The Hill of Tara,
A short story by Tom Kelly.
It was the first day in Ireland,
The kind of day that blurs after a long flight and little sleep.
Our friends were driving us north to their home from Dublin.
Somewhere along the highway,
They pulled off and said,
Let's stop here,
There's food,
Coffee,
And there's an old historical site,
Maybe something interesting to see.
At first glance,
There was a cute country store and restaurant on a medium-sized hill with a narrow parking lot and washrooms.
I was glad to stretch my legs and let the first sights and scents of Ireland touch me.
The tiredness I felt eased as I studied the landscape.
The valley stretched out below,
And I marveled at the cows grazing free,
Whole steins.
I commented that back home in Canada,
Cows are locked away in barns.
It made my heart happy seeing them at peace on the land.
Already,
Ireland was showing me something different,
Something freer.
Inside,
The cafe was slow,
Friendly,
Buzzing with tourists and locals.
We were seated and ordered our lunch.
While waiting,
I wandered into the gift shop up front.
Still dazed,
I noticed that everywhere I turned,
One word followed me,
Tara.
Shirts,
Mugs,
Magnets,
Books,
Tara.
There were even containers of crystals,
Sage,
And feathers.
This was my kind of shop.
I hurried back into the restaurant and asked,
Are we at the hill of Tara?
My friends laughed.
Yes,
Tom,
We thought you might find it interesting.
Stunned,
But smiling.
Tara,
The seat of Ireland's high kings,
The ceremonial ground of sovereignty,
Myth layered into the soil itself.
And here I was on the very first day,
Not through intention or itinerary,
But through chance.
We ate,
We walked the ridges that were Tara.
I drifted through the churchyard with its ancient trees and spoke briefly with a kind woman who felt as much a part of the hill as the stones themselves.
Excited,
I began to tell our friends all about the hill,
And they smiled,
Leaning into my excitement.
There are lots of mystical sites in Ireland,
Tom.
Then we left,
And I thought perhaps the moment was done.
Days later,
We boarded a bus tour out of Dublin,
One of three day trips my wife had booked.
South,
West,
And this one,
Sacred sites.
She booked it for me,
Not for herself.
I hadn't even looked at the itineraries.
That was deliberate.
On this trip,
I wanted to be surprised.
So there we were,
Climbing onto the bus with no idea of the stops.
Viewing the itinerary,
We looked at each other and laughed.
First stop,
Hill of Tara.
The bus rolled into the same car park,
Past the same cafe,
The same statue of saint,
Patrick,
The same donkeys standing patiently at the fence.
This time it felt different,
Familiar,
As if the land was saying,
Welcome back.
You thought the other day was an accident.
It wasn't.
We walked the hill again,
Slower now.
I knew the lay of the land,
The pull of the mounds,
And when we left,
I turned back,
Looking long at that expanse of earth and sky.
There wasn't much there by tourist standards.
A restaurant,
A gift shop,
A church,
And a few scattered stones.
And yet it was everything.
It was home.
Not the house I was born to,
Not the country I came from.
A different kind of home,
The kind you don't build or inherit,
The type that recognizes you.
If I went back to Ireland tomorrow,
I'd go back to Tara.
There is nothing random about this story,
An Irish tale now.
In this modern time,
Our forgetful nature allows us to lean into lives that shy away from roots and connection.
Tara took the reins in twisted arms.
Like a surprise party,
She orchestrated my return.
Once there,
I was welcomed,
Trip one,
And witnessed,
Trip two.
These old lands and traditions are here now louder than ever,
Not to make noise,
But to help us return,
Return and remember the path once walked and the earth that once spoke to us.
Thank you for listening.
