Shaping Proofs of Our Existence
The road narrowed down to a thin, silver stripe snaking its way through the hills, as we turned our back on Galway Bay and headed to the Burren. The sunshine that, only a couple of days ago, had welcomed us to Ireland had given way to a cloudy sky that had transformed the coastline gulfs into lagoons of mercury, their substance so thick that they were almost deprived of reflections.
Leaving behind a marshy shore dotted with tumbling fortresses of chieftains whose glory has long faded away, but their achievements remained alive in myths and songs, we moved into a karst landscape, heavily wrinkled and occasionally desolate. Limestone hills, coloured in ashen hues, rose here and there, amidst large stretches of similarly grey land that, bearing the merciless creases of time, emanated an air of grandeur, and inspired awe and reverence. We passed by underground rivers and ancient ringforts and waved at cows musing at the horizon or lambs bouncing cheerfully around their mothers. The area was marked with endless lines of drywalls defining boundaries and properties since time immemorial, and the soft drizzle that littered, every now and then, the bus windows enveloped the scenery in a foggy mist that was in character with the fame of the Emerald Isle.
Limestone hills through the bus windows. Note the lines of the drywall structures.
The pastures of Ireland.
We soon stopped at the Poulnabrone Dolmen, a portal tomb dating to more than 5000 years ago, perhaps the best-preserved example of its kind in Ireland. Built by a community that had relatively recently turned to agriculture after a long tradition in foraging and hunting, the tomb probably served as a powerful symbol, a sacred place, and a point of reference and stability. It comprises of two large portal stones that define the entrance to a rectangular burial chamber, covered by a single, 1.5-ton capstone, the whole structure erected on top of a low, oval-shaped mound, one of the most desolate and highest points of the region. Inside, the remains of 33 people were found, dating to various periods, the last one being a baby buried there about 2000 years after the tomb’s original construction. The bones, surrounded by multiple burial objects, were placed in the grikes (the crevasses formed on the limestone surface), and it is possible they were transferred at the site long after the persons’ deaths and their first bestowment in another place.
The limestone formations of the Burren.
The traditional drywall structures of the Burren.
Although the Burren would appear to be barren, it hosts a surprisingly broad range of flora that sprouts from the fissures and has been welcoming cattle since antiquity, following the farming tradition of winterage. Until today, the cattle graze this site (and most of Burren) during the winter months, as the calcium and minerals that abundantly exist in the pockets of the land offer healthy nutrition, while the winter grazing process protects the flora from extensive disturbances. We were also told that the limestone hills remain warm during the colder months, as they preserve the summer heat for longer periods.
Poulnabrone’s dramatic form delignated against a gloomy sky that hung low with solemnity: a photogenic composition which, for hundreds of years, invariably inspires locals and visitors alike. The surrounding flatland of the Burren, with its clints, grikes, and hollows – stone-folds formed more than 300 million years ago through a fossilisation process at the bottom of the shallow sea, – added to an ambience that was mysterious and otherworldly. We were pressed with time and, thus, did not have the chance to embrace the entrancing atmosphere of the tomb in its entirety. Still, these few lines, minimalistic and powerful, drawn as if by a strong, determined hand, stirred up recollections that arose from the murky riverbeds of the global subconscious and talked of mysterious gates, passages, and dimensions of which we are timid, even scared, but which a part of us is eager to traverse.
A few kilometres further down, we paused at the village of Kilfenora, famous – despite its small size – for its Céilí Band (one of the oldest in Ireland) and its collection of high crosses – allegedly, the greatest concentration of such an assortment in the country. Despite the ruthless marks left by time on the walls, the 12th-century Cathedral still stands tall, partly roofless, its courtyard a burial ground lined up with the familiar shapes of the Celtic crosses. Inside the building, protected under a glass roof, the remains of the famous high crosses – originally seven, giving Kilfenora the nickname: “the city of the Seven Crosses” – are exhibited, their rock-carved shapes rising against the hazy sky in an eternal plea to the Divine for forgiveness and protection.
The Kilfenora Cathedral. The glass roof on the right protects the remains of the high crosses.
Celtic crosses in the graveyard surrounding the Kilfenora Cathedral.
The famous “Doorty” Cross (taking its name after the Doorty family on whose tomb it was re-used during the 18th century). The cross bears carvings on all four sides. On this side, the figure of a bishop dominates the head of the cross. He wears a conical mitre and is holding a European-style volute-headed crozier with his left hand, with angels or birds perched on his shoulders. In the centre of the shaft, there are two ecclesiastics, one holding an Irish-style crozier, the other a tau crozier. The bases of the croziers rest on a bird or winged beast, which stands on the heads of two human torsos. This scene is thought to refer to the introduction of new European reforms within the Irish Church in the 12th century. (Text from the explanatory notes next to the cross).
It seems that, in a burst of fragility, fear, and selfishness, our race has always been keen to erect observable, sometimes even, memorable constructions above our last resting places. Even during the periods when our homes were still impermanent, our communities had not entirely transcended their nomadic nature, and our gods were not residing in temples, we were eager to build tombs for ourselves: humble or monumental structures which, standing well above the surface of the ground, were noticeable from afar.
By consciously defying the gravitational laws of Nature, creating forms which were meant to maintain a vertical – almost unnatural – position, we shaped proofs of our existence, for there is no other animal on Earth that builds such designs aiming not at the survival of the body but, instead, at the preservation of our individual and collective memory. To this day, our habitual cairn structures convey the message: “I was here”, underlining that even when we remain anonymous, we cannot accept to be completely invisible. Our wish to leave behind a tangible legacy turns into an urgency when, on our deathbed, with the knowledge that we will soon dissolve into the earth, we want to ensure that we will not be forgotten.
Thousands of years before the concepts of paradise and hell were weaved into our beliefs, we dreamt of stargates and magical dimensions, and we reproduced these psychic visions into the vaulted- or portal-shaped tombs of our early civilisations. Against all the odds, we chose to gravitate towards each other and our ancestors, bridging our past with our future. Centuries passed by, and the first burial structures turned into pyramids, beehive tombs, crosses, statues or mere slabs vertically infixed in the ground. Even today, most communities keep on erecting monolithic or complex structures on the burial grounds, reflecting the intelligent uniqueness of our species that sets us apart from all other life on earth. Our need to provide tangible testaments of our existence has not faded away, indicating that, despite our evolution, we still lack in self-confidence, we are afraid of the anonymity that – possibly – lies in the Beyond, and we have not fully embraced what it means to be eternal.
Photo credits: © Konstantina Sakellariou
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