A moment or two later, I was about to vent my newly repaired spleen again!
I'd heard of Celtic Cells. There was an island to the west studded with them, many with holes in the roof so that God and the rain could commune with them directly. Surely they should have been referrng to ‘Celtic Christians.’ What about St Patrick for goodness sake?
And then shortly after, I was humbled on learning more. A humbled spleen, however, is easy to deal with, you just move on, live, and add to your knowledge.
But beardies from Egypt? What were they doing in fifth century Ireland?
The Well of St Catherine was to reveal all.
Coptic monks on a trading mission suffered a devastating storm off the coast of Donegal. They prayed earnestly to St Catherine of Alexandria, and on being safely delivered into Killibeg’s harbour built a shrine to her which remains to this day. In other words, St Patrick was not the only game in town.
Coptic monks were active in France throughout this period and there is evidence they had cells in Ireland, too.
It is likely the original settlement was built around it. In fact the name Killybegs refers to 'little cells.' And possibly built before St Patrick began his mission. Above the shrine is the much later St Catherine’s Church and graveyard dating from the 1400s and the remains of Kit’s castle of which but a few stones now remain.
And yes, out of curiosity and respect and perhaps the possibility that Saint Catherine might have a mild interest in cancer, I knelt down, cupped my hands and drank some ice-cold water – much to the audible disgust of some Americans—much to my body’s disgust when afterwards I tried to rise to my feet. It could have been a full body immersion—which then again may have had results.
Initially, I was not impressed by St Mary of the Visitation. It seemed relatively modern and the inside confirmed it. Again, I was in for an awakening. It was nearing the end of morning mass, and we waited outside until it ended. When we at last entered, I knelt as I always do for a brief prayer, but no words came. None were needed. There descended upon me a blanket of peace—the only way I can describe it—that lasted for some time.
On leaving the church we passed a crocodile of children being herded by two young teachers. I caught their eye, and they responded ith a cheery ‘Good Morning!’ and ‘How are Youse?”
My day was made further when the church bells rang the Angelus in the town square, the old Ave Maria tune. It was akin to being transported to the deep past, as though the years had passed Killibegs by – or at least treated it kindly.
And then of course there was the magnificent Guinness at the Bay View hotel, that and a large pot of Irish tea for a very reasonable 7 euros.
And then we made our way back to the ship
It was farewell to the Guinness.
Farewell to Killybegs
We passed through the same harbour and cliffs those C5th Coptic monks experienced all those years ago; those same cliffs a remnant of the storm-tossed Spanish Armada struggled by in 1588.
Killybegs was the last port the Spanish La Girona called in for repairs and assistance from the staunchly Catholic town. That was the good news.
Repaired and supplied, La Girona took on board the survivors of four other Spanish ships and set sail with renewed hope – not in a successful invasion but just on getting back home. It was wrecked off the coast of Antrim. Only nine of the 1,300 crew survived.
But they may have been distracted by my appalling attempt at a panoramic view which unfortunately turned out like a view from the mouth of 'Jaws'. But without the music.
* Killibegs or Killybegs. It's apparently a matter of choice.
