Dispatches from a Sunny Country

Ireland in a Rare Light

Some recent travels

It’s the same sun beating down on the undulating hills of Uisneach as when people first gathered there. For those unfamiliar with it, the Hill of Uisneach is the spiritual centre of Ireland — the sister to the royal seat at Tara. A great road once linked the two. Imagine that — our own Silk Road. Or, as the Mayans called theirs, Sacbe — “The White Road” — a highway of people, of trade, of movement. The heartline of a people, pulsing through the land.

Traditionally, the great fire of Bealtaine — marking the return of the sun — was lit on Uisneach. From its central vantage point, twenty of Ireland’s twenty-six counties could be seen. Like an ancient optic cable, the fire signalled renewal and celebration across the island. In recent years, the tradition has been rekindled. The land’s custodians now host a one-day festival around the lighting of the fire. I returned for the third time last Saturday to take part.

How do we bring ancient celebrations into the modern age and make them meaningful? That question has sparked some division in recent years as the festival finds its feet. It drew criticism for partnering with a production company — “Not sacred enough,” some said, and stopped attending.

My view is simple: don’t take it all too seriously. You’ll never please everyone, and trying will only wear you down. Put yourself in the shoes of those who first gathered on this hill. They’d just survived winter. Their food stores were low. The sun was finally back. This wasn’t a ceremony in the modern sense — it was a celebration. A release. A gathering of the living, marking the fact that they had made it.

So when I visit Uisneach for Bealtaine, I go mostly to be among people. To see old friends. To dance. To have a drink. To feel glad to be alive.

And yet — if you let it — wonder still waits for you there. Craftsmen at work. Art installations. Heritage talks. And for me, the highlight: a man holding a raven (see image above). I’ve never been so close to one before. Its eyes stopped me in my tracks — dark, deep, utterly impenetrable. They reminded me of the eyes of a Marakame, the Huichol medicine men of northern Mexico — eyes that seem to see into another world.

What immortal hand or eye could frame thy fearful symmetry?

They say you can read the soul in the eyes. That raven looked right through me.

I climbed the hill and came back down again.

The next morning the sun rose once more. I drove through the Slieve Bloom Mountains — you always know you’ve hit the midlands when your vehicle starts bouncing. The roads are laid on bogs, their surfaces undulating with the slow shift of ancient ground beneath. Ireland’s own natural speed bumps — long-buried forests reminding us they’re still there.

Driving those roads, I couldn’t help but notice the scars. Coillte’s clear-felled forests stretched in all directions — sharp stumps, leaning trees, snapped limbs. The aftermath of recent storms was everywhere. Hikers in full gear parked along the roadside and vanished up narrow trails.

I went up the mountain and came down again.

Onto the motorway, fringed with birch and alder and tidy verges. I passed a cow walking an overpass. His ancestors would once have been led between two fires at Bealtaine for purification and protection. No such rite now — just a casual wander, a sovereign cow on an overpass.

I stopped into Avoca and bought a €5 coffee — admittedly excellent — but passed on the €3.80 almond croissant. Instead, I claimed a comfortable couch and pretended I shopped there all the time.

Back to Cork. As I write this, a Brittany Ferry is sailing into the harbour. Paul Theroux, my favourite travel writer, once said he could never hear the sound of a distant train without wishing he were on it. I feel the same about ferries. When I see one glide out to sea, my imagination follows — to the coast of Brittany, the forests of Galicia, the mountainous villages the Basque country.

And yet, oddly enough, I don’t need to go far to feel that southern heat this year. An atmospheric anomaly known as an Omega blocking high has parked the sun above us. For three weeks now, Ireland has been basking in weather more typical of the Mediterranean. The postman, sweating in his shorts, insisted: “When this breaks, it’s really going to break.” And he’s probably right. When it does, let it be a deluge. Nature will drink it up, and the high pressure will drift back south where it belongs. Ireland will return to her four-seasons-in-a-week self. We take what sun we can get, here on the 53rd parallel.

So I hope you’ll forgive a lack of depth in this post. These are not days for grand theories or deep analysis. These are days for lounging, for ice creams, for barefoot wanderings and spontaneous swims. For the youthful energy of May. When the land is green with abandon and the hedgerows burst into blossom as if there’s no tomorrow.

And sometimes that’s enough. Just to show up. Not to decipher or dissect the meaning of it all. Not to build a brand or heal the world or unlock some hidden part of the psyche. Just to stand on a hill. To have a laugh. To share a drink. To be glad of company. To feel the sun on your face after a long dark stretch. That’s something Uisneach reminds me of each time.

There’s a scene in The Alchemist where Santiago learns that his treasure isn’t somewhere far away, but buried near the place he began. He had to journey far to realise what was already his. That’s what Uisneach feels like too. A return to centre. A way of remembering what you already know. That the sacred doesn’t always announce itself with trumpets — sometimes it just waits quietly, disguised as a good day with friends, or a raven staring through you like it’s seen your soul before.

And I suppose that’s what makes me keep going back. Not out of some loyalty to tradition or to make a statement. But because it feels real. Grounded. Because even in a crowd, I always come away having met something in myself. Or in the land. Or, last Saturday, in the eyes of a bird that might just have been a messenger.

I climbed the hill and came back down again. Same as on years before.

So if you see me staring out to sea or sitting in silence with a pint, don’t worry. I’m just remembering. Or maybe I’m listening.

Sometimes, that’s all the sacred asks.

In The Alchemist, Paulo Coelho writes that “when you want something, all the universe conspires in helping you to achieve it.” But first, you have to show up. Sometimes that means crossing oceans. Sometimes it just means climbing a hill and letting a raven look you in the eye.

And that, I did.