When last we met we were in Sligo, at the grave of W B
Yeats, found by the first of two happy accidents in a single day. The second such
happy accident occurred along similar lines, with a well-placed road and a
just-glimpsed road sign along the way. This time it was the Rock of Doon that I
found myself a couple of kilometres from, and gladly diverting for.
The Rock was, in ancient times, the coronation-place of the
O’Neills, chieftains of Donegal and Ulster, and I’d long wanted to visit it. A
short climb up a paved footpath brought me to the top of the Rock, where a
glowery day looked down on me, and the sounds of farms and forestry made this
place of Celtic history, with all the ghosts of the legends I’d read about it,
seem rather ordinary really.
At the foot of the rock is a holy well. This one was said to
cure afflictions of the feet, and beside it a couple of nearly leafless small
bushes were weighed down by the tokens brought as offerings by the hopeful.
Rosary beads, crucifixes in metal and wood, socks upon socks upon socks, and an
empty cardboard medicine box.
 |
| Offerings at Doon Well |
The well itself was housed neatly in a little stone house
with well-made wooden doors, and the stations (the prayers which it was believed
had to be said to bring on a miracle) inscribed in the stone of the roof. Two
plastic measuring jugs sat tidily to one side, filled with water from the well.
I glanced up – a couple of houses sat not far off. I liked to think that
someone who lived in one of them perhaps made it their job to keep the well
ready for visitors.
 |
| Doon Well - doors closed ... |
 |
| ... and open. |