"So, if anyone is planning to leave human remains in this ancient place," the guide continued, her gaze momentarily hardening as it settled on the boy, "I say, DON’T." We had arrived on the visitor centre bus from nearby Knowth, a prelude to our main destination: the Newgrange Neolithic site, a colossal monument nestled in Ireland’s Boyne Valley, approximately 30 miles (50km) north of Dublin. This journey formed a crucial segment of a broader circuit around the Irish Sea, a ferry and road trip meticulously planned to explore the most significant ancient sites that punctuate the shores of this salty mere, a historical heartland of these islands. It was here, an astonishing 5,100 years ago, that a new people, skilled mariners and ambitious builders, arrived. Capitalising on the sea as an unparalleled cultural superhighway, they constructed a dazzling array of sophisticated stone monuments, leaving an indelible mark on the landscape. Among these, Newgrange stands as one of Europe’s finest Neolithic passage tombs, unique in its accessibility, offering visitors the rare opportunity to step inside its millennia-old embrace. Yet, as the guide’s stern admonition underscored, this profound connection to the past sometimes manifests in unexpected, and indeed, unwelcome ways, with some modern visitors irresistibly drawn to inter the ashes of deceased relatives within its hallowed chambers. The plush, modern visitor centre, while admirably informative, had failed to convey the deep, atavistic intensity that fuels such tributes. There was an undeniable magic here, an palpable energy resonating from the earth and stones, a whisper of ancient beliefs that transcended the sterile confines of museum exhibits. I yearned to feel it, to connect with that primal force, and found myself with a peculiar hunch that the seemingly irreverent boy might, in his own way, be more attuned to it than any of us. "As for pets," the guide declared, her voice now carrying an almost exasperated edge, "I want no dog or cat ashes either." The boy, oblivious or perhaps simply unconcerned, continued his rhythmic drumming on his knees, seemingly absorbed in a private, unheard melody. We were on the cusp of ascending the gentle slope to the hallowed tumulus, its impressive 19-metre-long passageway promising passage to the central chamber. But the guide was determined to capture the boy’s attention. "There!" she exclaimed, her voice sharp. The boy’s head snapped up, his eyes following her pointed finger to a set of green wheelie bins discreetly placed in the corner of the reception area. "I can promise you," she went on, her tone grimly resolute, "that if I find your granny’s remains inside my Neolithic chamber, then her last resting place will be that green wheelie bin." A stunned silence descended upon the group, each tourist momentarily picturing the unthinkable. But the boy, far from chastened, reacted with characteristic impulsiveness. He immediately sprinted towards the bin, flung open its lid, and peered inside with a look of intense concentration. "Nothing," he reported, slamming the lid shut with a definitive thud. "She’s not there." The guide, momentarily nonplussed by his unexpected response, recovered swiftly and, with a resigned shake of her head, marched purposefully towards the colossal hill that was a tomb. "Follow me," she commanded, her voice brooking no argument. "Do not leave the path." Everyone obeyed, a docile procession of modern pilgrims, except the boy. He broke free, running in a wide, joyous arc off the designated path, his arms flapping wildly like shamanic wings, a living embodiment of the untamed spirit of the landscape. Our expansive circular journey around the Irish Sea had commenced at Pentre Ifan, a magnificent dolmen tomb dating back to approximately 3500 BC. This impressive structure, located on the same Pembrokeshire ridge in Wales, famously provided the bluestone for the monumental trilithons of Stonehenge, highlighting the intricate network of connections across this ancient maritime region. I was travelling with my partner, Sophie, and our faithful canine companion, Stevie, a scruffy terrier mix whose journey into Ireland had necessitated navigating a complex bureaucratic labyrinth of veterinary checks and certifications to prove his freedom from rabies or tapeworm. He had taken well to the first ferry crossing, from Pembroke Dock to Rosslare, relishing the excellent pet lounge, but it was the sea itself that truly captivated him. He stood transfixed at the railing, gazing at the endless expanse of water with an intensity that made me pause and consider. Could dogs, I wondered, with their ancient lineage, also serve as a profound link to the deep past? After all, their wolf heritage stretches back over 30,000 years, an ancestral memory they seem to relive in every instinct, every moment of their lives. If any creature could remember the Neolithic age, it was surely Stevie. Our initial days in Ireland had been exceptionally comfortable. We had stayed near Wexford in the elegant, dog-friendly Marlfield House, renowned for its superb gardens and warm hospitality. Our itinerary then took us on a historical sweep through Ireland’s heartland. We toured the atmospheric ruins associated with one of Ireland’s greatest saints, Kevin, whose 6th-century monastic settlement at Glendalough, nestled in the stunning glacial valley of County Wicklow, remains a profoundly busy and spiritual pilgrimage site. From there, we journeyed to the formidable 12th-century Trim Castle in County Meath, a vast Anglo-Norman fortress that stands as the largest Norman castle in Ireland. Our next stop was the evocative Hill of Tara, the ancient seat of the High Kings of Ireland, crowned by the enigmatic standing stone, the Lia Fáil. Legend holds that all the pagan kings of Ireland were crowned here, and the stone would roar in approval when touched by the rightful sovereign. At its base, we observed a poignant collection of offerings: apples, fresh flowers, and coins. The apples, in particular, puzzled me. Were they imbued with ancient symbolism, or had a group of girls, carrying hurling sticks, simply donated their unwanted snacks? It was clear, however, that for many, such places were more than mere "dusty artefacts"; they were vibrant conduits for a continuing need for meaning and connection. I gently persuaded Stevie to lie down on a nearby grassy mound. Beneath us lay the Mound of the Hostages, a chambered tomb that was already ancient when the Great Pyramid of Giza was being constructed. As I lay there, time seemed to ripple and slip away, blurring the lines between past and present. The Neolithic people felt so incredibly distant, so shrouded in mystery. What we know for certain about them is almost nothing, save for tantalising fragments: they had cows, they cultivated the land, and crucially, they had dogs. I opened one eye. Stevie was gone. He had, it seemed, given up communing with the Stone Age and had, with canine pragmatism, gone after the hurling sticks. That night, we indulged in another excellent dog-friendly stay at Bellinter House, a grand Palladian mansion near Navan, and enjoyed the lively, dog-loving atmosphere of Marcie Regan’s pub in Trim, a perfect blend of modern comfort and traditional Irish charm. Not until we reached Newgrange did we encounter the dreaded sign: NO DOGS. With a heavy heart, I was forced to leave Stevie in the car, my self-appointed "daemon," my furry conduit to the ancient world, momentarily silenced. Our guide halted us at the very entrance to the magnificent megalithic structure. Newgrange itself presents as a vast, turf-topped hill, its base encircled by a stunning wall of white quartz, painstakingly reconstructed to evoke its original grandeur. Discovered largely intact in 1699, the entrance is famously guarded by the same colossal five-tonne stone that sits there today, its surface a masterpiece of mysterious swirling patterns—the iconic triskele and other megalithic art. Behind this sentinel stone lay a narrow entrance, a passage that burrowed deep beneath an astonishing 200,000 tonnes of carefully placed stone and earth, defying gravity and time. "If you get claustrophobic," the guide cautioned, her voice now softer, more empathetic, "you can leave at any time. Do not touch the carvings." Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the boy come running, having completed a full, exhilarated lap of the monument, chanting to himself, his younger sister trailing faithfully behind. The guide, with a resigned sigh, bowed her head and disappeared into the ancient darkness. The boy, ever the iconoclast, ran his fingertips lightly over the intricate carvings on the entrance stone, a defiant gesture, and then followed her inside. I went in next, my long-simmering desire for a tangible connection to Stone Age magic about to be profoundly fulfilled. The tunnel, intentionally slightly kinked, rises almost imperceptibly as one moves deeper. You don’t see the final chamber immediately, a deliberate design choice that amplifies the sense of mystery and anticipation. Patterns, deeply etched into the orthostats, appear on some of the stones, their meaning lost to time but their presence powerfully felt. A deep, profound silence descends, broken only by the shuffle of feet and hushed breaths. My thoughts drifted to Stevie, waiting patiently in the car. Archaeologists, in their excavations of Newgrange, had found the bones of a dog, its DNA revealing traces of wolf ancestry from both Europe and Asia, a poignant testament to the enduring bond between humans and canines across millennia. Stevie’s own Neolithic moment, however, would have to wait. At the end of the long, winding corridor, we emerged into a small, awe-inspiring chamber. Above us, the roof, a marvel of ancient engineering, was constructed from massive, precisely interlocking stones. In over 5,000 years, this complex corbelled vault has not leaked a single drop, a testament to the unparalleled skill of its builders. It appears almost haphazard, yet it is a masterpiece of design, a "Rolex assembled by Flintstones," as one might playfully describe it. The most impressive aspect of Newgrange, however, remained largely a matter of legend and speculation until Professor Michael J. O’Kelly, the pioneering archaeologist, stood in this very chamber on December 21, 1967. Our guide was now going to recreate that momentous event, illuminating what has transpired at dawn on every winter solstice since approximately 3150 BC. We were plunged into complete darkness, a primordial void. The boy, surprisingly subdued, had pressed himself into a niche where a huge stone basin sat, a receptacle where ancient human remains had once been found. And then, with a subtle touch, the guide activated a hidden switch. A golden, ethereal light, like the first tentative rays of a newborn sun, began to creep slowly up the passageway towards us. It advanced with deliberate majesty, gradually pushing back the shadows, until it finally illuminated a breathtaking triple spiral of megalithic art, carved with profound precision into one giant stone at the back of the chamber. It was an experience akin to hearing a deep, resonant harmonic chord, or the haunting, enigmatic cry of a night bird – something profoundly moving and utterly inexplicable. In that moment, I forgave the bus, the tickets, the gift shop, all the necessary paraphernalia of the modern tourism business, and truly saw the genius of this meticulous recreation, a window into the minds of our ancient ancestors. The golden light slowly filled the chamber, bathing us in its soft glow. We were all dumbstruck, lost in a reverie of ancient wonder. All, that is, except the boy. He broke the sacred silence, his voice clear and bold. "Question. Are there aliens here?" The guide, her moment of solemnity shattered, shook her head with an impatient sigh. "I won’t have any talk of aliens." The boy nodded sagely, a knowing look on his face, and turned to his little sister. "That means there are." Then, as abruptly as he had appeared, he was gone, scurrying down the tunnel in a half-crouch, a low, contented hum accompanying his retreat. A colossal storm rolled in that night, a tempest that mirrored the profound experience of Newgrange. Downing trees and flooding roads, it made our drive to Belfast an adventure in itself. We hunkered down in our modern, comfortable hotel, room2.com, a stark contrast to the ancient stone structures we had explored. The next day, thankfully blessed with calmer weather, we drove to Larne and boarded a ferry for the Isle of Man. Landing here felt like stepping back in time, perhaps to around AD 1950, a charmingly anachronistic escape. Manx ancient monuments, unlike their Irish counterparts, do not come with elaborate visitor centres or garrulous guides. They present themselves with understated dignity, marked only by a simple cast-iron sign proudly proclaiming "Ancient Monument." We spent our days exploring, climbing the island’s highest peak, Snaefell, visiting several fabulous Celtic crosses that spoke of a rich spiritual past, and spending hours immersed in the wonderful Manx Museum, which offered a comprehensive insight into the island’s unique heritage. Then, one afternoon, we left the car behind and walked through verdant fields, past a quaint kissing gate and a small, unassuming sign, to the island’s most important Neolithic monument, Cashtal yn Ard. No ticket was required, only a willingness to engage the imagination and, ideally, the keen nose of a Stone Age scent hound. Behind the monument, the dark, brooding hills of the island rose majestically. Cashtal yn Ard itself is a collapsed passage tomb, its original grandeur now a ghostly imprint marked by rows of pale stones. These stones delineate the entrance, the elongated tunnel, and finally, a low portal into what remains of the central chamber. Yet, despite its ruined state, Stevie seemed to possess an uncanny understanding of its layout. He bounded to the entrance, dashed down the spectral tunnel, deftly dodged through the portal, and then stopped dead. We lay on our backs in the quiet field, watching the clouds drift across the vast sky, feeling the profound stillness of the ancient place. After a few minutes, I sneaked a look at the dog. He was curled up, fast asleep, precisely at the exact centre of the vanished chamber, a perfect, intuitive connection to a time long past. His peaceful slumber felt like a silent affirmation, a living bridge to the Neolithic, proving that some mysteries are best understood not with words or science, but with instinct, heart, and the simple presence of a loyal companion. Travel was provided by Discover Ferries, the industry body for 12 ferry companies. Irish Ferries sails Pembroke to Rosslare from £190 for car plus two (pets travel free). Isle of Man Steam Packet Company sails Larne to Isle of Man from £179.50 for a car plus two (pets in cars free, pet-accessible cabins £75). Taking a dog to Ireland requires micro-chipping, rabies jab and tapeworm treatment (Stevie’s documents were checked at Rosslare). Further information from Tourism Ireland, Fáilte Ireland, Tourism Northern Ireland and Visit Isle of Man. Post navigation My best ever British holiday: ‘I’ve travelled further, at greater expense, and had nothing like as much fun’
