I love ruins, their imperfection, their naturalness. Standing on a meadow surrounded by cows. Left to their own devices. Allowed to be the way the are.
That’s beautiful. At least in my eyes.
I have to think of Dunboy Castle, on the Beara Peninsula in Co. Cork Ireland.
I remember the marble columns, the marble floor with tufts of grass in between, the big arched windows with no glass in them but a view to the lovely bay dotted with sailing boats.
I hear the laughter of the ladies in their ball gowns and the gentlemen in their irish traditional costumes. I hear the clinking of the glasses, the dancing, the music, the fire, the screams.
Everything is here! Woven together into a mystical carpet of past times. Past times, which reach out to the now, interwoven.
A ruin is a piece of the past, allowed to be the past with no need to be changed or to be hidden away. It is what it is, now. Past with signs of ageing, or better said past, going along with the times. And this is why it becomes a part of the present.
Wouldn’t it be great, if we could allow our inner ruins to do the same. To let them just be without destroying, rebuilding or renovating them. Could we let them be, here in the present, seen as an expression of imperfect beauty.
I love my old desk, where the color is fading and which has its scars and wounds. In my eyes it is even more beautiful. One of a kind!
People say: “You can renovate it.”
I say: “No, I like it the way it is.”
My desk has lived and that’s what I want to do as well.
Ruins, obsolete houses and worn down furniture touch my soul. They carry the past into the present, without holding on to it. They simply go with it.
They crumble, they decay and at the same time they radiate graceful beauty.
Dunboy Castle stood in the middle of a meadow with cows. The cows were the guardians of the past times. This place is full of history, whispering through the ruin’s remains and if you take the time it will purr its secret into your ears.
In Germany there are hardly ruins to be found, because everything had to be rebuilt and everything had to look perfect. In the celtic countries, they often still are allowed to be. But not always.
Dunboy Castle has been turned into a hotel. The songs, the tender whispers of the past have gone.
The last time I was there, the hotel had hardly any visitors.
I wonder why …
The magic has been broken. The mysteries of past times have been murdered in a cold blooded manner.
What’s left is just another hotel.
I am glad that I’ve still seen it in it’s former imperfect glory!
The real Dunboy Castle, a ruin full of history and wisdom of past times murmuring into the present.