Category: Travel

The landscape here is by far the most beautiful in all my travels.

Steep rocky cliffs, broad sandy beaches, thick tufts of spongy green turf, wild flowers-blue, yellow, violet. The streams are flowing from field, over rock paths and out to the sea. Sitting by the cliff edge there is a grand silence cut only by sound of sea birds and the water lapping against rock far below.

Natures beauty is so intense and vibrant it has the power to touch the soul and awaken it to God’s presence.

This experience of beauty is enriched by connection with loved ones, family and dearest of friends. Such beauty can’t be absorbed fully unless it is shared. I think that is because material beauty is really just a pointer, an invitation into communion, and union.

We left Bangor at 9AM.

Our first stop: The Grey Abby. Founded in 1149. Gothic arches, roofless ruins, sculptured memorials to men who gave entire lives to prayer.

On the road down the Ards peninsula toward Portaferry The mud flats at low tide in the lough are shimmering in the sun like glazing on pastry.

On the ferry to Strangford, the wind is whipping, eyes watering, the sound of gulls screeching, and the metal clanging as the cars roll of the ramp.

A stop in the wee cake shop for tea and scone with butter, cream, and jam.

Then on our way to Kiloghlea just like Van’s song. We can see in the distance the humped backs of the Mourns, black against silver sky and sliding into the sea.

Wising by the car window are
Heather-clumped fields of grass, wind-gnarled bushes,
Yellow-lichened rock shores and Stone-crumbled walls.

In Ardglass harbor sits two red-rusted tugs leaning over in the mud at low-tide. Around the point are manicured greens with eighteen flags whipping in the wind.

We stop at Dundrum Bay to hike through Dunes and out to the strand. The Dunes are covered in thick brown grasses and sit in clumps like a pride of wild cats.
A ring of burnt logs lays on the rough cobblestone strand. Dark clouds are making the sea turn black.

We return by pasture, passing brinded cows chewing patiently among the bluebells.

We reach Eniskinen House next to Tulleymore forrest, just under the Morn foothills. We hike the enchanted path down to the river past ancient trees.

On the way back we stop at Scrabo Tower built on a steep hill and overlooking the entire Ards peninsula. Strangford loch forms a vast shimmering water-plain below.

Back to Bangor, Onslow Gardens, where the air thin like the evening light. Thanks be to God for long Irish days.

The last hour of winter light is resting on the Kansas prairie. The blowing grass is the color of honey with a tinge of red. The trees are gray and empty, huddled in small clusters where the land is broken. The silver sky hangs low and heavy except for a narrow blue opening on the Western horizon. The fields roll endless as far as eye can see. The boys and I are on our way to Colorado and we’ve been driving for over 12 hours. It’s 2 degrees outside and wind is buffeting the car in gusts. I can’t imagine the early settlers trying to carve out a living here. How did they endure the harsh weather of the open plain? Why did they sacrifice so much for freedom and a piece of land to call their own?

The boys are plugged deep into their electronics and I can see their mini screens flickering images against the window as we fly through this empty land at 90 miles per hour. It will take eight hours to traverse Kansas, and while some would say a boring grind, there is also a rich stillness and peace in the plains.

Sent from my iPhone

The Lockhart’s holiday home is named after John Henry Newman’s retreat house called “Littlemore”.

The home is set  on a hill and the view over the Loch is spectacular. The sun sets here in June at 10:30P and the light lingers on the horizon until 11:30P. The tidal waters reflecting the sky  in shades and patterns depending on the winds and water depth. Its a glorious painting redraw by hour in endless combinations of light and color.

The brine smell of the sea blends with the sweet garden flowers. And depending on the wind direction, the sheep and cows in the nearby fields add their scent. The Irish air is thin and fresh. The sun is coy and reveals itself only in brief but brilliant patches.

The grass is a bright yellow-green, with fine needles and spongy underfoot. Unlike the coarse, dark green grass our home in Tennessee .

We entertain friends and family all weekend. Pots of tea brewing, sweets laid out in bowls, bottles of wine opened, laughter, old stories. The sound of the boys playing ping pong and laughing. Card games at the table. The kitchen always warm from the heavy iron stove and yet the bedrooms cool and quite.

Littlemore is a  gift, reflecting the love and warmth of the Lockhart’s family.  It has become a place of reunion,  refreshment and retreat for my family.   I give thanks for the beauty of the sea, the Irish air, family, friends, laughs, prayer and silence.

June 30, 2017

It rained all day but the streets were still full of with locals and tourists. The Red and black pub facades standing out among the store fronts on the narrow pedestrian street. Inside these classic bars are stone floors, well worn stools and tables, and whisky bottles lining the walls, some enshrined in glass cases. And then there is the Guinness glass with its iconic curved shape holding that black malty liquid topped in a light brown foam. In the street there is the sound of seagulls overhead and accents from all over the world. At night the music starts and the pubs are packed full. Rose-faced drinkers come in out of the rain, with matted hair and coats dripping,  to settle in for a long night of revelry. The people are porous, and unguarded.  Conversations strike up effortlessly.  The Irish have this way of making a quick verbal jab at you, a stab with a tease, and then suddenly your caught up in a poetic, quick witted spar with a stranger who just became friend.  Who are these chubby and colorful brothers from a distant land, who sing and dance with such ease, and with whom you can open your heart and then never see again. Tolken called them Hobbits.

June 26, 2017

We had a whole day to kill waiting for our night flight out of Malpenza so Peter, David and I  headed north to Lake Maggiore and a little town called Stressa. We renamed it “No-Stressa”

As we took the Exit off A22 we found ourselves winding down steep switchbacks with 180 degree curves barely wide enough for one car. Down below we caught a glimpse of the royal blue lake through the morning mist. It’s impossible to describe the play of light on the northern lakes of Italy. The colors seem altered like an old classic movie.

The harbor is full of 1950s style mahogany boats and the smell of their diesels mixes with the fresh lake air. The water is crystal clear, and the boat wakes lap against the stone promenade.

After breakfast we hiked up mount Matalone. The glacier of Monta Rosa could see to the north, and as we climbed in elevation we could see lakes Como and Garda to the east. We took and alpine coaster ride and sat at the mountain top bar enjoying a cold German beer.

On our way down we passed a long line of bikers peddling up the mountain. Mostly older men, very thin and fit and wearing tight cycle suits full of Italian advertisements.

In the afternoon we swam in the cool blue waters and laid out on the stone wall. Then we took a stroll into town and sat for a Caprese salad and Bolognese pasta. The carefree timelessness our our day together,and the magical  beauty of this place will linger on inside us.

June 25, 2017

Rising over the ridge at seven comes the Tuscan sun to wake up the sleepy olive trees. Can this hard dry earth accept another day in the sun? The earth is hard and wears a thin grass coat of burnt yellow and raw umber. The cypress trees stand tall and elegant like solders guarding the estates of man. The moist air in the folds of the hillside is burning off in a milky haze. The clay roofs begin to reflect light and reveal the farm houses that blend into the hillside. The air is cool but the sun-rays are already warm on the skin. No clouds. It will be a long run for brother sun, climbing a clear morning, hovering above a dusty afternoon and receding into a soft evening glow.

June 24,2017