Cow Posse

What was deemed “poor weather” put off my trip to Skellig Michael—although the weather seemed perfectly gorgeous to me. This morning it rained just a bit, a few heavy tears and then the clouds parted and the sun ruled supreme.

Since I could not longer go to Skellig Michael (the boats can only land on the island in ideal weather), I decided to spend one more night in Portmagee and try again tomorrow. That left today to the traversing of the Valentia Islands—a surprising gem of a find in my trip so far.

I started out crossing the bridge onto the island, and, simply by choice, bared left. This placed me with Foilhommerum Bay to my left, and Bray Head directly in front. It was clear that a worn trail led up the side of the hill, and when I parked my car for pictures of the breathtaking Foilhommerum Bay, I decided to go up the hill (or a more apt name might be mountain). It seemed I could drive, possibly, though that seemed very…American and I certainly needed to work off my full traditional Irish breakfast. The heavy rain of the morning had turned to a light mist, and although I knew the heavens could open at any minute, it seemed like a good idea to walk.

Of course what I thought was a hill turned into something of a mountain.

Guarded by mean cows.

I had been walking up the path at a decent pace when several cows up ahead ambled onto the road. It seemed all good and well, after all, who’s scared of cows? But when I proceeded towards them, a pure black one stood directing in my path, head down, and staring rather menacingly. It stomped towards me, ears pinned back.

My mind began to race as I contemplated the situation. Are there such things as mean cows? If so, wouldn’t there be a sign somewhere, warning would be walkers “beware of vicious livestock”? It seemed such a silly worry that I tried to laugh it off and continue on.

The cow would have none of it. Swinging its head and followed by a string of other cows (its cattle posse?), it became fairly obvious it wasn’t going to let me pass.

“I eat your kind,” I warned.

It was unimpressed. Perhaps it would be best if I didn’t start these sorts of diplomatic discussions with threats. In the end, the cow won and I skirted off the path, into the thick grass, up the hill, over some rocks, and through thorns—all the while the black beast glared, actually turning its head to watch my awkward gait in what can only be described as cinematic humor.
Stupid cow.

When I retold the story later at a small pub in Knightstown, one of the men, with a thick Irish accent exclaimed, “Fer fucks sake!” (Forgive the language, but somehow the exclamation lacks its potency when censored). “Don’t you know the difference between a cow and a bull?”

It would seem not.

But back to Bray Head, I left the blood-thirsty cows behind me and continued on. The wind picked up and the bay only glistened and improved as the sun grew stronger. I encounter a small group of American tourists coming down the mountain, and after sufficiently warning them against the mean cows, they told me I could not only see the remnants of a tower at the top, but also climb even higher to the highest peak.

So on I went. I reached the tower, which was old and battered, though my real interest was the dropping cliffs, thundering waves against the rocks, and emerald green grass over jutting black stones. It was, in a word, breathtaking. At moments, mist would gather up, either from the waves or the clouds, and twist and twirl like a zealot ballerina before plummeting back down the side of the cliffs. I stood, transfixed, awed, dumb, but certainly not blind.

Behind me was the highest cliff, the very tip, a grassy top over sheer stones of black and grey. To climb it would be reckless, stupid, and possibly a bit dangerous.

Of course I did it. Heart pounding, I slowly walked up the steep incline, tackling it not just because it was a challenge, but because I had the distinct feeling I would regret it later if I didn’t do it. Of course I might also have regretted it if I had gotten blown clear off the mountain—which the wind certainly tried to do.

But through sheer determination (I’m convinced this is my only real skill—down right stubbornness), I made it to the top. To say it was spiritual would be an understatement.

If I might digress for a moment in order to prove a point—some years ago a psychic once looked at me and said, “my, what an Old Soul you are.” I never put much stock in reincarnation, but it was a fun statement to hear, even if one always wants to believe something outrageous about themselves. So I laughed, and told my friends I would only believe in reincarnation if someone told me I was a warrior in every one of my lives—something that felt like it should ring true. Many years after that, while I sat in an office at work, a man walked into my work and sat down. Apparently renowned as a local shaman of sorts, he offers to “read me” while he waits for his car to be fixed. I found the thought amusing, (and after all, it was free) and so I agreed.

He didn’t so much as look at my hand but at me, then said, “Did you know you were a warrior in all your past lives?” It was as eerie as it was off putting. I say this only to point out what could be validity in his following statement: “And did you know, you have a very strong tie to Ireland?”

I never quite believed him until I stood on the tip of that mountain, all-alone with nothing but the ocean, the earth, and the sky for companions. Maybe there are no past lives, or warrior stories, but I did feel that tie, that connection—I felt at home. In a moment of pure clarity, I knew that this is right where I’m supposed to be.

I wept, because that’s what I do when I’m overwhelmed. Then I laughed, because that’s also what I do. And I sat in the sun, (also to keep the wind from pulling me off the hill), and I soaked it all in. Some people find their divine in churches or synagogues or mosques—that is all good and well. But here is where I find my god, my goddess, my gods, and my goddesses. As if pleased by my impromptu worship, the heavy mists off the coast parted, revealing the purple outlines of the Skellig Islands, haunting the coast for a few moments until the clouds returned, swallowing the islands up in obscurity as if they had never been there. (But of course I have pictures to prove it).

As I made my way back down the mountain/hill (is 1000 feet a hill or a mountain? Its certainly a lot to climb, I can tell you that), I found a certain joy in my solitude. There was no one for miles—I would have seen them if they were coming. So I sang out loud to the Irish music in my iPod. I danced on the path because no one was there to see me act like a fool. I laughed and I loved and it was an unforgettable moment.

I could tell you about the rest of the island, the quaint towns, beautiful coasts, the lighthouse or hitting a massive pothole on a road that suddenly “no longer was a road” (as I verbally observed to no one), or hitting that hole again in reverse when there was no where to turn around on the no-road-road, but for me, those moments of Bray Head were definitive. That was the moment I knew I was finally here—I’m in Ireland.

PHOTOS: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=444959&id=794430163&l=64e11faf63