A place like no other
'Small World' The Carlow Nationalist February 2010
Like most people who have traveled a little, I too have spent my fair share of afternoons beneath the vaulted roofs of Europe’s expensively-gilded Churches and Cathedrals; craning upwards at the barely visible brush-strokes of some long-forgotten artisan. A thick smog created by millennia of candles hanging on the air like the breath of God himself, and the faint mumble of voices and shuffle of feet as a snake of tourists begrudgingly follow the raised baton of another harried guide.
I’ve seen enough Church interiors in my time to guarantee (I should hope) my unhindered access through the Pearly Gates. Time spent note-taking in naves, pondering on pulpits, trailing through transepts and beguiled by babtistries across Europe and beyond. But the truth is, plainly speaking, I cannot say with even a modicum of certainty, that I have ever remotely enjoyed this form of pedestrian occupation.
The reason why I raise the subject of Churches and Cathedrals is that recently while searching the undercroft of my mind (an undercroft, I’m reliably informed, is essentially a fancy word for a church basement) for a subject on which to write, I asked myself the following question: What is the nicest building I’ve ever had the pleasure to enter on my meagre European travels?
Immediately my mind raced through a photo-call of Churches, Cathedrals, Museums, Stately Homes and other grandiose places be-floored by acres of finely polished marble. Buildings whose towers attempt to reach the gates of heaven by virtue of stature alone. Monuments like Moscow’s onion-domed St. Basil’s; Gaudi’s unfinished symphony of Barcelona, the Sagrda Familia; Victor Hugo’s gothic setting and home of the fabled Hunchback of Notre Dame. Then there are the Byzantine minarets of Istanbul’s Hagia Sophia and the monumental creation that is Florence’s Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiore which witnessed the murder of Giuliano de Medici among many millions of other moments from history, both remembered and forgotten. The list goes on.
But the surprise edifice which returned to my mind again and again was none of the above. It was not even close. It contained no great swathes of marble or delicately veined stone. It held no works of art, no statuary or flocks of gilded seraphim. Its ceiling was held barely aloft without a single column of glistening granite, or supported by the arms of some Herculean giant carved from stone.
No. Mine was a humbler place; a place of rotting timber walls and a floor scattered with sweet clumps of hay. Its roof was made from rough wooden shingles, cut by hand a long time before I was born. And its door hung askew from a single rusting hinge, afraid to fall and unable to stand. It smelled faintly of cattle long gone and the sweet scent of flowers which wafted through the place where windows had once been. But for me, if nobody else, it was the Acropolis, the Coliseum and the Doge’s Palace all rolled into one.
The Sun has been shining brightly when I set out to walk the imagined short distance to the next village along the reed-lined verges of Hungary’s Lake Balaton. The flat waters of the lake reflected the blue sky and lone white clouds sailed across its surface. The air was full with the song of new and brightly coloured birds. Swans snuffled in the margins, foraging for some morsel on the shallow lake-bed and cow bells tinkled away in the distance. A morning made for solitude.
After some time I stopped beneath the welcome shade thrown down by the branches of a larch copse and lunched on that staple of backpackers the world over; bread and cheese. I was in no hurry and dozed for a while in the sleep inducing glow of a full stomach and a warm sun. But, when I awoke the scene had changed and high-ridged, well-defined clouds towered over the horizon promising the imminent arrival of an evening thunder storm. I hurriedly gathered my belongings and hoisted my pack upon my shoulders, setting forth once again. Quickly the clouds drew nearer; blocking out the light from the Sun and casting an air of oppression on the world. I marched on with a renewed vigour, eager to make the village before the storm broke.
One heavy drop turned to two and two turned to a deluge. The surface of the lake drummed with its ferocity. In the distance I saw a small building, indistinguishable from where I stood, but promising the hope of shelter. I moved at speed and soon the building took form. It was a byre, or shed, or barn or something of that nature, standing alone here on the plain at the edge of a now angry-looking lake, but it was refuge.
Inside, despite its ancient and worn appearance, the building was dry and comfortable. Bales of fresh hay lined its walls and the floor was strewn with layers of scented, dry stalks. I changed from my soaked clothes and sat on a bed of hay staring through the wide doors at the world outside and the lake which spread across the horizon. The sound of the heavy rain beating on the roof above became hypnotic and calming. The light on the lake was a picture in itself, changing from minute to minute in hues of grey and purple.
I settled back and waited for the storm to pass as I knew it would. Eventually, the rains did cease and the sun returned from behind the hill of cloud; streaming in oblique slats across the meadow. Rabbits grazed on the moistened greenery. A crested grebe mimicked his reflection on the newly brightened lake and birdsong filled the air once more. And I was warm and dry in a place of peace and solitude.
I wouldn’t have swapped my humble lodgings for a luxury suite in a Hilton or an apartment overlooking the Seine. Despite its tumbledown appearance, for that short moment it became my favourite building in all of Christendom.