The Ghosts of Glendalough

By:  Rachel Orenstein

Friday, December 30th, 2022

      You see the dancing girls before you see the lake. They stumble into each other on the bank, awkward and laughing. But there is a grace to them that fits their serene backdrop. Their waltz is like the steps of a fawn: uncertain, delicate, beautiful to watch.

      Standing now on the bank of this lake yourself, the girls' soft music and chirping birds are a perfect harmony for the otherwise silent water. You bend over to see your reflection in the still water. The great wide sky seems to pour right into this small valley like sand in an hourglass, the air is so crisp - almost too crisp. Someone skips a stone and it becomes a game - each group along the bank is suddenly hunting for smooth rocks. A silent competition: who will skip their stone the farthest? 

      While walking towards the next lake, you notice a young oak forest to your right. The thin white trees grow from moss-covered mounds and twisting brooks. The trees are too young for much sun-shade. As you admire the greenery, you start to see figures in white shifts. Timelessly, they chase each other in a youthful hunting game. They hop over ridges and splash down into mud puddles. Knees are scraped on fallen branches and their clothes are stained but they continue laughing and chasing. You could see through the entire forest, but these ghosts - perhaps ancient, perhaps victorian, perhaps yesterday - echo through the denser trees between life and death. You wonder who else might see them. Does anything tie you to them besides the fact that you stood in the same place?

      These ghosts fade when the upper lake comes into view.  No photograph can capture the grand majesty of this place. You could hardly breathe, the sight is so beautiful. Cool air contrasts with the warmly shining sun, a rarity in Ireland. Amber ripples flow towards your feet as light glints off the abundant river stones. Ducks bathe and play in the small waves. At the opposite end of the lake, mountains curve down into a sunny valley. The rhythm of gently lapping water melds with the quiet conversations of nearby families. You could stay here forever, you think, reveling in this peace. It is quiet here: calm.

      "Glendalough," your guide had called this place. "'Glen-da-lough,' meaning 'glen between two lakes' in Irish." A simple name, certainly, but that simplicity suits this place. It is paradise in the silent sense: secluded, largely untouched by commodifying mankind. A small group is planting a tree in the lakeside park and you get a suddenly overwhelming sense that everything will be alright.