There followed another night
on the road, as my goal of reaching the Cliffs of Moher in time for sunset was
thwarted by eyes which struggled to remain open. I camped by necessity in
Adare, a town with the reputation of being Ireland’s prettiest.
It certainly was very
lovely, and impressively boasted a castle, three monasteries, and a manor house
with accompanying thatched cottages and cottage gardens scattered round about.
I spent a cheerful morning exploring, and my persistence in asking at the Adare
Manor Golf Course if I might visit the ruins of a Franciscan monastery on their
property paid off with one of the great highlights of the trip – one of the most
complete monasteries I’d visited, seldom visited by random travellers or the golfers
whose balls I tried to avoid being knocked out by on the way to it (forget
moats and murder holes!), and at this time of the year, with the world slowly
reawakening, surrounded by a carpet of soft grass and wildflowers.
I wandered dreamily around
it for hours, piecing it together in my imagination, so that eventually I felt
as though I was standing in one of those scenes you find in history
documentaries where they take a ruin and magically return it to how it must
have looked in its days of glory. I could nearly hear the footsteps of the
monks in the rooms overhead, and the peaceful monotony of their voices at
prayer.