Trigger warning. This isn’t all pleasant reading. it gets dark, as much to my surprise as yours.

From Mayo to Galway, going south, staying west. A dramatic landscape, 40 shades of green sweep in every direction. Places start to look familiar; I’ve been to Leeanawn before and swam the Killary Fjords. But that was before the wee wagon and myo tape, road trips were different then, restricted by accommodation and cost. This is freer, it suits me better.

The hostel is an old, converted monastery. Such a change of purpose and people. It welcomes a constant flow of travellers, exploring Ireland on foot, bike or car, passing through, in need of a bed for the night. The only thing missing is a horse tethered to a post outside. But two Connemara ponies graze in the field beside instead.

The host greets me like an old friend and guides me to park in a narrow space between a wide tree and tiny house. It’s all very cute and cozy. I’ll be tucked up here to sleep tonight.

Curiosity (and the need to pee) take me into the hostel for a look around.

vibrant colours, books and art

unique, interesting, authentic

anything goes, most things stay

re-used, re-purposed, re-cycled.

This place was a good choice, I’m excited to stay here! The rain has finally stopped too. So, with a spring in my step, I go for a walk to get my bearings. I haven’t done any research, so have no idea where I am. There’s woodland on the other side of the road.

Time with trees is always time well spent, so that’s where I go, to the trees.

Something changes, quite suddenly. A strange stillness slows me. I’m hesitant and unsure. I feel it, before I see it.

Iron gates between low pillars, and a small graveyard within, hidden. Bold white letters on a black sign:

Letterfrack Industrial School Graveyard.

That a ‘school’ has its own graveyard is already the worst kind of wrong. The two places should be a lifetime apart. I pause before entering. My breath catches.

Row after row, headstone after headstone, name after name. Children, wee boys. Beaten, starved, tortured; mentally, physically and sexually abused. Killed.

“We cursed those cold, black-robed men…”

Paula Meehans poetry at the gates speaks of a harsh reality. The scant few words on heart shaped headstones say much more.

Patrick John Kelly, age 8, 12-8-1920

Francis Dunne, age 12, 16-11-1900

In memory of John Sweetman, died as a young boy 3-3-1918

I read the names in a whisper first, then louder and louder, with rising anger. I picture dirty faces, fearful eyes, pain and humiliation. Childhoods stolen by the twisted depravity of those in power, a power that was protected and absolute.

Adulthood was denied completely to those buried here. For those who survived, trauma would haunt them always. The brutality experienced and witnessed seared into memory.

Toy racing cars, footballs, small shoes and teddy bears are scattered in remembrance. These graves are marked, names are spoken, and pain acknowledged, if only by a passing stranger. How many more unmarked graves on this island? Names that will never be spoken, precious lives taken and forgotten.

I stay longer than I thought I would. I hadn’t expected to reflect on a dark and shameful history this evening. I’m glad to be alone. I want to think and feel, quietly and respectfully. I don’t want to chat.

Difficult thoughts and feelings are processed more gently while moving, outdoors in nature. So, I keep walking. A short, looped trail around Diamond Hill, on the edge of Connemara National Park. Mountains, bog, grassland and woods. A landscape that has changed little in the 100 years since those poor wee boys were here, not living - barely existing. Never allowed to behold the natural beauty around them. Never allowed to know beauty at all.

A grey blanket of low cloud and mist descends.

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Into the village and the local pub. An old man’s pub, empty apart from four women; one serving, one drinking, Molly the dog, and now me. Friendly greetings, a pint of stout and soft seat in the corner, between the fire and a window ledge of dusty books. Stone jugs, black and white photos and a cigarette machine. I wait for my Guinness to settle by watching it, mesmerised. It’s a beautiful sight, Guiness settling. A slow, creamy exhale.

An hour later, I’m on first name basis with the 2 women and few men that have come in since. Craic and chat about the search party sent from Donegal for the missing women, and sure didn’t I tell them at home that I was going to Kerry. Is this not Kerry? Laughter, waves, and a promise to call in again whenever I’m back. Safe travels and all the best.

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Back to the hostel for dinner. I’m met by the noise and energy of families, couples and individuals simultaneously preparing meals in one big kitchen. Everything is shared; appliances, crockery and cutlery are found, used, washed and used again. Communication with the odd words of shared language and nonverbal gestures. Finding a way to understand and accommodate each other, because we all have to eat.

“Controlled chaos”, that’s what Hugh calls it with a chuckle and English accent. His Granny was from Moville you know. Family lineage explored and connections made while I wait my turn to use the pot (cooking, not chamber). He stirs his pasta; we save the water for mine. He bumps into me, we both apologise. We’re two of many navigating the space between three hobs and one sink. And it’s not just people in this hostel kitchen at dinner time, but mostly French people, feeding large families, with passion and flair for cuisine.

Hugh’s son brings the plates, he’s a playwright, their food is ready, they’re gone. Still stirring, without skipping a beat, I’m now talking to a Belgian woman who’s cycling round Ireland and using Hughs hob while it’s still warm.

Cosy sitting room after dinner. Soft velvet cushions, tasselled lamps and people of all ages. Reading books, playing cards and drawing. People are using phones too, but not everyone, and not all the time. Mobile phones are secondary, in the background of other things, not central. People talk and are together in that companionable silence that I like. I get the impression that they’re used to this, sharing space quietly.

Amidst it all,
the invisible solo traveller.

Chamomile tea and back to the wagon. My steel bubble of solitude, 7’x 3’ of space that’s all mine, no language barrier or need for compromise. Listening to the rain, I stretch out at an angle to compensate for being parked on a slope. Nothing is symmetrical, it’s all uneven in this higgledy piggledy hostel.

I wake in the morning to savour space and silence before returning to the masses in the hostel for breakfast at shared tables.

Down steep stairs to a low-ceilinged room that opens to another room, both full of heavy wooden tables seating 6, 8 or 10 people. French families continue to pour out of unseen rooms, dorms, nooks and crannies of this labyrinth building. From outside too, unfolding themselves from wet tents in the garden and small cabins by the river. All converging on the breakfast hall as our harried host zips around with coffee pots and more porridge.

I feel alone amongst all the family groups. Hugh and his son are at another table. Nobody else speaks English and I hate that it’s the only language I know. So, breakfast will be with mama, papa and children talking around me.

I take the seat of an older woman leaving the table. She’s Irish too I think, white haired, weather beaten, and a little bent over. She’s also travelling solo. We smile and say good morning. I wonder if I’ll end up like her. Maybe she’s thinking the same.

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It was only one night, but I feel the need to air and tidy the wagon. Sorting stuff out is a never-ending task in such a small space, and one that I quite enjoy because the transformation is instant.

I have separate boxes or bags for each leg of the journey, kitchen stuff and bathroom stuff. I also have bags for ‘worn-but–wearable’ clothes and ‘bogging-beyond-wear’ clothes.

I’m beside a park, the sun is shining. All doors are open wide, curtains are removed, blankets and pillows are shaken out. The wagon floor is hoovered and a towel hangs over a door. I feel proud. If I’d seen someone doing this a year ago, I’d have thought ‘I’d love to do that!’ and now here I am - doing it. A passing couple both smile, “you’ve the right idea” says he. He’s right.

I need a book. I packed a couple of small ones to save space but underestimated the challenge of reading a small font – the challenge is that I can’t read small font. As if by design, the library beside me is closed, but a gorgeous wee independent bookstore is open. The owner isn’t just passionate and knowledgeable about books, but also makes great coffee. Being of a similar age, she understands the small font problem and recommends a short story collection by an author I’ve never heard of, Lucia Berlin.

I’m on a cushioned seat in the sunlit courtyard sipping an oat latte from a china cup. I open the pages of my brand-new book slowly, with all the time in the world. This is an experience more than a purchase, as reading someone’s stories should be.

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My next stop is the epicentre of this journey. It’s the place and people that everything else revolves around, it’s the reason I came. I’ll travel eastward, inland, deeper into Galway.

I’ll spend time on land that I’ve come to know, with other-than -human who chose to know me.

I hope I’m welcome.

Colour, cruelty and controlled chaos in Connemara

Rambling ‘round Ireland - because I can.