Guest Blogger Lisa Alber: Memory is a Slippery Mistress--Thoughts About Ireland

 

Lisa Alber for Cara—Tuesday

Cara asked if I (Jeff) would mind introducing her guest blogger this week, Lisa Alber. Little did Cara know that Lisa and I have a loooonnng history together.  One that always makes me smile when I think about it…and there are very few folks I can say that about. :-)   You see, back when Lisa published her debut novel, Kilmoon, and appeared on her very first author panel (at Left Coast Crime in Monterey), guess who was her moderator.  Yep, moi.  And I enjoyed it so much that a couple of years later I popped up again as her moderator on another panel.  So, folks, I know of what I speak when I say Lisa is a truly gifted writer and delight to hang out with. 

Lisa sets her County Clare series on the West Coast of Ireland, amid a setting reminiscent to me of The Quiet Man, in a county familiar to many of us from the glimpse we get of it as our planes land in Shannon airport.  That idealized image is the subject of Lisa’s post, and I must admit she raises points and feelings I share regarding the Mykonos I write about. I guess you could say that panelist Lisa is now showing the way to moderator Jeff.  Welcome, my friend, to Murder is Everywhere. --Jeff

Thanks for inviting me to join the gang for a day, Cara! For those who don’t know my novels, I represent the Republic of Ireland. I’m a Yank from Californian, with Irish blood, and I chose to set my first three novels in Ireland because a novel idea found me the first time I traveled to Ireland. I should say, a workable idea that excited me found me. From there, I started a mystery series set in County Clare. The third novel, Path Into Darkness, comes out in August.

The title of this post comes from the novel. Memory as a slippery mistress is a theme for one of my more troubled characters, Nathan. He can’t trust his memories—can’t be sure they’re the truth. Memory isn’t truth, anyhow, but we tend to think of them as the truth about past experiences, don’t we?

This came home to me last year when I traveled to Ireland for the first time in a decade. My first twenty-four hours in County Clare, driving around, reacquainting myself with old haunts and routes, were an exercise in disillusionment and righteous indignation.

There I was, expecting the march of progress to bypass County Clare. Hah! The wild and wooly nature of the area is definitely on the decline.  Tourist signage everywhere shortened distances. New housing lining the roads between villages felt more suburban than rural. The narrow roads between villages were widened and—gasp!—actually painted with dotted white lines to keep drivers civilized.

Gotta tell you, I missed barreling along just shy of head-on collisions and every once in a while pulling onto a verge to allow a truck to pass.

It took a solid two days for me to get a grip on myself and accept what I was seeing. I was there for novel research. The tourist crap and cookie-cutter housing developments were the reality. Here’s a quote from my travel journal:

… gorgeous except dismayed by my lying memories and the changes – so many more houses. The vast expanses of fields and narrow, unlined lanes not so much anymore … I realized that my disillusionment at seeing Clare again stems in large part from living with my fictional Clare for so long – it had become reality.

In other words, I realized that I wasn’t just once removed from reality through memory. I was twice removed – from memory to fiction. My fictional Clare had become more real to me than reality, more real than my memories even.

No wonder I was disoriented and resentful at first. Hold the phone, this isn’t Clare!

No, what it wasn’t was the land of my novels. I use fictional license, as we all do, highlighting some aspects of my location, not mentioning other aspects that aren’t important to the story.

What amazed me was how well my brain erased those other aspects—like the ugly rock quarries, for example, and the sad mud-coated donkeys forgotten in their pastures. Between the old stuff that I’d conveniently forgotten and the new changes, I didn’t recognized Clare at first.

HOWever, after the first few days, I was back to loving Clare and eager to experience it objectively and with an open heart. I needed the dose of reality, and, in the end, an ugly rock quarry and a housing development and a tourist cottage made appearances in Path Into Darkness.

On a deeper level, my experience helped me deepen Nathan, which helped shape the story. If my brain could erase reality so easily, what about people with actual traumas in their backgrounds? I don’t know the answers, but it’s the kind of question I like to play with in my stories.

Have you ever gone to a beloved place years later and felt it was diminished somehow?

Thanks, Lisa.

Lisa Alber is the author of the County Clare mysteries. Her novels have been called “rich, dark, and complex” and “lyrical, tense, and haunting.” The third novel in the series, Path Into Darkness, comes out in August. Ever distractible, you may find her staring out windows, fooling around online, or drinking red wine with her friends. Ireland, books, animals, photography, and blogging round out her distractions. Facebook | Twitter

Let the Beltane Fires Burn

-- Susan, every other Sunday

Since today's May 1, and I'm following on the heels of Jeff Siger's fantastic blog about Eastern Orthodox Easter in Mykonos (here's the link, if you missed it), we're heading 4,000 kilometers north and west, to look at another island's spring tradition:

Beltane.

Beltane Fire on Calton Hill (public domain image)

Beltane was one of the most important Gaelic seasonal festivals, and traditionally falls on May 1, halfway between the spring equinox and the summer solstice. In Ireland (the island we're speaking of today) the festival has been celebrated for over a thousand years.

As Beltane approached, many Irish families--and in some cases, entire villages--would decorate a hawthorn tree with ribbons, shells, and flowers. Originally, the embellishments were intended to please the local spirits and aos sí (literally "people of the mounds") and thereby encourage a blessing or answered prayers. Over time, the custom lost its spiritual significance in many places. (A not-uncommon fate for religious rituals in the modern age.) The tree (which was sometimes a symbolic branch, and sometimes an entire tree) became known as the "May Bush" or, sometimes, the "wishing tree."

Not a May Bush. Possibly the home of the aos si.

People also celebrated the approach of Beltane by decorating homes, especially doorways and windows, with yellow flowers, and by leaving gifts of food on the doorstep for the local spirits.

Traditional Beltane rituals included lighting ritual fires and driving cattle between, around, or over them while druids offered prayers for the beasts' protection during the summer season. (Since Beltane coincided with the movement of grazing animals to summer pastures, the herds required special protection at this time of year.)

In need of protection, at Beltane and otherwise.

Ritual meals were also cooked on the bonfires, and after the fire died the ashes were used to bless and protect people, crops, and animals. Farmers also made ritual circumnavigations of their farms and holdings, saying prayers and performing rituals at the cardinal points of the compass, to ensure fertility and blessings for the harvest.

People also visited holy wells and other druidic power sites (like stone circles) during Beltane, either for organized rituals or for personal worship and prayer. By tradition, people circumnavigate these sites on foot and moving from east to west--following the path of the sun.

Druidic stone circle, Galway

When the Catholic church arrived in Ireland, many of the druids' holy wells became the sites of churches (to take advantage of the local religious customs, to wipe them out, or both, depending on who's telling the tale).

Killursa Church, Galway

Killursa Church in Galway is constructed on the site of one such well, which apparently lies directly beneath the petitioners' entrance to the church. (If true, this represents a major offense to the druids, who considered it absolutely forbidden to step on or cross directly over a holy well.)

A pagan holy well apparently lies beneath this door.

While teaching at a writers' retreat and tour in Ireland last summer, we visited a number of druidic sites, including some that featured in Beltane ceremonies and other Gaelic rituals.

Leprechaun Hole. Sadly, he wasn't home when we visited.

Modern pagans continue to celebrate Beltane, in Ireland and elsewhere, and many non-pagans recognize Beltane as a cultural event (again, not an uncommon practice. See also: Santa Claus, Easter Bunny, and Halloween). As a fan of religion, culture, history, and celebrations, I'm both respectful of those for whom Beltane represents a religious event and happy for any excuse to celebrate the advent of summer--though I must admit I'd rather be celebrating it in temperate Ireland than scorching Sacramento, California.

Yellow flowers...Happy Beltane!

Like me, they'd rather be in temperate summer pastures.

So...shall we dance around the Beltane fire tonight?

Happy Beltane!

Life...and Death...at Ross Errilly

During my recent trip to Ireland, I spent some time at Ross Errilly Friary--one of the best-preserved medieval Christian sites in the country.

My mother at the gate to Ross Errilly

Located a couple of miles outside the village of Headford (County Galway), Ross Errilly has a long and traumatic history, and--according to locals--can claim at least one resident ghost.

The friary was founded by Franciscan monks sometime between 1350 and 1460 (depending on who answers the question). It is a "friary" rather than an "abbey" because it never had an abbott (though I'm told it's only writers and medieval scholars who split that hair).

Front of the Friary - note the missing roof (it was originally thatched)

Like many Christian sites across England, Scotland, and Ireland, Ross Errilly suffered greatly during the English Reformation. Between 1538 and 1753 (when the friary was permanently abandoned for the final time) the monks were expelled, arrested, or forced to flee from Ross Errilly on seven different occasions. The friary even had a "visit" from Cromwell's soldiers in 1656 (and it didn't turn out very well for the monks on that occasion, either).

The view through a ruined cloister window.

A less disciplined person might consider that a lot of medieval monk-y business.

Nice image to cancel out the immediately preceding obnoxious pun.

One interesting facet of Ross Errilly is the stone "well" designed to hold live fish destined for the friary's kitchens. The fish were caught in the nearby river, and the well has a drain connecting it to the river to allow for water flow to keep the fish alive until their turn in the pan.

The well remains, though its finned inhabitants (like the tonsured ones) are but a memory.

Medieval fish tank.

The cloister remains mostly intact (except for the roof), and contains at least one haunted corner at the top of a set of stairs. People claim to feel a startling cold when standing there, and some of the photographs taken there contain the shadowy form of a monk who haunts the staircase and the cloister area. (This isn't just conjecture--one of the people in our group has a remarkable image which does, indeed, appear to have a shadowed monk in the background, and I can personally guarantee the shadow wasn't there when the image was taken.)

I didn't photograph the haunted bit--I'm willing to believe in ghosts, if only so they don't feel any need to prove their existence to me--but here's an adjacent portion of the cloister.

This image certified ghost-free.

Though abandoned, the friary is still in occasional use as a burial site--we saw a fresh grave there the day we visited.

The newest grave at Ross Errilly

The people buried within its walls died from many different causes--from persecution to illness and old age--and, most likely, some were murdered for their beliefs.

Even so (and despite its resident haunt) Ross Errilly struck me as a peaceful, lovely, sacred place.

One thing I love about traveling, and visiting historical sites, is the sense of unity I feel with people from different times and places. The men who inhabited Ross Errilly lived in a very different time and place, and yet I can relate to the lovely, peaceful place they built. I can only imagine the lives they lived, but as I walked through the ruined halls, I could almost feel them there--living and working and praying, and seeking to make their world a better place, much as we hope to do today.

The tower and ruined cloister wall.

The time and place in which they lived made that objective difficult--and in some places, it's not all that much easier now.

I wish we could have left the persecution and hate behind at the end of the medieval era, but walking Ross Errilly's hallways and learning about its history left me both humbled and inspired. It also reminded me that no matter how many sites I visit, thousands more remain to be seen--and to have their stories told.

Which is one reason I love being part of the gang at Murder is Everywhere--it lets me see more interesting sites than I could ever see alone!

--Susan, once again waxing poetic about death on a Sunday.

Life--and Death--on the Emerald Isle...

I'm in Ireland this week, teaching at a writing tour and retreat sponsored by Ireland Writer Tours.

We've visited some killer sites (pun most definitely intended) and seen more than our share of murders--at least, if you count the kind composed of crows.

In the weeks to come, I'll be sharing the photos and stories from the tour, and today we're starting with a trip to the Aran island of Inis Mór.

The Aran Islands--Inis Mór (Inishmore), Inis Meáin (Inishmeen), and Inis Thiar (Inisheer) sit in the mouth of Galway Bay off the Western coast of Ireland. Inis Mór is the largest, with an area of 12 square miles--and over a thousand miles of handmade stone fences erected over the last thousand years to divide the fields according to ownership.

Many stones, many fields, many lives.

While there, I visited the island's oldest cemetery, which dates to at least the 8th century--the date when this ruined church was erected, in honor of St. Enda--a 6th century saint whose monastic school on Inis Mór drew scholars from around the world and earned the island the title "Aran of the Saints."

St. Enda's church - a ruin, but not forgotten.

The church is now a ruin, but the cemetery remains in use. The graves, and gravestones, tell the story of centuries.

The oldest person buried in the cemetery died last year at the age of 107. Apparently, she continued her weekly shopping trips into Galway (a 40-minute ferry ride, or a 9-minute plane ride across the bay) until the age of 102.

The view from the cemetery on Inis Mor.

The graveyard bears testament to the lives of men, women, and children who lived and died on Inis Mór, as well as some who died across the sea. The gravestones marked with white Celtic crosses (as opposed to the grey ones) belong to Irish servicemen from Inis Mór who served and died in the U.S. forces during World War II.

Gravestones - spanning three centuries in this frame alone.

Our posts here at MIE often focus on the darker aspects of life and death...murder, mayhem, and all the things that quicken a crime-writer's (admittedly twisted) mind. However, this week I thought I'd take a moment or two to offer a somewhat more reflective look at life and death in a place that hasn't changed that much since Enda founded his ancient school. Electricity only arrived on Inis Mór in the 1970s, and many of the inhabitants still enjoy and preserve the older ways.

View through the window of St. Enda's Church

The men and women buried here span centuries, and yet the locals still remember many of them by name, by anecdote, and by reputation.

We should all be so fortunate in our legacy.

Sometimes, the old ways are worth preserving.

And lest you think I've taken too far a turn to the fanciful this week, here's a photograph of a crypt that seemed to have been propped open. I'm sure there's a logical explanation, but the first thing that occurred to me was "gives new meaning to last call at the pub."

BACK IN A MINUTE...

We left it undisturbed. I'm sure the occupant will be back soon, and nobody likes returning home from a pint or two and finding himself locked out.

-- Susan, waxing poetic from the Emerald Isle.

Seeking the muse

I have just arrived on the Emerald Isle, not to walk the hallowed halls of Trinity College to view the Book of Kells or to immerse myself in barrels of Guiness – although after last night I think I may have done just that at The Ferryman on the banks of the Liffey.  Nor did I come to breathe the air of Dublin’s James Joyce, George Bernard Shaw, or Oscar Wilde, although every writer could certainly benefit from an infusion of their talent.  No!  I am here to play golf.

A friend of mine, who lives near Oxford, invited me to be a guest of a group of golfers to which he belongs, called the Sun Followers.  I didn’t ask the obvious question as to why they had chosen Ireland for their spring excursion.  I had expected Portugal or Spain.

Yesterday, as I was watching the rain as I crossed the Irish Sea on a very comfortable ferry, I lapsed into a reflection of my writing process. 

Most of the time, I sit down knowing where I want the piece to go.  Michael and I have talked about it and have agreed, more or less, as to what should happen.  Most of the time, the process is very conscious – I am aware of what I am writing and can mentally step back and evaluate what I have done.

As with many other writers, the plan for a piece doesn’t always get executed as expected.  Sometimes the characters don’t let you go where you want them to go – a good sign that you’ve crept into their heads.  Other times, the act of writing shakes loose ideas that hadn’t occurred to you before.  Also good.

So you have to be on your toes, so to speak, because the story doesn’t always progress as expected.

But this conscious, reflective, approach to writing is not what intrigues me the most.  Sometimes, as I start hitting the keys, I lose myself – similar to what athletes call being in the zone.  When in this state, I can write without being aware of what is happening.  The words just flow, unprocessed and unfiltered.  The path is often uncharted and unplanned, and the result is frequently the best writing I produce.

What is more puzzling is that when I return to consciousness and read what I have just written, I often have no real recollection of writing it.  It reads as though someone else had written it.  Furthermore, I find myself wondering where the ideas, words, and sentences had come from.  It seems so unlikely that they emanated from me, that I could have been the source, because everything feels so foreign or unlikely.

So where does this state come from? 

I have no idea.

Does anyone?

But I certainly wish I knew and could package it.  And share it with my friends.

Or at least I wish I could summon it at will for myself.

I’d love to hear your thoughts.

Stan – Thursday, raining