Lately I’ve been watching “The Tudors” on Netflix, and have been learning about how King Henry VIII lied and manipulated his way into doing all sorts of bizarre and authority-defying things against the Catholic Church, mostly, it seems, because he could.  He was not only power hungry, but consumed with leaving a unique legacy, and also with having a son.  Since his first wife did not provide him with a boy (just the future Queen Elizabeth I, ahem) he opted to annul his marriage to her so he could try again (with the well-known Anne Boleyn, who I guess he also loved a little, for a time.)  The Pope would not allow him to do this, so with the help of Sir Thomas Cromwell, a likewise twisted creature, he named himself head of the church.  When the church fought back, Henry then named himself supreme ruler of everything, with just one above him:  almighty God.   I mean, is there anyone who doesn’t now recognize the name Henry the 8th?  Perhaps you’d think with seven other Henrys before him he’d have somehow melted into the background, but no, he’s the only one history remembers vividly.

Anyway. I’m digging The Tudors.

I’m also digging Muckross Abbey, a divine and awe inspiring structure falling to ruin in Killarney National park, near Muckross House, which I wrote about yesterday.  I thought I’d give Muckross Abbey a few paragraphs of its own today, since it made its own quiet, but lasting, impression.  Henry VIII should take note.  Quiet, but lasting.

Exploring the abbey was a side trip we didn’t plan for at all, since we didn’t know it existed, but which we were happy to embark on, as unplanned trips are often the very best kind.  On our hike in to the famous Muckross House, we literally came across the abbey, and couldn’t help but take a meandering little path that led us there.

I promise this has something to do with Henry VIII, and I’ll get there in just a minute. But first, come along with me.

There it was, just waiting to be explored.

And it had the most beautiful cemetery I have ever seen.

Every grave was different, and imperfectly spaced.

Obviously, preserved as uniquely as the people who lived these lives.

Some had steps leading to tombs underground – some well tended, some not.

In any case, though the abbey is in ruins and without a roof, it is surprisingly well preserved.  One can still walk inside every room, all grand in scope with very high walls and what would have been enormous stained-glass windows.  It is easy to imagine the lives of those that lived here, in utter devotion to God: where they kneeled to pray, where they kept their burning candles safe, where they lay their heads at night to rest.

See what I mean about the windows?

The abbey also has this beautiful Yew tree growing up in the center of the garth, or square of arches.  It is truly spectacular.

Muckross Abbey was built in 1448, which means that it existed during the time in which Henry VIII (supreme ruler himself) decided to overhaul the entire Catholic Church.  It was he who suppressed the order of friars who lived at Muckross Abbey in 1541, as part of his plan to leave his wife and marry his mistress.  It was he who allowed marauders to destroy the abbey repeatedly in the name of … love?  control?  legacy?  Seems a far-reaching consequence just so a spoiled rotten king can have what he wants.

Then again,  I wonder if good ol’ Henry could have foreseen that I, a woman traveling with her family in 2015, would read upon a plaque that the friary was suppressed in 1541 by Henry VIII and later destroyed completely by Cromwellians, who made it furthermore unlivable and know exactly what went down.  Be it known, Mr. Tudor, that I understand the treachery behind your will being done.  Is that what you had in mind 450 years after your death?

My point in sharing all my learning about The Tudors is this:  sometimes it may look like I’m wasting time watching television on Netflix, but what I’m doing, folks, is researching.  Just collecting information for the day I stumble upon an abbey in the woods and want to understand how it came to crumble.  The answer?  Henry Tudor, King of England. See how those things just come together sometimes like cogs in a wheel?

I love that stuff.

Another connection?  Remember Robert Cagney from yesterday’s post?  This cemetery at the abbey,? The most peaceful and lovely one I’ve ever seen?  It’s to be his final resting place, ‘thanks be to God,’ he said.  For such a unique and gentle soul, this is only fitting.

We arrived at our apartment in Killarney and were immediately swept up in the whirlwind that is this little city of 13,000.  When we booked this place three months ago we knew there’d be a marathon ending at the main building on these grounds (called Gleneagle) but we did not know there would also be the biggest Gaelic football game of this season on our second night here.  This place is absolutely hopping.

Last night, we headed in to downtown Killarney for dinner.  Every pub was packed to the gills and the streets were bubbling over with runners carbing up for their race, and fans of Gaelic football getting their drink on.  We did get a late seat for dinner at The Laurels, a highly recommended restaurant, and had a lovely meal, after which we walked around the streets singing along with every street performer within earshot.  I had no idea I knew Billy Joel’s “Piano Man” by heart – but if I hadn’t before, I certainly would by now.

As we walked, the five of us talked incessantly about a man we’d met earlier in the day, a character called Robert Cagney, who drives a jaunting car (a traditional horse and carriage) in Killarney National Park, round trip to the Muckross House. We were able to convince the kids to walk in…a total of 3.2 miles, but not out again, so we hired Mr. Cagney to get us back to our apartment.  What a treat!

Mr. Cagney has been doing his work for 48 years, knows every tree on the 12 acre span of gorgeous land that is the Muckross House, and the story behind the entire place.  Through his very thick accent (and lack of teeth) I gleaned the house was built by a man with the name Herbert, who gave it to his wife, who later died. Improvements made to the place when Queen Victoria visited in 1861 caused the Herberts financial distress.  Unable to afford it any longer, it was sold, first to a Guinness heir, and then to a wealthy family from California who owned it until 1930 when it was gifted to the city of Killarney and made part of Killarney National Park.  Mr. Cagney’s father worked in the gardens at the house and so it is through the house he and his family have had their livelihood for two generations.   He talks about it like the child he raised to be king.

Our horse, Suzy, Mr. Cagney, and the rest of us with Killarney National Park in the background.

I know, it’s sad people have to live like this.

Sad indeed.

What a unique way to make a living, and a beautiful space in which to make a life.  Mr. Cagney is someone we will remember years from now as a man who enhanced our experience during our 48 hour stay in Killarney.  I can only imagine how many others have been equally impressed by his kindness and his embracing welcome.