A comment about Irish roads by one writer has proven accurate as Nancy and I have worked our way around the west coast of the country and back to Dublin. That comment is that Ireland has two kinds of roads—busy and deserted. I would add to that another word—bumpy. Having just completed a ring from Dublin to Clifden (far west point or the country) and back, I would agree. Driving on the left (some say the wrong) side of the road takes just a little getting used to, but the curves and bumps on the small roads or traffic on the larger are a continual adventure. And sometimes there is even traffic of a farming kind on the smallest roads...


After hunting down ancestral places, rocks and names, we headed towards the southwest of Ireland. That part of the country is dominated by three peninsulas, each of which has its own unique personality. Having already experienced the middle of the three and its main road, commonly called the Ring of Kerry, both by bicycle and car, Nancy and I agreed that we would not make a repeat visit. That route is one of the prime tourist routes on the island, and for good reason. Its beauty is legendary, but the crowds are also, and we decided that we could bypass both.



So we headed for the southernmost peninsula, Baera—and we were not disappointed. The roads out of Glengarriff, the gateway to this peninsula, were small and winding, but spectacular. The mountains that form the spine of the peninsula loomed on one side, while the glistening sea lay on the other. We passed through forests, rock-covered hillscapes, and small villages, with brightly painted houses

in general enjoying every minute. As the day moved towards late afternoon we rounded a curve and saw in front of us a small hotel nestled next to a small pier and facing the bay and the sea beyond. Bunaw looked like a perfect place to stop for the night, and we did and it was. The room rate was less than half of what we were accustomed to paying, but what we were given in site and experience was much more than we had received before.


The only activities were walking and cycling, and, although the weather was threatening, Nancy and I did both. I cycled up Healy Pass, the high point on the peninsula, finding the panorama from the top amazingly beautiful. The wind from the sea was strong, and walking on the pier exhilarating. And to top it off, as we were having late afternoon tea in the hotel bar, we met a delightful couple who were cycling in the area. The husband was writing a book about life in a village in Mayo County, Ireland, and we carried on quite a conversation—one joined in on by a local taxi driver who was eager to tell us about both the area we were staying in and his recent commitment to Christ.

At the suggestion of the couple we had met, Nancy and I drove around the corner to a lakeside pub/restaurant for dinner. The food was good, but the highlight was the owner who was more than happy to tell us anything we wanted to know. On the wall was a photograph of an elderly gentleman carrying long oars, and we asked about him. Seems that he was a boatsman when boats could be hired (rented) on the adjoining lake, and he was carrying the oars for his boat to his house. He could have left them with the pub owner, but would not trust anyone to properly care for his precious cargo. We asked if boats were still for hire, and the pub owner answered no. He said the boats were there but that some time ago the pay for boatsmen had sunk so low (25 pounds for half a day, plus lunch and drink) that no one would do take the jobs. He also added that tourism itself had been sinking over the past several years, primarily due to increased accessibility of other (and sunny) places thanks to the proliferation of low-fare airlines.


The next morning we left our find behind and, with a stop at a nearby glorious waterfall and park, with ancient standing stones, headed towards the northernmost peninsula, a place with a conflict about name that is a story in itself. Next time I will fill you in on that story. But the lesson for this time is simple, Psalm 102:25, In the beginning you laid the foundations of the earth, and the heavens are the work of your hands.

On Monday Nancy and I began a week-plus tour of Ireland. My agreement with Adelaide Road Presbyterian Church was to preach 8 out of the 9 Sundays between July 1 and September 2, and the 29th of July is the one I will not be filling—so we have taken the time to see the country. At first we were thinking of flying to some exotic (and probably sunny) location outside of Ireland, as air fares in Europe are sometimes incredibly cheap, but we changed our minds. We decided to rent a car and drive to Irish places we have never seen, and with ten days there is time to do much of that on this relatively small island.

Our general route has been south from Dublin and then west—we will finish the trip by an eastward return to Dublin. The first day we traveled over small roads and ended up in a place called Clonmel, which is on the Suir River several miles west of the south coastal town of Waterford. We had never heard of the place, but found it to be delightful. Our hotel faced the river and the mountains, which meant both a beautiful sunset and a cheerful morning. The predicted rains did not materialize, so in the late afternoon I was even able to enjoy several miles of quiet country lanes from the seat of my bicycle.

The next day was a day of surprises. Early on in our time in Ireland Nancy had received two emails from one of her sisters reminding her that the ancestral homeland of one of their most prestigious relatives, Thomas Condon, was in Ireland and near where we were now traveling. Thomas was born in a small stonecutter’s home in Ireland but emigrated to the United States. He went west as a pioneer Congregational missionary, became a noted geologist and discovered of the famous John Day Fossil Beds. He was a founding faculty member of the University of Oregon, father of the first woman graduate of that university, and today buildings at both the University of Oregon and Oregon State University bear his name.

The information provided about the location of the Condons’ ancestral home by Nancy’s sister was somewhat contradictory, but it also reminded us that while reduced to poverty over the centuries by the vagaries of Irish political and religious history, the Condons had entered the country as part of the extended Norman invasion and for hundreds of years had been important and wealthy landowners in the area. This meant that physical remains of their holdings could still be around. So—the hunt was on.
First we went to an angler’s shop in Fermoy where we inquired about the whereabouts of a town that we knew no longer existed. The proprietor’s curiosity was raised and after two phone calls to relatives the general location of the homelands of the Condons and Roches (maiden name of Thomas Condon’s mother) was located. We next drove to that town and learned that the Condons and Roches had indeed lived in the area, and in fact the castle at the foot of the hill was probably one of the many built and owned centuries ago by the Roche family. We also learned that we could get more information from the Information Center of a town just 8 miles away.


So, after lunch in the café at the foot of the above mentioned castle we headed off for the next town, arriving at the Center we had been told to find just as a man was entering it. This particular gentleman actually knew little, but he did direct us to the local pharmacy with instructions to talk to Eileen, who he said knew more about the history of the area than anyone else in town. That we did, and it was true. Eileen was able to fill in some family details and give us a short history of the general events that would have led to Thomas’ emigration. She also directed us to the owner of a small shop in another village, one near a castle which was now only a ruin but that had certainly been built by the Condons as their family center centuries ago.


With that information, and duly noting that the local convenience store bore the name Roche and the local drapery/toy store the name Condon, our journey continued to


Mr. O’Sullivan at the small shop in Kilworth. There we learned from him that we had found what we were looking for—the ancestral Condon castle. It was not accessible as it was in the middle of a private gated field, but it was there—a new name but the right assemblage of stones. So off we drove, down the lane and into the field—not close enough to touch but close enough to photograph the single remaining tower of what 800 years before had been a grand edifice.


At the end of the day we had been at the homelands of the Condons and the Roches. We had seen castles owned by each of them. We had seen physical evidence that the lines still went on in the place Thomas had left behind 160 years ago. An interesting saga, and one which not only connected us with our roots, something the ancient Hebrews knew was significant, but which also reinforced the wisdom of our choice to stay on the island of Ireland for these few days…

But that is just the start. More about this journey to come.

Today marks the fourth Sunday I have had the privilege of preaching at Adelaide Road Presbyterian Church in Dublin Ireland. I have chosen to share messages from one of my favorite books while here, the letter of Paul to the Philippians, and the study guides for these messages are being posted on the web site of the church, www.adelaideroadchurch.org. If you are interested, feel free to log on and take a look.
The past week began with a visit to some interesting sites around Dublin, in the company of friends from Lisburn who had shown up for worship at Adelaide Road. It was great to see them, and to spend the next day with them in the Wicklow Mountains, just south of Dublin proper. The word mountains is a little deceptive from the point of view of the mountains we knew in the Seattle area, but when I ascend the winding road through them on my bicycle I know why they bear that name. In the space of only a few miles the road rises above the tree line to Highland-like countryside and vast panoramas of the world below open up beneath.



Our most interesting stop on this trip was at Glendalough, a place of both natural and historical beauty. Glendalough gets its name from the Irish phrase Gleann dá locha, which literally means the ‘Glen of the two lakes’. Situated in the heart of the Wicklow Mountains, and designated as a National Park, it is one of the most visited locations in Ireland. People like us go there to enjoy the lakes and surrounding forests, and also to visit one of the most important sites of monastic ruins in Ireland, an ecclesiastical village known as The City of the Seven Churches.


The story behind this city centers around a 6th century monk named St. Kevin who, in a desire to get away from worldly distractions made his way to the Glendalough Valley, at the time a desolate and remote site. The saint’s piety and devotion attracted others and soon a monastic community grew up around him. St. Kevin died in 617 AD (supposedly at the age of 120), but the community continued for the next 500 years (Ireland's Golden Age) as one of the country’s greatest ecclesiastical foundations and places of learning. The Danes who were based in Dublin regularly attacked and burned the city, but it continued to prosper until the 13th century when the Normans destroyed the monastery and placed the area under the jurisdiction of Dublin. The buildings fell into decay and more than 600 years elapsed before a reconstruction program was started in 1878. Further work was carried out in the 20th century.


At Glendalough several ecclesiastical buildings from the 6th century survive, including one of the oldest high towers in the country. These uniquely Irish architectural features puzzle current scholars, who are not certain what they were used for. Some say they were for storage, others for a place of safety during a raid, and others to lead the pilgrims’ way to the holy place. In any case the whole site is impressive, and the glimpse into an important part of religious history is fascinating. If you want to know more about this history I recommend reading How the Irish Saved Civilization, by Thomas Cahill. It is not only interesting and informative, but also very readable.
On Thursday Nancy and I went north to Northern Island (part of the UK) and visited several friends who we knew from our time in Lisburn, including the Bruce clan. Years ago a number of us from Calvin combined cycling and missions and helped in a seaside youth club at Cranfield, south of Dublin on the border with the Republic. David Bruce was the speaker for the morning this past Friday at the same camp, so Nancy and I went there. It was good to see the work continuing, and to reconnect with some of the team I knew from our time years ago. On the way to the camp, just outside Cranfield and up the road a few miles, we passed the place where CS Lewis spent many childhood summers, and the hill which he immortalized as the site of the castle from which the kings and queens of Narnia ruled, Cair Paravel.


So, all in all it was a very full and interesting week. And it was bookended by a Sunday the 15th visit to a summer mission at Greystone (a town on the coast south of Dublin) which has been held there for the past 111 years…And a Sunday the 22nd Irish picnic—complete with a barbeque sheltered by umbrellas to keep the driving rain away.


Living here is a privilege and a gift, and Nancy and I thank God for it. We are in a position to learn from the people here today, and from those who were here over a thousand years before our nation was begun. And those two forces—the present and the legacy—are important for us to know and learn from. And I guess such is the case wherever we are and whoever we are.

I can’t remember when I saw the Aran Islands on a map for the first time, but I do remember that their draw was magnetic. Maybe it is because I like the far-distant places, the corners, the edges—for no explicable reason except perhaps because they are there. And the Aran Islands are that kind of place. Only a few miles from the mainland of Ireland, but unconnected to it, they jut out into the Atlantic, leaving nothing but water between their western shores and North America. That position makes them susceptible to the harshness of winds, surf and rain, and the barren rock that they are made of leaves no place for forests or fields—but that just makes them attractive to me.

Several times, on various trips to Europe, I had planned on visiting these islands, but not until yesterday did it happen. Every other time something came up or another destination took precedence or whatever—I never made it. But this time Nancy and I did, and it was wonderful. Some times when you look forward to something you are disappointed with the thing itself when you finally get it, but not this time for me. The years of waiting proved worthwhile, and the visit, short as it was, satisfied.
To describe the Aran Islands as remote and hard to reach was the case for centuries, but it is no longer true. There are three Aran islands (the big island—Inishmore; the smaller island—Inishmaan; the smallest/most easterly island—Inisheer) and all are reached by ferries that shuttle people and goods from the mainland several times a day. There is even regular air service to the two largest islands—by a very local airline. But that did not detract from the experience. Being there was the goal, not suffering to arrive.
Nancy and I took the train from Dublin to Galway, a trip that took just three hours and covered the entire width of the island of Ireland, from east coast to west coast. We arrived in Galway in the afternoon, immediately found our way to the tourist ticket office for the Aran Islands, and booked the bus/ferry plus a Bed and Breakfast on the island. We had a couple hours to wander Galway, but the pouring rain made that less than positively memorable. The bus trip to the ferry lasted about an hour, and the rain continued, but as we went west I could still see that the signage was increasingly Gaelic and decreasingly English. That is because this part of Ireland is the Gaeltacht, that is the land where Gaelic is spoken, and the more remote the location the more dominant the Gaelic seems to be. After a wet and choppy hour long ferry crossing we arrived at the pier in the largest town on the largest island, Kilronan/Cill Ronain. The way to our lodgings was well marked, but while only a short walk it was a very wet one.

After settling in we headed out for dinner and music at a local restaurant/pub. The atmosphere of the place was fitting for its location, and the music, slated to begin at 9 but finally starting in earnest after 10, was local and enjoyable. Whether the Irish reputation for music is currently accurate or something for the tourists to enjoy I do not know, but the evening was just what one would imagine in a somewhat out-of-the-way Irish pub.
The morning greeted us with something we have not seen much of since arriving on the Emerald Isle—sunshine. We wanted to see the island, which since it is only 9 miles long and 2 ½ miles wide is not that hard to do. The choices offered for such discovery were: walking, cycling, horse-cart tours or mini-bus tours, and we chose the latter, knowing that the explanations of a local would give us the history, geography and traditions of the island better than traveling alone. The tour operators are all local, probably all family, and cooperate with one another, so we had no problem asking one for a ride and being shuttled to another to share the experience with a second family.
On the tour we learned about the harsh life on the island, the ancient inhabitants, how all the soil had been human-made by carting sand and seaweed up from the beach and depositing it on the solid limestone surface of the island.

We visited Dun Aonghusa, an impressive ancient stone fort built on a high cliff, the ruins of churches dating back to 800 AD, looked for seals and had tea and scone. The tour was so complete, we covered almost all the roads on the island, that all that was left to do was walk the coastal path, which we did—then we departed, taking the ferry then the bus back to Dublin.

The time on Inishmore/Inis Mor was not long, but the experience was all I had thought it might be. It was satisfying and it was informative. While in Ireland we may return , particularly to visit the other two smaller islands, but returning is not as important as having been there once. They say that in the winter there may be only 25 visitors on the big island, whereas in the July-August time the number can swell to 2,500. They also say that in the winter the weather may cut the island off from the mainland for as long as two weeks. I can imagine what that must be like. But the time and the crowd, and even the weather, was not the issue for me. It was just getting there. I could say finally getting there, but looking at it now I guess the time was just right. Ecclesiastes 3 tells us that there is a time and a season for everything, and yesterday was my time for the Aran Islands…And when the right time is filled with the right activity, something special happens…
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I arrived in Dublin around 9:00 Wednesday morning, following an uneventful, though two hours late, flight from Greensboro via Newark. The Clerk of the Session of Adelaide Road Presbyterian Church met me, and he and another man, Stuart Ferguson (the Treasurer-Guardian of the church) treated me to my first Irish Breakfast. After sitting on a plane for so many hours I can’t say I was hungry, but the fried eggs, sausage, bacon, fried tomato, beans, toast and jam tasted good and the company was gracious and informative.
After breakfast I was taken around the corner from the restaurant to the church itself, then escorted up three flights of stairs to The Attic, one of four apartments in the church and what will be Nancy and my home for the next two months. The apartment is wonderfully light and airy, with a fully equipped kitchen, a living area, a bedroom and a bath. The Youth Worker of the church and his family (wife and twins), who had been living in the apartment, had vacated it on Monday and moved out to the larger empty manse, and in the short span between their move and my arrival the apartment had been completely painted, cleaned and the kitchen stocked with new dishes, pots and pans, cutlery, etc. The apartment has an internet connection, and two days ago Stuart rolled a television and satellite connector in—what more could you ask for!


Wednesday night, after dinner at the Clerk of Session’s home, I went to the mid-week prayer meeting where I was introduced to about ten members of the church for the first time. I also toured the church building and saw not only the worship center but the crèche (child-care area) where a full-time day care program operates and the area where the DoleBusters, a government sponsored program to help people become emotionally and financially independent, operates. Both of these programs are seen as outreach ministries of the church.


Saturday morning Nancy arrived and joined me in the apartment—so our Dublin life has begun. Sunday morning at 11:00 I led the first of nine worship services I will be leading, with a focus on the book of Philippians. Then Wednesday evening I began a mid-week series on the Parables of Jesus, a series that will also go on for two months.
Dublin is a very cosmopolitan city, and the church and apartment are in the center of it all. Just two blocks away from St. Stephen’s Green, the central park of the city, and just a few blocks farther along from the Liffey River, the church has defined its mission as ministering to the city and committed to that definition by a radical renovation of the entire facility. The pastor who completed that renovation left the church for a call in Belfast just last month, and in the Irish Presbyterian Church the call of a new pastor will take nine months to a year. I am here for the summer, taking his place, as part of that transitional period.
In the months ahead I will try to communicate some of the impressions I get of Ireland and some of the experiences Nancy and I are having. I will also try to reflect on the ministry of this church and the church of Christ in this part of the world. For today, however, I will just give this introduction plus post a couple pictures of this, now our, part of the world…


The first two photos above are photos of St. Stephen’s Green, the central park of Dublin. Given as a gift to the city by the Guiness family in the 1850’s…

The next ones are of a typical Dublin day on Grafton, the walking street on the south side of the Liffey…Note the umbrellas...