Tom Foolery

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We have this bomb shelter in our garden.  It is a silly thing, built in the second world war out of concrete.  Who ever thought that County Tipperary would be a target for bombers?  But it is very hard to go back in time and understand the motivations of those who built it.  I guess it is a small indication of the very real fear that people felt during World War 2, even those in supposedly neutral countries like Ireland.

This bomb shelter floods every autumn when the water table rises, and remains flooded all winter, drying out only in late spring.  It is pretty much a useless endeavor.  The entrance is steep, claustrophobic, slippy, dark and clammy.  A perfect nightmare.

What I find funny is how it has lodged in the childhood memories of so many of my wife’s cousins.  The house has been a constant fixture in the folk memory of her Tipperary family.  As kids they were paraded out here on Sunday afternoons to visit their terrifying Aunt Babe.  Strapped into uncomfortable Sunday best they were expected to behave, to be seen and not heard.

When released from the parlor and set loose in the gardens they made for the Air Raid Shelter.  Boys dared each other to descend into this dark, damp and frightening hole.  So it became a rite of passage for them to dare the horror and emerge unscathed, proud and just that little more grown up.  Any of the male cousins I have met have asked if the air raid shelter is still there.  It looms large in their memory of the house.

In a small way it reminds me of the entrance to Dwimorberg and the men of Dunharrow.  I thought I should stick a sign on it saying;

The way is shut.

It was made by those who are Dead.

And the Dead keep it.

The way is shut.

Lament for Eorl the Young; by JRR Tolkien
Where now is the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that was blowing?
Where is the helm and the hauberk, and the bright hair flowing?
Where is the hand on the harpstring, and the red fire glowing?
They have passed like rain on the mountain, like a wind in the meadow;
The days have gone down in the West behind the hills into shadow.
Who shall gather the smoke of the deadwood burning,
Or behold the flowing years from the Sea returning?

Walk on!

If you are in Cashel on Sunday March 3rd 2013 then we have a walk for you.  From the rock of Cashel to the rugby club, followed by a welcome reception at the club with fun and frolics for kids.  We are doing this to raise money for Guidedogs for the Blind.  If anyone would like to donate to the cause you can do so at the following link:  http://www.mycharity.ie/event/cashelrfcjuniors/

Of course, if you just want to turn up for a walk we would love to have you along.  The Rock of Cashel is one of the most remarkable and historic spots in Ireland.  Ancient seat of the kings of Munster and later the episcopal centre for Christianity in Munster.  It was one of the key visits made by Henry II when he invaded Ireland, and more recently was one of the few places visited by the current English Monarch, Elizabeth II on her historic visit to Ireland.

A walk is a journey.  A road.  Sometimes a journey is in time and space, and sometimes it is a journey of the mind, like this WordPress site.  Mindship is a journey of the mind.  JRR Tolkien knew this more than most, as you can see from his poem “Roads Go Ever On”

Roads go ever ever on,
Over rock and under tree,
By caves where never sun has shone,
By streams that never find the sea;
Over snow by winter sown,
And through the merry flowers of June,
Over grass and over stone,
And under mountains in the moon.

Roads go ever ever on,
Under cloud and under star.
Yet feet that wandering have gone
Turn at last to home afar.
Eyes that fire and sword have seen,
And horror in the halls of stone
Look at last on meadows green,
And trees and hills they long have known.

The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with weary feet,
Until it joins some larger way,
Where many paths and errands meet.
And whither then? I cannot say.

The Road goes ever on and on
Out from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone.
Let others follow, if they can!
Let them a journey new begin.
But I at last with weary feet
Will turn towards the lighted inn,
My evening-rest and sleep to meet.

Still ’round the corner there may wait
A new road or secret gate;
And though I oft have passed them by,
A day will come at last when I
Shall take the hidden paths that run
West of the Moon, East of the Sun.