The haunting of Mellifont Abbey.
I go to the ruins at night, the lonely pilgrim of the shadows. Under the stars at Mellifont, I imagine the monks, in silent procession, making their way through their ancient buildings. In candelight, they process towards the washing place, and the place of prayer. Nestled between the hills in the valley of the river Mattock, it is a treasure, hidden away from the world. Descending the steps, one is going towards a place of introspection. The wild world is shut out here, and the frenetic madness of commerce is an alien thing amidst these stones hewn of prayer and the quiet life.
Saint Malachy chose well. Mellifont, the Honey Well, the fountain of knowledge. At one time in the 12th century, there were 100 monks and 300 lay brothers here. The abbey was dissolved in 1539. I like to imagine that the Cistercian monks are still there, in the shade of night, in silent procession towards eternity.