NeuroDivine

There’s something quietly profound about boarding a train with no fixed agenda—just a compass of curiosity and a sense of reverence for the land you’re crossing. My journey began in Monasterevin, a small town with its own quiet charm, but on this day, it was the gateway to something deeper: a rail-bound pilgrimage through Kerry, inspired by the legacy of Monsignor Hugh O’Flaherty.

The first leg took me southwest to Tralee, where I began my Kerry Camino experience—not at the Catholic Church of St John, but at the Church of Ireland Church of St John. There, I received my first Camino stamp, marking the start of a journey that would blend history, faith, and personal heritage. As a Member of the Order of St John, standing in that church carried a special weight. The Order traces its lineage to the Knights Hospitaller, whose mission of care and protection echoes through centuries. To begin my pilgrimage in a church bearing the name of St John felt like a quiet nod from history itself.

Though the Kerry Camino traditionally follows the Dingle Way, my path was on steel tracks, tracing a route that would eventually lead me to Killarney and the memorial of a man whose courage defied borders.

Monsignor Hugh O’Flaherty, the Irish priest who saved thousands during World War II, is immortalized in the phrase God Has No Country. It’s more than a title—it’s a declaration of moral clarity. As the train rolled past fields and hills, I thought about the courage it takes to act on conscience alone, especially when the world is at war.

Arriving in Killarney, I made my way to the memorial. It’s a modest tribute, but its power lies in the story it tells. O’Flaherty operated in the shadows, using disguises and secret codes to rescue Allied soldiers and Jews from the Gestapo. His actions weren’t sanctioned by governments—they were driven by faith, by a belief in the sanctity of human life. Standing before his statue, I felt the weight of that legacy. It made my journey feel less like tourism and more like homage.

From Killarney, I began the journey home. The train hummed steadily as the Kerry landscape blurred past the window, inviting reflection. I thought about the invisible borders we carry—between faith and doubt, action and apathy, self and other. O’Flaherty crossed all of them. He reminds us that heroism isn’t loud; sometimes it’s a whisper in the dark, a forged passport, a hidden room.

This wasn’t just a train ride. It was a pilgrimage of remembrance. And in the spirit of God Has No Country, it was a reminder that the truest journeys aren’t measured in miles, but in meaning.

As a volunteer with St John Ambulance Ireland, I support the Order’s mission not through pre-hospital care, but by contributing behind the scenes—designing materials and managing social media to help amplify the work of those who serve on the front lines. It’s a small role, but one rooted in the same values that guided O’Flaherty: service, compassion, and quiet courage.

And while this journey was brief, it’s far from over. I hope to return soon to walk more of the traditional Kerry Camino—on foot this time—continuing the path of reflection, connection, and quiet tribute to those who walked before.

Originally posted on HIVBlogger.com