Christmas in July
Most of my journey in Ireland unfolded from surfing a series of suggestions from friendly locals. One of the most magical stops was Rostrevor. With encouragement from Mickey – whom I met along with a gaggle of others, at the Granvue Café pub in Omeath – I traveled to Rostrevor to enjoy the annual Fiddler’s Green Festival, one of the longest running festivals in Ireland showcasing local and international musicians and artists. The trip was a simple bus ride, much of it along the watery peninsula, and took me from Omeath into Northern Ireland. The city of Newry is the transition point, and to my embarrassment, I had forgotten to bring British sterling for the journey (since technically I was entering the UK). Luckily, I was able to exchange some Euros and easily make the second ride into the north with the help of a kind and patient bus driver that waited for me to obtain the correct currency.
The village of Rostrevor in Northern Ireland, across the peninsula from the Republic of Ireland
There is much more to Rostrevor than the pleasant but fleeting festival. The village rests at the foot of some of the woodsiest, most scenic hiking along the Cooley Peninsula. As if straight out of a fairytale, from the colorful village center where a stone bridge makes way across a babbling brook and into the green wild, the first leg of the trip is through The Fairy Glen. The Fairy Glen is a short walk through a dense canopied pathway along the brook and into Kilbroney Park. Kilbroney Park leads into and up Slieve Martin, part of the southern Mourne Mountains, where a large boulder known as Cloughmore Stone rests.
As if frozen in time, Cloughmore Stone sits perched on the mountain side overlooking the villages below. If you asked a geologist, they would suggest the stone was left there 10,000 years ago, after the last Ice Age, when sheets of ice receded from the landmass of Ireland. If you ask a local, however, they might tell you this was a stone thrown by the giant Finn McCool in effort to chase away Ruscaire, the giant of Snow and Ice.
Cloughmore Stone resting on the slopes of Slieve Martin in Kilbroney Park
Through the maze of single-track trails, purple heather painting the landscape, and blueberry bushes presenting tiny bursts of blue spheres of juicy delight, I caught a whiff of what smelled like Christmas trees. In this dreamy landscape, with a whisper of fog hanging in the forest, I was ready to dismiss it as wishful thinking. And then they caught my eye – fir trees as plain as day, seemingly ready for plucking on a cold Christmas Eve. But there I was, at the end of July, staring at this fantastical scenery hitting both of my senses.
Slieve Martin region in Kilbroney Park near Rostrevor Forest
Afforestation is common in Ireland, however there are old-growth forests still rooted in the landscape. Rostrevor has trees though to be over 250 years old. On the way back to the village, walking through the Fairy Glen, I couldn’t help but notice a few massive trees with thick trunks and moss cloaking the bases. They stood there appearing stoic, protected by the cozy glen; observers of humanity and somehow spared from its wrath.
Rostrevor Forest near Kilbroney Park
Eventually I ended up back in central Rostrevor, listening to the mollifying melodies of folksinger Archie Fisher, followed by a pint in the local pub permeated with impromptu jams with traditional instruments. The pub was adjacent to the village mortuary, and from what I heard, it wasn’t uncommon to cart caskets through the pub for easy transport to the curbside. I enjoyed this contrast and brush with the macabre; a single reminder that the celebration of life and the proximity of death are not always predictable, but they are in fact spiritual neighbors.
Funeral home next door to The Old Killowen Inn in Rostrevor