Last Days

At Galileo’s on bank holiday Monday night my cousin Alan tells me that August 1^st is Lughnasadh, the beginning of the harvest in Celtic tradition. Bank holiday weekends aren’t named like US holidays, and don’t seem tied to memorials the way our long weekends are. Given the fierce hold on so many things Irish in this country, I find this lack of connection with Celtic ritual surprising.

I haven’t been here quite so late in the summer before, so am also surprised to realize that August 1^st seems to be the beginning of autumn here, if not actually, then at least mentally. I arrived just after the solstice, when the night sky is barely dark at 11, the morning is bright at 4 and there is never enough dark to reveal stars. Now, less than two months later, mention of the weather also brings mention of the gathering dark. This gradual hastening toward winter is something that people here need to prepare for in a country where, in December, it will be dark by 4pm, and children will travel to school in the dark at 9 the next morning. There is a fierceness in this place that breeds strength and despair in equal parts. It is no small tribute to the people who live here that strength wins out.

On my last day for this summer I wave goodbye to Esther, Trina and the boys from the front gate of my little house. Esther, free of the garden and the tearoom now that Ballindoolin is closed for the season, is off to London with her daughter and grandsons. One final trip to the library to use the internet and drop off a box of candy for the librarians there who have made my stay so much easier. To the bank to make a last deposit of a few euros into my account, a float for next summer. On my way to Nodlaig’s I stop at the front gate of Ballinderry for a last look. I have said my goodbyes to Alan and Eleanor; now I say farewell to the house, haunting in the distance, that brought me here three summers ago. Finally, I say goodbye to Nodlaig. Although she won’t discuss it, she turns 90 this year at the time of another Celtic festival, the forerunner of Christmas, for which she is named. It is ironic that, with all the huge houses that surround me here, I leave most of my belongings in the very small bungalow of a woman who has the least chance of being here next summer. Maybe we both feel that the boxes of stuff in Nodlaig’s spare room is insurance that we will be sitting next to the turf stove in her kitchen next summer, drinking tea and talking about nothing, really, but in the most profound way.