Ireland Day Three: go directly to jail...or the monastery

We started off the day, today,

 by visiting Kilmainham Jail in Dublin.

 No longer in use, the jail was open from 1896 

until it closed in 1924.

 It is best known for having held the members of the Easter Rising in 1916,

 which was a rebellion against the British rule by the Irish Republican Brotherhood.

 This is the jail chapel, 

which if I remember correctly was actually built by an inmate.

 It also has a very sad, 

but also very sweet story associated with it.

 One of the members of the Easter Rising,

 Joseph Plunkett, wrote Grace Gifford,

 from his jail cell, and asked her to marry him.

 They were married in the chapel hours

 before he was executed at the age of 28.

 Though an incredibly heartbreaking story, 

I also find it incredibly romantic. 

There was an exhibit in the jail museum

 containing the last words of those executed after the Easter Rising

 and Joseph Plunkett’s letter to Grace was there.

 He told her that he had been an idiot,

 that he loved her, and that he wanted to marry her.

 I suppose if you’re going to be executed

 you might as well leave the world with as much love as possible.

Here is the main room of the jail 

which is shaped like an oval

so that it is possible to see all of the cells 

by turning around in a circle. 

 An intersting fact is that immediately following the Easter Rising,

 popular opinion was not in favor of the rebels. 

However, after the executions, 

popular opinion turned strongly against the British,

 making the Easter Rising a very important part of Irish history.

 Across the street from the jail

 was a sculpture memorial for those executed after the rising. 

It was really well done, 

featuring long slender figures standing in a circle blindfolded. 

They were even bullet holes in the chests of the figures. 

I was surprised to find,

 on the plaques below the figures, 

that some of the men executed were actually proclaimed innocent

 on a second charge after their death.  

In honor of Poetry Wednesday, 

here is William Butlery Yeats’s famous poem,

 “Easter 1916”, written in the memory of those involved. 

I have met them at close of day
Coming with vivid faces
From counter or desk among grey
Eighteenth-century houses.
I have passed with a nod of the head
Or polite meaningless words,
Or have lingered awhile and said
Polite meaningless words,
And thought before I had done
Of a mocking tale or a gibe
To please a companion
Around the fire at the club,
Being certain that they and I
But lived where motley is worn:
All changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

That woman's days were spent
In ignorant good will,
Her nights in argument
Until her voice grew shrill.
What voice more sweet than hers
When young and beautiful,
She rode to harriers?
This man had kept a school
And rode our winged horse.
This other his helper and friend
Was coming into his force;
He might have won fame in the end,
So sensitive his nature seemed,
So daring and sweet his thought.
This other man I had dreamed
A drunken, vain-glorious lout.
He had done most bitter wrong
To some who are near my heart,
Yet I number him in the song;
He, too, has resigned his part
In the casual comedy;
He, too, has been changed in his turn,
Transformed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
Hearts with one purpose alone
Through summer and winter, seem
Enchanted to a stone
To trouble the living stream.
The horse that comes from the road,
The rider, the birds that range
From cloud to tumbling cloud,
Minute by minute change.
A shadow of cloud on the stream
Changes minute by minute;
A horse-hoof slides on the brim;
And a horse plashes within it
Where long-legged moor-hens dive
And hens to moor-cocks call.
Minute by minute they live:
The stone's in the midst of all.

Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart.
O when may it suffice?
That is heaven's part, our part
To murmur name upon name,
As a mother names her child
When sleep at last has come
On limbs that had run wild.
What is it but nightfall?
No, no, not night but death.
Was it needless death after all?
For England may keep faith
For all that is done and said.
We know their dream; enough
To know they dreamed and are dead.
And what if excess of love
Bewildered them till they died?
I write it out in a verse --
MacDonagh and MacBride
And Connolly and Pearse
Now and in time to be,
Wherever green is worn,
Are changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

*photo taken by Abby from my class

 After the jail we began our windy scenic bus ride 

through the Wicklow Mountains to Glendalough.

On the way we stopped in Avoca for lunch at Fitzgerald’s. 

There I got my first fish and chips of the trip: delicious! 

We also went to the Avoca weaver’s museum, 

but unfortunately the weavers were not there. 

I did peek in at there looms, such a cool thing! 

Then after some more Lord of the Rings like scenic routes 

we reached Glendalough,

 the site of a mideival monestery founded by St. Kevin, an ascetic monk. 

 It is situated between two lakes 

(Gendalough means between to lakes) in County Wicklow.

 The view is absolutely breathtaking. 

This is the tower where the monks would hide while under seige.

There is also a large cemetery at the site with some very old graves. 

What a beautiful place to be laid to rest.

 Here I am with some of the other girls in my class

 (as proof that I was actually there and with other people too!) 

Also, here is a postcard I bought showing different views of Glendalough.

Highlight of Today:

I think this picture says it all!