In the past couple of
months, my wife and I returned from the most memorable vacation of our lives; a
guided tour of Ireland, Northern Ireland, and Scotland.
Like most Americans (and
peoples of any civilized country) I have often seen photos and videos of
tourists who frequent Blarney Castle in Ireland. Of course, THE thing to do
there is to kiss the Blarney Stone.
Once our tour bus rolled
to a stop in the gift shop parking lot, my wife made me aware that she would
rather “shop ‘til she dropped” than climb the 132 steps to the top of the
castle. As a result, our daughter and grandson accompanied me to the castle; a
distance of perhaps 500 yards.
Having passed a smaller
gift shop, a couple of food trailers, and having walked across a little bridge,
Kristy and Noah decided to check out a nearby flower garden. And I was left to
make the solitary climb to the roof of the castle.
The first thing which
struck me was the winding stone staircase, and specifically the width of each
step. It was if the steps were made for a midget. Although I wear a 9 ½ shoe,
average in our day and time, the back of my foot hung 2-3 inches off the ledge
of each step. And it occurred to me that when this ancient castle was built,
the common man was all of 5’3” in height; (and possessed much smaller feet than
our own). As a result, I was forced to climb the staircase in a sideways
manner. And interestingly enough, the vast majority of the castle was an empty
shell; the floors having long since been gutted by time or warfare.
It was tedious work
climbing the stone steps, as they wound upwards at an approximate 45 degree
angle. Dozens ahead of me. Dozens behind me. Ultimately, I reached the top, and
the proverbial “end of the rainbow.”
Pt. 2
Glancing across the roof
of the castle, about thirty feet away, I noticed a prostrate man, lying on his
back, his head partially obscured, and being held securely around the waist by
a castle employee; the ‘holder.’ Of course, the middle-aged fellow was kissing
the Blarney Stone. Eight or ten others, men, women and children were lined up
behind him; prepared to do exactly the same.
There was only one
official way out. I would have to remain in line until it was my turn to kiss
the stone; (as if everyone who climbed those 132 steps intended to follow
through with that particular deed).
Tradition informs us
that whomever kisses the Blarney Stone will be blessed with the Gift of Gab (or
eloquence). Rumor tells us that after the attraction has closed for the day, castle
employees have been known to ‘bless’ the stone with yellow liquid; (something, in
my mind, to be avoided at all costs).
As I stood there
pondering my options, I noticed a thigh high chain directly in front of me, a
sign which announced, ‘No Admittance,” and a parallel walkway beyond it which
led to the ‘down’ staircase.
Rather than wait in line
twenty minutes to depart the premises, I managed to step over the chain, and
make my way to the first of 132 steps which led to the bottom of the castle.
Pt. 3
Having successfully navigated
the steps to the bottom of Blarney Castle, I retraced the pathway from whence I
had come, and arrived at the food trailers.
Stepping up to one of the mobile
kitchens, I ordered a turkey sandwich, walked over to a nearby low wall, sat
down, and partook of my solitary picnic.
As I dined on that cold turkey
sandwich a raven, and then two dropped down on the pavement; with the
expectation that they would be rewarded with, (for lack of a better
characterization) a ‘tourist treat.’
Of course, I pulled off a couple
of dime-sized pieces of bread, and tossed them to those beautiful black, almost
iridescent birds. As they cobbled up the bread crumbs, several more of the same
species appeared.
On a whim, I tossed a few more
bread crumbs in the air, and without so much as a morsel falling to the ground,
the ravens caught the bits of dough in mid-flight.
As I completed my (less than)
culinary delight, stood up, and walked to a trashcan, I had accumulated three
or four species of birds; which had lighted on the 50 square foot area of pavement
which surrounded me.
No doubt, some of these birds built
their nests in the dark recesses of Blarney Castle, and some may have ‘buzz-bombed’
hapless tourists, and dropped their aromatic welcome, as they kissed the stone
for which the castle was made famous. Still others among them had become
addicted to the bready offing of tourists, and resorted to this place on a
daily basis.
As I write these words, I am
reminded of a particular New Testament scripture.
Look
at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and
yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they?
(Matthew 6:26)
It is gratifying to realize that
God used me in this land of my forebears, if only on a momentary basis, to
cooperate with Him in the fulfillment of the foregoing scripture.
As I reflect upon it now, it is
compelling to consider that I may have fed the descendants of ravens that day; whom my
ancestors fed before me.
by William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 84. Copyright pending
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