I drove away from Dublin
Next - tea in the Guest Refectory. The evening meal was “Tea”. Apparently “Dinner” was served at 1 pm. Heaps of scrambled eggs and doorstep slices of bread and butter to be washed down with pots of tea were handed out through a serving hatch. You were expected to help tidy up but not wash up. As someone who would normally have dinner in the evening and who hadn’t eaten since breakfast, I was very hungry. I’d brought fruit and water but nothing else. I ate the scrambled egg while covertly observing the other guests; a motley crew of lay and religious, men and women, 30+ age group? Having tidied up and handed all the plates and cutlery back through the hatch to the religious washer-uppers, I made my way to the Guest House.
I had been given a key by the male Receptionist and pointed in the direction of a high wall behind the church. There was a door in the wall. I turned the key and entered - a secret garden! A white robed, elderly, clerical Brother came down the path. He greeted me very warmly and escorted me into the Guest House. Here was the communal kitchen. Here was the internal door to the church, to be used for the night time and 4 am ceremonies. Upstairs we went – here was my room. Back down. Rules; the Guesthouse door was locked each night at 9pm. Here was the Common Room where one could sit and read etc.
My room was lovely and more importantly, ensuite. So far so good. Ok! Here I am- ready for 4 days of silence, prayer and reflection. As long as I didn’t meet with any misogyny – I’d be out the door if there was any of that in this house of men. The Catholic Church is not known for its pro-women stance- the Hierarchy is a Men’s Club. But I was here to spend time in silence and reflection on my life and where I was going, not where anyone else or any institution was headed.
Down in the Common Room, men and women guests chatted. Where was I from? Was I a regular visitor? I explained that no, I’d never been here before. Never stayed in any place like this. A lady asked if I’d like to join her in climbing the hill, going for a walk, visiting The Cross. I’d love to, I said. Another guest joined us and up we 3 went, past the gardens, past the fields, past streams and paths, up and up through woodland. After 25 gasping minutes I reached the top of a hill where I flopped down at the base of a concrete Jesus. The view was beautiful…a pastoral scene reminiscent of those 19th paintings of farmland and gently undulating hills bathed in golden evening sunlight.
The older woman chatted away. She had children and grandchildren. Was I married? Had I children? No, I said. But I had nieces and nephews. In fact, yesterday I’d gone to see the new Harry Potter film with my youngest niece. And with that, I unleashed a torrent. The Harry Potter films were satanic. The Harry Potter books were satanic. No, no, I argued gently; like Lord of the Rings, they show the triumph of good over evil, after much suffering and conflict. That’s a good moral tale for children. Apparently not so. Lord of the Rings was satanic as well. While babysitting her grandson, she was afraid demons would come out of the Harry Potter books and the Lord of the Rings DVDs in the child’s bedroom. So she’d taken the whole lot of books and DVDs into the garden, poured nail polish over them and set fire to them. Her son wasn’t pleased with her. He wouldn’t let her babysit any more. But she’d do it again. You couldn’t be too careful. There were bad spirits everywhere. Sprinkling salt on the doorstep would keep them out of your house. That’s what she did to keep the demon alcohol out of her house.
The other lady nodded agreement with a lot of that, although she drew the line at burning children’s books. She was of the opinion that it wasn’t just spirits you had to look out for. There was technology that meant our conversation could be heard through our mobile ‘phones, even if they were switched off. Spy agencies had it. The good thing was, they could be outwitted with tinfoil…but the aliens couldn’t…
I sat on the concrete plinth of the statue wondering if I should make a dash for my car before the Guesthouse door was locked and the monastery gates closed. I’d have to get my stuff and the car keys from my room first. How long would it take…?
Just then, the church bells rang the call to the last prayers of the day. It was my excuse to leg it. I flew down the paths faster than an alien could fly- or so I hoped.
In the church I said all sorts of prayers I’d never said before – including prayers for safety from demons and spy agencies… But...after prayers, back in the Common Room, people made tea. Life shrunk back to normality. Tea. Biscuits. Chit chat. Ordinary talk. I relaxed a bit.
I was standing at the kitchen sink washing my teacup when a smiling monk came into the room. (The ordained monks don’t usually enter the Guesthouse, according to what I was told). This one made a beeline straight for me. “Are you the Rose of Tralee?” he asked. “What?” I said, bewildered. “Are you the Rose of Tralee? We heard there was a lady who was a Rose of Tralee staying, and we thought it must be you”. “No, I’m not the Rose of Tralee, Father” I said, even more bewildered. “Oh, well, goodnight” he said, turned on his heel and left. Hello? What was going on? The enclosed monks must have seen the guests arriving and had decided “The Rose” had to be me. Which was very flattering in a way. But…gossip in the cloister? Funny to think of them behind closed doors wondering who the most likely candidate for Rose of Tralee was…Events were getting more bizarre by the minute.
A young secular priest guest sat at the table beside me. I really like your shoes, he said. What type of shoes are they? They’re called ballet pumps, Father, I said. Oh, do you do ballet? No, I replied. It’s just what they’re called…
I said goodnight, went up to my bedroom, checked the door was securely locked (twice) and closed and locked the windows for good measure. I hadn’t been in the place six hours…and I’d booked myself in for 4 days of this…stone cold sober…
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