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The two women were bent over pieces of gothic rock. Laid out in rows were sections of collonnade, fragments of arches, lintels, pavers and just plain stones. First painting white bars on each one, then numbering them in black ink, they were obviously archiving the lot. "Looks like a big jigsaw puzzle," I said. "And some of the pieces are missing," one of them answered. They gave me a tour. "Look at this face. She’s beautiful, isn’t she, with this long nose and strong chin, and this interesting headpiece. It probably came from a sarcophagus." A fragment of archway had two birds on it, one a pelican, one that looked like a hawk. "Pelicans were mythological, they were thought to feed their young with fragments of themselves. From the late gothic, when things got really weird. It’s out of fashion now, but it’s my favorite period."

These were two medieval architecture students. Danielle was the outgoing one, with a twangy Cork accent. Sarah had a flat, measured Roscommon speech. "There’s nothing like coming upon one of these sites in the middle of a pasture. There’s a lot of amazing stuff out there." And they drew on my map directions to a couple of their favorites. One required wellies and a transit across a bog, but the other was a little known abbey, Athassel, along the River Suir, a few miles away.

It was in a cow pasture off a single track road. I wandered amid a vast, spreading 13^th century complex, with an arched bridge across a marsh, a gatehouse, a cathedral, a large cloister and various outbuildings. It was obviously a site of considerable importance and wealth. The buildings were all in a spectacular state of decay. Some looked more like eroded geologic features. No Duchas ticket taker, no gravel paths, no interpretive signage, just the raw ruin with a wire to keep the cattle out.

25 October 2000

Athassel Priory, Co. Tipperary