West Country Pilgrim and travel insurance

I refused to stay in the gift shop and look for souvenirs.  Even though I might have found some rare works or precious artifacts, it somehow seemed

wrong.  More guests began to show up as I left, milling about with babies and dogs.  Must all our pilgrimages come to this?  A check mark on the

itinerary, complete with restrooms and car park?

Nevertheless, the next day I started up a rocky path alone, heading to the top of Knocknarea with my copy of Yeats Complete Poems.  The trail quickly

became steep on the parabolic hillside and I passed a family who sprawled on the rocks and grass.  Behind me, the full range of the Sligo countryside

opened up.  I could see the ancient cemetery of Carrowmore and cairns on the peaks of the hills beyond.  But they are nothing compared to the huge,

unopened passage-grave that waited on the top of this lonely mountain.  Legend says that Queen Maeve laid to rest here, though archaeologists say the tomb

is much older.  The poets believed what they wanted.

Yeats stood here.  I know this.  His poems and stories are full of this mountain, and of the mighty Ben Bulben, rising like a green mesa across the bay,

indeed of all these fairy hills in the west country.  One by one they came into view as I climbed higher: strange, tortured peaks soaring over pastures

and villages.  The town of Sligo surfaced like a school of fish from the pine plantations.  The blue goblet of Lough Gill lay beyond, cradling the famous

Lake Isle of Innisfree.