On March 13th (Brooke’s birthday), we visited Slieve Patrick. We asked George to tell us about this place in his best Irish accent. Here’s what he said (more or less):
It’s a very pretty hill – a wee hill, a very muddy wee hill that you can climb all the way to the top. There are fourteen stations of the cross on the way up but you should probably watch where you’re walking so you don’t slide back down to the bottom. If you’re anything like us, you got there in a van driven by Richie.
Now, we love Richie but he’s a mad lad. He’s been driving these roads for so long, so it’s nothing to him, but there’s a two inch shoulder, and they drive on the wrong side anyway, and here he is taking these curves at 60 when he should be taking them at 30 and before you know it there’s a van coming the other direction around the bend and you can’t even see it in the fog until it whooshes past, scaring you half to death.
When you get the top, God is just flying the wind at you up there. It’s whipping around ya. It’s peaceful to some people and for other people it’s just a crapload of wind. There’s a giant statue of St. Patrick up there with a Latin inscription but I can’t read it anymore so I couldn’t tell you what it says.
On the way down there’s lots a slipping but you know our motherland, Ireland–that’s Northern Ireland–is known for the mist and the rain. Aidan did fall. It was quite funny. Noah fell, too, but I think it was later when we were at St. Patrick’s Church in Saul. Maybe it was some of those ancient people buried around that tripped him up. In fact, it feels very weird to walk around in the churches with all the tombstones in the floor. I’m walking around going, “I’m so sorry I’m stepping on your grave.” But what can you do?
But it wasn’t raining, which was nice, and we recreated the Abbey Road album cover, which was also nice even though it’s not the right country. But it’s still the UK, after all. I have to say, it’s really messing me up that they drive on the left. I don’t know what to do about it.