Ashes to Ireland Part III: Home to Minard Castle

After we made the decision to take Roger's ashes to Ireland, I immediately knew at least one place that the ashes must be spread.

On our honeymoon we drove to the small town of Dingle on the peninsula of the same name in Southwest Ireland. Dingle is in the heart of one of the few Gaeltachts (or Gaelic speaking regions) on the island and home to a number of prehistoric ruins from the original Celts that settled the region. Our travel guru Rick Steves guided us via book around the peninsula to 5000 year old beehive huts, fairy forts, and the remnants of potato fields from the famine that can seen to this day high on the hillsides. Mr. Steves then recommended we visit Minard Castle and a wedge tomb that requires a bit of hike. An adventure! :)

Roger and I spent the better part of a day looking for Minard (MIN-ard) Castle and the wedge tomb. At one point, we were on a completely wrong road, going incorrectly higher and higher into the mountains when we happened upon the most cliche of Irish women sitting on a trunk beside the road with a baby in a stroller and a King Charles Cavalier Spaniel. We stopped to ask if she knew how to find Minard Castle. She did, and while she happily gave us accurate directions, we in the process got to hear her lifestory, cooed over her beautiful granddaughter, discussed my sister's own King Charles, and just how curly my hair actually is all before she was willing to part with the directions. It was really sweet and crazy memorable.

After a number of turns on an equally tiny road, the trees parted, and before us stood the ruins of Minard Castle, a tower fort attacked by Oliver Cromwell during the Reformation, atop a hill overlooking an incredibly picturesque sandy beach. The picture above must be at high tide. (Again, not one of my pictures... I haven't uploaded them yet.)


Perhaps more memorable that the castle was the horse. Guarding the fractured tower was an enormous white horse that stood like a sentinel before the opened face of Minard Castle, completely still and kinda creepy. We watched this horse for some time, and at one point we even questioned whether it was truly real. It hadn't moved nonetheless blinked the entire time we were there. It just stood, staring into the cold waters, waiting for the next wave of angry Puritans to make landfall so it could shoot laser beams out of those unblinking eyes. I got lots of really great pictures of the castle and the horse. Roger decided we had to have a picture of him, the castle, and the horse statue, so he started to climb toward the castle. Not more than perhaps 20 feet up was a sign on the fence stating that entry was not allowed, that the castle is condemned and unsafe for visitors. He tried to reason with me, probably more with himself, that he didn't need to go all the way up to the castle, just a little higher, beyond the fence, to get the best picture. Just as he put his hand on the fence, hinting at his next forbidden move, the horse turned his head and looked at us! He knew...

I squealed with delight! :)

Of all the sites we visited in Ireland, the site that for whatever reason captivated Roger's memory and imagination the most was Minard Castle. I cannot begin to tell you how many times he called me to the computer to show me that he'd found the castle again on Google Maps. Only perhaps a week before his passing, Roger called me back to the office to see that there was an updated satellite image of Minard Castle on Google, and so we of course were required to recall the story of the horse and remember an easier time in our lives.

I knew how to get to the castle, but I was so afraid that my memory was going to be along the lines of Monasterboice that I insisted we do a trial run out there while the guys drank beer in town. We, the girls, drove just outside of Dingle and found it in no time. There were quite a few people on the little beach, and I hoped that they would clear before we returned after dinner with the ashes.

By the time we came back with the guys, there was one final car that was pulling away from the site. The sky was dark with clouds, many of them low enough to appear as fog. We parked opposite the beach. As we got out of the car, an entire herd of cows made their way as close to us as possible, curious as to why we were arriving so late. Joan, Roger's dad with the ashes, and I made our way down the little beach side road to the castle. A brook from an active spring ran between the castle and the beach out into the bay. Roger's dad decided the stream was the perfect spot for his portion of the ashes. I wanted to spread them as close to the castle as possible.

The three of us were very quiet. I found the castle to be as emotionally difficult as the cemetery. This was it. All that remained of my sweet husband was to be released here. The finality of that had not occurred to me prior to that moment. Beforehand, I was happy to be removing the ashes from my bookcase where they had sat for months. Now, the idea that every bit of him would physically be gone, permanently, was more than I could handle. Joan and I cried and hugged. I cried some more. I pretty much cried the duration of our stay down there and part of the way back.

With my first handful, I dressed the hillside. I returned for a second and walked up to the gate with the sign declaring prohibited entrance. As the wind was still, I threw the ash as far beyond the gate as I could. Roger may have not made it past the gate the first time, but he was successful that day.

Roger's father was standing on the little bridge above the stream. Periodically he dropped another handful into the water, watching it twirl in small whirlpools, mix with the current, and disappear into bay. It was mesmerizing. For some time I just stood there, content to watch. I took my own handful and allowed it fall, bit by bit, into the water, physically and symbolically letting go of Roger.

It was perfect. The kids and Dave were on the beach, spreading their last bit of ash. Roger's father had own final moments on the bridge. Joan stood by the stream, watching the ash wash away. I wandered around, trying to memorize everything about this moment because it was perfect. In that second I was positive I had done exactly what he wanted, and I was able to share this with his family.

I walked down to the beach. A barrier of tide driven rocks separated the road from the sand. The rocks were all rounded or ovular from being tossed at sea. Most were black, but there were other stones of reds and greens I had never seen before. I was specifically looking for a rock to take back to my mother when the idea struck me.

I knelt down to write Roger's name deep in the sand. I found 3 semi-flat bottomed rocks and built a cairn next to his name. My nephew Weston asked me what I was building and I explained that the Celts build cairns to mark important spots, and this was truly an important spot. Minard Castle is now the final resting place of a really great man, and I'm proud that we were able to muster the strength (and money) to free him in such a special and sacred way. The kids each found their own rocks to mark their own memory, and as the last stone was balanced we made our way back to the van.

As we drove away from Minard Castle, probably for my last time, the sun managed to filter through the foggy clouds so as to form a hazy column of light into the hillside. Dave noted that Roger must be pleased. I tried to take a picture of how beautiful that indirect presence of light was, but nothing I did rightly captured that moment. Almost as quickly as the sun broke through, it returned behind the clouds and raindrops hit our windshield once again.