Ceanannas

The romance of the town of Kells is lost in the rumble of trucks on the High Street; it would seem that half of Ireland's worldly goods need to pass through this small market town on the way to somewhere else. The Heritage Visitor Center was also closed when I arrived, but that was okay, because I was headed for the real thing, a tenth- or eleventh-century (the age is disputed) oratory building, St. Colmcille's (aka St. Columba's) House. The House, which is not signposted anywhere, is located behind the churchyard on a narrow street. It is tucked between the Garda station and a row of semi-detached houses. The satellite towers of the Garda punctuate the sky just behind the tiny stone mound of a building; the Kells Handball Society headquarters watches over it from across the way.

The sign on the locked gate of St. Colmcille's instructs visitors to get the key from Mrs Johnson, who is to be found 200 yards down the hill in Lower Church View. I head back down the street, and when I think I have gone about 200 yards I begin to look for Lower Church View, to no avail. There are no signs on any of the houses, or any indication that Lower Church View exists at all. I cross the street and ask two men rigged out in full soccer fan gear who are standing in front of the churchyard if they know about Lower Church View. 'Ah, that'd be Mrs. Johnson,' says one. 'In the pink house, just there,' says the other. 'Just ring the bell.' They know all about the key.

The door is opened by a thin, harried looking woman in rubber gloves, who tells me that Mrs Johnson is out at the moment but to wait back at St. Colmcille's. 'She won't be five minutes,' the rubber-gloved woman says. Sure enough, not five minutes later a wom

an comes slowly up the hill. She is wearing a bright orange jacket and a dirty knit cap and walks with a cane. When she gets there she apologizes that I had to wait, but says that tourists rarely come this early in the year and she hadn't expected to need to let someone in.

The House has an organic shape to it, vaguely squarish and with a

 pointed roof. It is made entirely of stone, with the 

damp chill of that material, so  that even as you enter the cold seems to get beneath your skin. The interior consists of one room, empty except for a metal folding chair in one corner, obviously in place for Mrs Johnson in case she has to wait awhile, and a very long black steel ladder that goes up into the rafters of this cold and awesome space.

The scriptorium is up above, Mrs. Johnson tells me. 'You mean I can go up the ladder?' I ask. 'You do,' she says.

I put my purse and carry bag on the metal chair,

 grab my camera, and start climbing. About a third 

of the way up I begin to wonder what I think I am doing. Two thirds of the way up I decide I have a bad case of vertigo; my heart is pounding in my chest and my palms are sweaty. When I reach the top and realize I will have to boost myself up with my arms and

 slither through a tiny hole, I think the Irish must be totally out of their collective minds to allow a bunch of tourists to take their lives in the ir hands this way. 

'Watch the stone. Lots of

 people bump their heads,' calls Mrs Johnson from below. I thank her but don't dare look down. Trying not to think about my black coat and jeans as I pull myself up through ten or so centuries of dust, I manage to get a foothold at the top and ease myself onto the stone floor of the scriptorium. There are three rooms, one opening onto the other. The door

ways between them are so small that I have to nearly crawl through them, although I can stand in the middle of each room. There is only one window, at the far end, a thin slit that lets in just enough light to make the other two spaces barely navigable. 

Everything that I thought I knew about scriptoria does not fit this scene. The monks were supposed to have light, first, and warmth, so their hands stayed flexible; often they were placed next to the kitchens as the warmest place in the monastery. They needed stuff to function: desks, quills, inks, parchment, scrapers, pins, tools to scribe lines, pots, rags, a bench. How could even some very short tent

h-century guys on a mission manage to get all of these items up in these rafters, and why on earth would anyone expect them to do so?

Once I manage to overcome my sheer panic and get back down the ladder, the redoubtable Mrs Johnson has no answer to these questions. 'Oil and candles,' she says, and again to another question, 'They had oil and candles.' Prison, I think, for errant monks, but not, surely, a scriptorium, although I notice that the odor of sanctity stays with me as I descend the terrifying ladder.

As I get ready to leave (hoping I am not supposed to tip her, as tips are not generally sought

 in Ireland), I ask if I may take her photo at the doorway of the House. 'Well,' she says,' I don't take a good photo,' but she pulls off her knit cap and makes a face at the camera. I tell her that I can't offer her a ride back down the hill, as my car is parked in a Pay and Display over near the High Street. 'That's alright,' she says,' I may just wait here awhile in case someone else comes along.'  She is standing patiently in the doorway, resting against the stone, as I head back down the hill.