Kieran’s monastery at Saighir was on a princely scale. “Numerous were his cattle; there were ten doors to the shed of his kine, and ten stalls at every door, and ten calves for every stall, and ten cows with every calf.... Moreover, there were fifty tame horses with Kieran for tilling and ploughing the ground. And this was his dinner every night: a little bit of barley bread and two roots, and water of a spring. Skins of fawns were his raiment, and a haircloth over these. He always slept on a pillow of stone.” Carantock was his scribe, and some of the books written by Carantock were long preserved at Saighir. One of Kieran’s disciples was Carthag, who, although a saint, was a somewhat loose fish, and gave the abbot not a little trouble. S. Itha put one of his escapades in as delicate a way as might be when she said-- “A son will be born to Carthag, And Carthag will not be thought better of accordingly.” On account of his disreputable conduct, Kieran kicked him out, and bade him go to Rome, hoping that he might sow his wild oats in that chaste and holy place. One day Kieran of Clonmacneis and the two Brendans came to visit him. The steward approached him in dismay. “There is nothing to offer these distinguished guests except some scraps of rusty bacon and water.” “Then serve up the bacon and the water.” Now there was at table a lay brother, and when the bacon was set before him he thrust his platter contemptuously from him, for he was tired of bacon, and when out visiting, by dad! he expected to be fed like a gintleman. “Hah!” said Kieran turning angry, “you are dainty, son of Comgal; it is just such as you who would not scruple to eat ass’s flesh in Lent.” Across the backbone of Cornwall is Ladock, and if I am not mistaken, Kieran planted there his old nurse, Cocca, who also became head of a religious house for women. It is said that every Christmas night, after divine service at his own monastery, Kieran started off walking, and arrived at early morning to perform divine worship for his old nurse, and gave her the compliments of the season. The date of his death is not known, but it is thought to have been about 550. A friend writes to me:-- “It may be foolishness, but to me such a place as the ruined church of Peranzabulo appeals most powerfully. I determined to find it unaided, and when found I spent hours there, sometimes at dark, trying as best I might to recall the place as it once was, and to revivify the bones which were lying in several little heaps where the workmen, who had been railing about the ruin, had collected them. “It seems to me that one loses a great deal in stifling and choking the imagination.