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priest opened the trunk of a ten year old green Volvo. While loading in the suitcases, Morgan could feel the light mist close in around him. It was not quite a fog, yet it dampened him, almost like sea spray. Felicity looked at him, grinning.
    â€œI know,” she said. “It’s that soft Irish weather. Isn’t it glorious? I’ve missed it so.” The three travelers climbed into the big auto and Sean moved out at what seemed to Morgan to be a crawl. He was glad to be a passenger there, happy to avoid adjusting to driving on the wrong side of the road. Despite the cool of the evening, he rolled down his window to avoid the stuffiness of a car left standing for several days. Sean and Felicity followed suit.
    â€œSo now we ride into the sticks where Felicity grew up?” Morgan asked.
    â€œActually we’re north of Dublin,” Felicity said, wearing what Morgan could only describe as a dreamy expression. “Uncle Sean’s parish is about thirty miles south of the capital, so we get to drive right through the glorious big town.
    Despite his broad travel experience, Morgan did find Dublin colorful, like the world’s biggest small town. Even in Africa, he had never before seen a national capital without a single skyscraper. He enjoyed every minute of the hour’s slow drive. Sights common to Sean and familiar to Felicity were beautiful and wondrous to him. They tooled south through Dublin with its glorious squares and greens. The Georgian buildings had aDisneyland feel to them with their doors painted in wild colors under fan shaped transoms. The pace seemed so relaxed, and strangers waved and smiled as they cruised by. These had to be the friendliest people on earth, he thought.
    The big car moved out of Dublin on the coast road through towns with names like Dun Laoghaire and Loughlinstown. They passed through a lovely little Victorian seaside resort called Bray. All the way, the rocky shoreline was right there on their left.
    â€œTo your right stand the Wicklow Mountains.” Felicity said in a tour guide voice. “The very garden of Ireland.”
    Morgan smiled, but was unimpressed. After hiking in the shadow of Kilimanjaro, skiing one of the Alps and climbing another, these “mountains” looked more like rolling hills to him. At the town of Wicklow they turned west and drove into them. Deep green forests covered the hillsides. Between the hills they saw the golden gorse, the tall purple heather, and the occasional small field dotted with grazing sheep. Morgan knew they were nearing Felicity’s old home when she started narrating again.
    â€œCall this place Glendalough, they do. The name literally means ‘the valley between the lakes’. The only way into our little valley by car is right through Laragh. Over there, that’s the remains of a sixth century monastery. Local folk have pretty much left it alone for hundreds of years.”
    The fir trees on the slopes ran right down to the ruins of the cathedral and seven churches. A round tower, thirty-three meters high dominated the ruins. Beyond them, the car pulled in behind another house of worship which appeared slightly newer. Morgan had seen pictures of this type of barrel-vaulted church in books about “Old Ireland.” They always seemed to have this kind of high pitched roof too.
    One wall of this building showed signs of recent construction. A good size cottage stood behind thechurch. It was modest, but clean and well maintained. Sean shut off the engine, got out of the car and stretched. Morgan slid out of the passenger side, pulling Felicity after him.
    â€œIs this it?”
    â€œThis is Uncle Sean’s home.” Felicity said through a smile.
    â€œWhere’s the town?”
    Felicity chuckled. “Well, I guess there’s hardly a village here. Uncle Sean’s parish really amounts to a group of farms and a few isolated thatched cottages. I guess it’s pretty