Opinion

Glorious Donegal is Ireland's spiritual garden

At Glenveagh, the lake reflects the brooding mood of the slate sky. In the park, dual dragonflies hover surgically, like precision drones,just above the shaded crescent bench hidden under the now rusting maple tree 
At Glenveagh, the lake reflects the brooding mood of the slate sky. In the park, dual dragonflies hover surgically, like precision drones,just above the shaded crescent bench hidden under the now rusting maple tree  At Glenveagh, the lake reflects the brooding mood of the slate sky. In the park, dual dragonflies hover surgically, like precision drones,just above the shaded crescent bench hidden under the now rusting maple tree 

MAD-dog sheep playing chicken with old tractors on lanes that ride like rollercoasters. A magpie perching on a goat’s back.

A seagull chilling on a silver Cavalier. An old deaf collie tucking behind a weathered gatepost. The awesome glimpse of a large doe deer bounding up a hill.

Donegal days are different. The space and pace drift away. Limitations loosen, at least for a while. Nature nurtures towards patience. Donegal days can last forever.

The place has faced its countless tragedies and troubles. Yet Donegal’s ancient air carries no cynicism. Its breeze bears no bitterness, no matter how cutting. Its powerful wind always speaks softly to those who listen.

Framed by huge hillsides where birthmarks of grey stone break through the brown-yellow grasses; countless black mosses lay littered with peaked turns of turf.

And brightened by earth’s hardiest heathers, each one painted off an infinite palette of lilac and lavender with a delicacy of detail fit for the finest bone china.

At Glenveagh, the lake reflects the brooding mood of the slate sky. In the park, dual dragonflies hover surgically, like precision drones,just above the shaded crescent bench hidden under the now rusting maple tree.

Vast zeppelins of low cloud gorge on Errigal’s peak and crawl into the mouth of the Poisoned Glen, as the far side of Dún Lúiche is shadowed by an eerie turquoise filter.

A buzzard hangs high on a thermal, aloft with an almost imperceptible flap alert with the downward fix of a sniper.

The fighting light momentarily dapples the uneven landscape. Splatters of soft rain streak the windscreen, racing each other towards the car roof as Croithlí beckons.

An elderly man leans forward into the strengthening shower, head down below his cap, as if to somehow stay a little dryer, or maybe just to keep going. The rain doesn’t care.

At Oilean na Marbh, the souls of little innocents stare down onto the postcard strand.

This small island was a spiritual prison where unchristian clerics decreed unholy burials on unconsecrated ground; its earthly connection cut off by the high tide. The awful injustice was only addressed by the resolve of local people in recent decades.

Yet the copious roadside grottos and glenside stones constantly reclaim the wider healing bond of Christian and Celtic that’s sustained Donegal’s strength of character and culture over centuries.

The fluency of the old people’s spoken Irish lilts like the melody of shining daffodils dancing on a spring flurry.

Every hedgerow is pockmarked by the reassurance of red-berried rowan, their turned leaves betraying a pale green matte against the flattery of a potent breeze. And the dry stone walls that simply stand there, staring back at the changing world, worry-free for a century, two or three. Stonewalling.

And further above, the burgeoning mist that seems to summon the mystic around Bloody Foreland’s heights, an Cnoc Fola.

Multifarious pebbles rake noisily under the ocean’s blackened backwash at Mín Larach, their ancient rounded bones crunching together like a huge sack of rolling marbles in a constant rhythmic crescendo.

Countless stones, artefacts that have outlived every memory of our civilisation and more. And another pier stands swallowed tonight by the new moon’s swollen spring tide.

Late on now, and the waft of smouldering turf gently catches memories held forever in the bottomless well of love for long dead parents, gone much too soon.(Still, there’s the sparkle of Des’s smile to enjoy nearby, and the gentle shade of Noelle’s small oak tree. Truest friends.)

A brace of heron stalk the late night shallows at Machaire Rabhartaigh seeking one last fish supper.

And another Donegal day slows down to a glass of Green Spot under the sobering gaze of The Child of Prague behind the bar.

Today’s precious magic will never stray the soul, sponged up for the straining spirit. No place this for the acid rain of others’ negativity, nor the ghosts of guilt at one’s own imperfections.

And still tomorrow await the sheer glories of Sliabh Liag and the south. It’s tempting to see Donegal days as an escape from the real life beyond.

Yet the truth is, this special space is as materially real – maybe more so – as every other moment of everyday existence. And that is the brilliance of its wisdom, the genius of its gift, the secret of its knowledge.

This wild Atlantic way is the awesome antidote to the dreary steeples, the dark clouds and the daily grind. It is Ireland’s spiritual garden for restoring those who are willing to pause. And breathe deeply. And wonder. And wonder again.

j.kearney@irishnews.com