Ennistimon

On our last afternoon in Ennistimon, Syl took the kids and a book to the indoor heated pool. I took off on a walk to the ruin of a church at the top of a hill overlooking the town. 

It was grey, cold and damp, the smell of coal burning on the air. Huge flocks of rooks were wheeling and turning in the heavy sky over the town. I walked along the river, past peat-stained falls, up through the town and into the church grounds. 

I was surprised to see that while the church was an ivy-covered ruin, the cemetery was very much in use - alive and well, even. Generations of ennistimonians were resting in peace, with graves from the 1700s intermingled with those from the 1940s and later. Many were overgrown and headstones were cracked, others recently tended, with flowers, mementos, supplementary plaques with touching, corny verse. O'Briens were there with Egans, Madigans, Murphys, Donellys, Ryans. Rest in Jesus, said many of the plaques. 

In the ruined church itself, graves were everywhere. And coming around the corner of the church, I blundered into a burial. In the green and grey stood a priest, with two women in black, watching as grave diggers worked with fresh turned soil. A large wreath lay to the side. Just out of ear-shot, I exchanged an awkward nod with the priest and turned away, fumbling with my camera.