I looked the glass bottle I found at Court Abbey up...there are several for sale but they are all described as 'vintage' without any indication of the actual age. They originally contained mineral water...though they could have easily been filled with Whiskey for a wake or burial...can't imagine any self-respecting Irishman drinking mineral water!
Court Abbey is another ruin...what's left of the walls are smothered in thick growths of ivy...it is said there are two fonts on the far wall which might have been used for washing the priests hands rather than for baptising babies...we've never been able to find them in spite of careful searching. Another wall has the remains of a mediaeval wall painting which used to be visible after rain...never seen that either.
I did pull an upright tombstone away from the wall out of curiosity only to find a carefully placed skull smiling at me from a small stone shelf...so I put the tombstone back...next time we visited I had another look and the skull wasn't there.
There is a open crypt as well with neat rows of a long gone families bones arranged on the floor and on stone shelves on either side...there must have been a wooden ladder to reach the interior of the crypt because it seems a long way down to the bottom. Someone has thrown a selection of those disgusting plastic wreaths down there now so at least the bones are covered up.

There is another burial ground we've been to which also has crypts open to the sky...I thought it extremely disturbing when we first came across them...though they must be awful old because the bones have yellowed. I asked Father Tommy why it was that no-one much bothered about replacing the covers on the old crypts...the Irish Catholics make such a fuss over burials after all and being in a suitable state to meet their Maker...he shrugged and said but why would they be bothered...think of the cost Sue of replacing those covers and no-one around here with a penny to their name...
So I didn't mention it after that and put it down to one of those peculiar west of Ireland quirks...
And as I'd already fallen out with the Bishop and the village priest here, I wasn't going to approach the old Bish and ask him for some church money please to cover up ancient bones...he'd probably have ex-communicated me on the spot out of pure spite.
Close to the second ground I've mentioned is a strange sort of place altogether...it is a perfectly round section of grass in a field...actually, it's on a steep slope. And it's bright green and no matter how much the rest of the grass in the field grows this patch never does...and it hasn't done so since a monk fleeing from Cromwell's soldiers was struck down by a sword and died on this very spot. I saw that while on a field trip and one of our small party was to be heard muttering that the farmer would be carrying a pair of scissors with him so he could keep the Monks Patch...as it is known...neatly shorn and tidy.
Of course you come across all manner of tales and stories...another Abbey not far from us, was inhabited by a small group of monks who fled in terror when Cromwellian troops were heard approaching...they ran across the bog and one by one fell into the bog holes and drowned. Those bog holes are still there and are still known as the Monks Holes.
The best storyteller and the most knowledgeable was a man we met one day at the Abbey in Roscommon...another almost total ruin. It does have the grave of a Felim O'Connor though...decorated at a later date with a frieze of gallow-glasses. Felim was a late king of Ireland.
We'd taken that god-awful child and her parents...in desperation probably, to use up an afternoon...a chap stopped and asked were we interested in the history of the abbey and the visitors shook their heads furiously and said not in the very slightest while I was nodding and saying yes...why?
Turned out he is a local historian and he was fascinating...Himself and I plonked ourselves down on tombstones and listened...the visitors looked as though they were going to burst into tears at any minute...and we pretended not to notice the child wriggling about and yawning expansively.
If there'd been a crypt handy, I'd have shoved that child into it, though Himself might have beaten me to it...