Rostrevor

Another week gone. No blackberry related incidents to report. No legal problems. All cutlery set correctly and toilets sparkling. Smooth Sailing.

So I'll write again when something goes terribly and hopefully comically wrong. But out of keeping with my previous entries, I'm going to actually describe the place I'm living in. You know, like a travel blog. Not a misadventures blog.

It's okay to be disappointed. I am too.

But there is nothing disappointing about Rostrevor. Winding close along the loch, the road from Newry quickly abandons the tiny constellations of apartments and farmhouses and slips into a narrow channel of oak, pine and sea. The fall colors are just beginning to warm the trees, and the sea looks tarnished against a deep gray sky. You begin to wish that the drive would never end, but this is Ireland and no drive is endless. Soon the low spread and steeple of Warrenpoint appears, and just another bend around the road, wrapped in oak and snug against its sea wall, is Rostrevor.

It's a one-steeple town, you might say. The main village is wedged into a comfortable V, skirting the shore and flowing up a small valley into the Mourne Mountains. In the center of the V is Kilbroney Park, a massive swathe of green looming with ancient trees and strewn with winding paths. The town itself is perfectly Irish. Storefronts are boxed together in a short colorful row, and cornered on all sides by pubs - The Corner House, The Kilowene, The Kilbroney. There is a large stone Catholic Church and a large stone Church of Ireland, and an accompanying stony, sainty school for each.

There is a hush about Ireland that is at once ancient and alive - warm, if damp stone and dripping leaves can be warm. The light on the water is bright and sheen and hidden too, as if at times it were a playful thought from the deep. The air is quiet, even as the wind is rushing. The rain does not fall, it reaches from the clouds to play among the trees and tease the windows into crying. There is a profound quiet between things and in the gentleness of the near horizons, all bursting as if with suppressed joy, and laughing.

Gazing out across the sea, hearing the gentle dance of rain along the eaves, I find I am lapsing into wordlessness. It is a silence that fills many dark corners with light and reminds the soul of far off music. It is no wonder so much greatness was birthed in this place.

The Renewal Center has its charms as well. It was the seat of the ruling lord some century past, and is filled with small moss covered courtyards and narrow staircases. It commands a sweeping view of the loch and a fair one of the mountains behind. The wind whines a little in the windows and the floors creak in places, but it is warm and rich and homey. During the week the silence is deafening, but on the weekend it teems with life and laughter from all corners of Ireland. This weekend a group of Dubliners (not like the book) is packed in the tight corridors and up eating all the biscuits until the wee hours of the morning.

In fact, I had better go get some biscuits before they're all gone. Cheers.