Hills of Tara

The Hill of Tara is a real place in Ireland.

It is grass, soil, wind, and grazing animals.

People walk there on marked paths and read posted signs.

The ground rises gently, and from the top the fields spread outward.

Long before visitors arrived, communities gathered here.

Authority was spoken aloud and remembered by witnesses.

Genealogies were recited so that land and obligation were clear.

Status depended on recognition, not written record.

The Celts organized law through memory and training.

Poets, judges, and druids studied for years.

They learned ritual calendars and methods of teaching.

They advised leaders and supervised agreements.

A notification vibrates in my pocket.

Fires once marked seasonal transitions.

People attended because cooperation was necessary for survival.

Weather determined harvests and animal health.

Ritual reinforced shared responsibility.

Later monasteries recorded parts of earlier traditions.

They preserved stories but changed meanings.

Languages shifted.

Political control changed hands repeatedly.

Today tourists arrive by car and bus.

They take photographs and then leave.

The grass continues growing after footsteps pass.

The hill does not restore the past.

It remains a location where people stand, look outward, and try to understand continuity