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Déarfá gurbh ann ariamh di. Í ina carraig chomh storrúil
damanta mór… Mór millteach. Agus téagarach. Charnódh a ceathrú fiú na céadta
tonna meáchain ar aon scála ar domhan. Go dimhin, ní carraig ach oílcharraig.
Fathach-charraig. Dia-charraig… Í sáilbháite go leisciúil i sméar mhullaigh
an chnoic – go sócúil compordach cheapfá, mar a sciorrrfadh go ceanúil
d’ainsiléad Dé. Í ina máistir. Ina máistir feiceálach.
Ina hardmháistír ceannasach, cumasach. Thar a bheith ceannasach cumasach ag
breathnú – fiú más i ngan fhios agus dá hainneoin féin é. I ansiúd ag bearnú
na mílte amharc i bhfáithim dhraíochtúil ildathach na spéartha. Níor ghéill
an charraig ariamh d’aon tsúil ná sleasamharc dá ghéire, dá láidre, dá
impíche. Rinne sclábhaithe feacúla adhrúla díobh dá mbuíochas ag urá a n-amharc.
A cos i dtaca, sheas an fód go huasal dalba. Tostach. Marbhthostach. Tost
críonna brionglóideach na haoise: na n-aoiseanna. A cruth sainiúil tostach
féin aici ón uile mhíle uillinn sleasach. Síorathrú ar a síorchruth dá corp
rocach carraigeach – na céadta leiceann uirthi: na céadta glúin: na céadta
colpa: na céadta cluas: na céadta boiric: na céadta clár éadain: na céadta
faithne: na céadta goirín: na céadta at: na céadta súil: na céadta gearradh
drúichtín: na mílte céadta…
D’aithneofá go bhfaca an charraig an uile mhíle ní ó chúil uile a cinn. Níor
ghá di breathnú fiú. Chonaic i ngan fhios an dúiche uile máguaird. Amach os
a comhair Machairí droimleathana. Cnocáin bheaga ghlasa. Bánta aerach bána
aerach bána, claíocha bioracha is mantacha. Bearnaí. Ailltreachaí. Clochair.
Sclaigeanna is scailpeanna. Leacrachaí loma. Leacrachaí fada fadálacha. Is
cótaí de chaonach liath fáiscthe anuas ar chuid acu…
Agus garrantaí. An draoi acu. Iad cearnógach, ciorclach agus triantánach.
Tuilleadh garrantaí éagruthacha. Cosáin aistreánacha. Portaigh bhoga
riascacha. Srutháin chasta leath-éalaithe as amharc. Gleannta doimhne ag
síneadh agus ag síneadh uathu níos faide i gcéin… Agus níos íochtaraí síos –
cuanta leathana: crompáin chúnga: caltaí: céibheanna clochach lámhdhéanta,
tránna geala fairsinge, sáinnithe cúngaithe scaití ag na taoillte tuile.
Farraigí imirceacha…
Cheapfá gur sheanmháthair uasal chríonna í an charraig díobh go léir.
Seanmháthair chiúin thostach, nár thug mórán airde ar a gairm, déarfá… ach a
bhí ann i gcónaí, mar sin féin, ar nós aosach máchaileach i gcathaoir rothaí.
Níor lig as amharc iad. Aingeal coimhdeachta cianradharcach. Í cúthail,
b’fhéidir leathbhodhar fiú. Mar a bheadh ag míogarnach léi ansin….
Ba é saol é. A mhalairt eile níor chleacht a cnámh droma neamhaclaí
stadaithe
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You could say it had always been there. An enormous rock. Damned strong.
And bulky. Even a quarter of it would weigh hundreds of tonnes on any scale.
I’m telling you, it wasn’t a rock but the mother of all rocks. A giant of a
rock. A god among rocks… Stationed, at ease, on the top part of the hill –
all comfy and cosy, you’d think, like it was tipped lovingly into place by
the hand of God. It was like a Lord. An eminent Lord. A powerful, commanding
lord. Looking just the part, either despite itself or without knowing it.
Interrupting thousands of glances at the magic, multi-coloured hem of the
sky. The rock gave way to no-one’s eye or side-glance, no matter how keen,
strong or imploring. It made them submissive, bent-necked slaves for their
trouble, eclipsing their view. Planted there, it stood its ground with
daunting authority Silent. Deadly silent. An ancient, dreamy silence that
was timeless. Its own silent shape from a thousand different angles. Forever
changing the look of its wrinkled, rocky body’s eternal shape – with
hundreds of cheeky slopes, knee-like steps, calf-shaped collops, ear-like
edges, stick y but bits, brows, warts, pimples, lumps, hundreds of
eye-shaped features, hard skin, split ends, trillions of things.
You sensed from the whole angry-looking precipice of its head that the rock
had seen all things. It didn’t have to look even. I just saw – unknown to
the countryside around – all that lay ahead. Broad-backed fields. Small
green hillocks. Good open grassland. Gapped, reedy boundaries. Openings.
Cliffs. Strong ridges. Clefts and fissures. Bare slabs of rock. Long flat
areas of stone. Some coated in mildew… And gardens. Loads of them. Shaped in
squared, circles or triangles. Others irregular in shape. Rough –hewn paths.
Soft damp bogs. Curving streams half-hidden from view. Deep glens stretching
away out into the distance… And lower down, wide harbours, narrow creeks,
straits, man-made quays, bright wide beaches, sometimes boxed in by the
turning tide. The free, migrant ocean…
You’d think the rock was the wise old grandmother of them all. A quiet,
taciturn grandmother who didn’t pay much heed to her charge, you might say…but who was always there, all the same, like a seasoned old-timer in a
rocking chair. It didn’t let them out of its sight. Like a guardian angel
watching from a distance. I eserved, and maybe even half-deaf. Looking like
she was just dozing away there…
That was its life. That was all its locked ridged backbone had ever known.
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