Rock me, Mama
On our way from Kinsale to Wicklow today, we stopped at the Rock of Cashel.
The Rock is a mass of stone piled systematically atop a hill in order to form a habitation. It was a castle where kings lived until the thirteenth century or so, when it was repurposed as a monetary, which it remained for centuries. Seeing it made me remember that I have more power and comfort than a twelfth-century king could ever even dream about.
I was pretty excited about this, too, but in my mind there’s nothing inglorious like a massive paid parking lot, or all of the chatty German tourists who are not only annoying but also oblivious. But no matter. It was still pretty grand.
I should note that some of that chunk forms the cornerstone of a ‘proper’ church in Somewhere, Minnesota. Because…bishops. Or something. Dude was twice president of Notre Dame and served as the chaplain at Gettysberg, and apparently wrote politely requesting some for his use in building a church. Why not.
Still, I’d prefer a somewhat more secluded home in the woods.