussed in great detail. As the sun sets so the tea is replaced by large doses of whisky or potcheen (moonshine of extremely high potency) and the stories and lapses into the local lingo become more difficult to understand.... to be shure, to be shure!
The biggest town near Shramore is Newport which is located on the banks of the Brown Oak River. In the background the famous mountain Croagh Patrick overlooks the local area and a short drive up the road to the coast leads to views of Clew Bay with its 365 islands, one for each day of the year!
St Patrick, the patron saint of Ireland, is said to have fasted for 40 days in 441 AD on the summit of Croagh Patrick where he defeated the devil and chased all the serpents from Ireland. Each year on the last Sunday of July, known as Reek Sunday, around 25 000 pilgrims make the climb in his memory. The discovery of a tiny church, carbon dated between 430 and 890 AD, confirms pilgrim activity and is one of the oldest churches in the country.
Clew Bay also has an interesting history. John Lennon purchased one of the 365 islands in 1967, called Dorinish, or locally as 'Beatle Island', after its famous owner. In 1970 Lennon invited Sid Rawle, known as 'King of the Hippies', to start a commune on the island where 25 hippies lived for 2 years until a fire broke out and burnt down the living areas. Lennon paid £1700 for it and it was sold by Yoko Ono for £30 000 after Lennon's death, the money being donated to an Irish orphanage.
Really Long Link
Really Long Link
Farm after boring farm left me thinking – Ireland sure ain’t all it’s cracked up to be!
Finally reaching County Mayo, which is located in the West of Southern Ireland, my view instantly changed… quite literally. We were to visit Newport which is a quiet little village watched over by a large church on a hilltop. The road coming in winds with the curves of a gently bubbling stream, opening up as it flows through a series of arches that form the bridge connecting one part of the village to the other. A few twists and turns and we were driving next to an embankment which lined the road, hiding the view on the other side, a row of small houses lining the other.
Driving through a narrow stone archway was like stepping through a portal into another world. The tarred road melted into sloshy, rain-soaked tracks which led to a tight gathering of rustic farm houses. Outside ours a stone barn stood, weathered by the breath of time, the tractor standing proud beside the walls, splatters of mud sprayed along its side from a day spent hard at work in the fields. The farmer stood in the doorway, his faithful dogs at his side, jeans tucked into his wellies and large coat billowing around him like a storm cloud. With a firm shake of the hand, a nod of the head and a whistle to the dogs, he was back in his tractor and puttering his way out to feed the cows.
The small front room was just big enough for us to squeeze into, the lounge suite looking as old as the house itself - anything different and it would have looked out of place in the humble surroundings. The sweet smell of grass filled the air, mixed with the faint aroma from last nights fire, whose ashes still lay in the open fireplace. Overhead a single, naked bulb dangled from the ceiling, casting a yellow light across the room. The heat from the range* warmed the house, the blast of chilly air that rushed in when we arrived swallowed up. Above it, clothes hung drying in the warm air and a large kettle warmed on one of the hot plates. Soon steaming mugs of tea were passed around, the water collected from the stream that gurgled down from a nearby mountain and sweeter than any I have ever tasted. Stories of yesteryear began to flow and dusty albums housing ancient photos were opened and spilled the tales of generations long ago buried in the land they toiled so hard over.
Dinner was a simple dish of whole boiled potatoes with creamy Irish butter melting into their flesh, juicy lamb bred and culled on the property and thick chunks of onion and mushroom on the side. More steaming tea was poured and after dinner slices of Barmbrack, a sweet bread with currants, suddenly appeared on the table. The house creaked and sighed as the water heated in the pipes and at one point the rosy cheeked farmers wife said, ‘Aye ya be listenin’ to tha thunda in me house now!’. It had been a long day after an early morning flight and the long drive across country from Belfast, so with tummies full and content it was time to slip into the land of nod.
The bus which was to take me to the nearby Naritasan Temple in the morning, was due to arrive back 15 minutes later than the departing bus to the airport, and so another short trip passed me be. You can imagine my disgust when I arrived at the airport to see that our flight was delayed by 1 ½ hours!
Japan Airport is as interesting as they come. Very quickly I have learnt that not too many people speak English and I don’t speak much Japanese, so the best way to get along is learn to say hello, nod and smile and hope for the best
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At the Arrivals Hall I rushed down the corridor to try and get to the hotel and squeeze in a quick trip into the city. Careening around the corner I ran head first into a large crowd of people standing at various sets of closed doors. I imagine a man at the Departure Hall talking into his walkie-talkie saying something along the lines of “Woshi naaah hi arrrigato sushi haaa”, roughly translated as “OK Flight JL874 just took off – send in another 400!” I guess they have to control the population somehow hey?
Actually it was something far less interesting – the doors opened onto the arriving shuttle which would take us to the Immigration and Exit Hall,s where we were herded like cattle through the stalls, signs announcing ‘FROM HERE ONLY 45 MINUTES” in a sickeningly cheerful font. As we reached the sign ‘FROM HERE ONLY 15 MINUTES” a customs official came bouncing around the corner like Tigger on Speed. ‘Come, come! This one open. No passengers, no passengers!’ and pointed around the corner. With the prospect of spending a few minutes less as part of the cattle group I joined a stream of others to go around the corner… down a passage, turn left, turn right, slapping and sweating and huffing and puffing with my luggage and coat, only to arrive back in pretty much the same position I had been in the previous line
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Why sleep when you have to be up at the crack of dawn, right? As we begin our reverse manoeuvre and I glance around at the other bleary eyed passengers, I see the expression on their face mirroring the tired tickings of my own thoughts as we collectively wonder why we never grabbed them while we had the chance.
Glancing out the window whilst I waited to board I noted the double deck bulge over the cockpit and allowed a few moments of jealous contemplation as I imagined sipping First Class Champagne (which I was sure had more bubbles than my economy class plonk) and a bed to sprawl across in (obviously more roomy than my little economy class box) sigh... maybe one day
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We all know Melbourne is famous for its theatres and coffee culture, but I thought it would be good to explore the slightly more bizarre and quirky side that the city has to offer. What better way that to start off with Bernard’s Magic Shop – the oldest magic shop in Australia, operating since 1937. It is located at 211 Elizabeth St, Melbourne, VIC 3000 and boasts selling anything from fake dog poo to history books on magic. Looks well worth checking out for all you buddy Harry Potters out there!
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So at last we are seeing the signs for Melbourne and our journey will come to a bit of a halt as we take in the sights and sounds of this wonderful city. Melbourne has the most decorative cast iron in the world - by 1900 there were 40 foundaries making 161 different designs. It had become a very popular city, in fact by 1852 it was the most popular destination in the world for those leaving the UK, and why? GOLD! But I am getting ahead of myself a bit, let`s start at the beginning....
Ten million years ago there was a massive amount of volcanic activity around the Melbourne area which created large lava flows. To this day the bluestone from this still forms the foundation of many of the citys streets and houses. The first evidence of human occupation in the area, was around 30 000 - 50 000 years ago and by 1800 approximately 15 000 indigenous people inhabited the land. Sadly, white settlement shortly after, destroyed about 40 000 years of history and most of these tribes along with it
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Continuining on our little journey we make our way down toward Melbourne with a stop in Dubbo. I have heard this name thrown around delicately and smashed against a wall so it would be interesting to have a first hand account of the place. What really drew my attention was the 'Western Plains Zoo'. With all due respect to the animals of Australia I am longing to see some with a bit of grunt, which this place promises to offer - elephants, giraffe, lions... you name it! I`m not a fan of the zoo idea, but here the animals roam free in grassy plains. I would just like to know how you ride or walk around a park that contains elephants, lions and cheetah. I would most definitely NOT recommend that on a visit to an African park!
For a more cultural encounter, a visit to the Terramungamine-Rock Carvings looks worth the visit. Used as a meeting place by the local Tubbagah People, the site proudly boasts 150 rock carvings
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98 Posts dating from October 2006
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