For the first time since moving here two years ago, there was a pit in my stomach when I saw the New York skyline from my tiny plane window last Monday afternoon.
I didn’t smile or have those butterflies that always, always, always were there when I’d return home from a business trip or visiting my parents back in Pennsylvania or even just a night away somewhere else.
I was haunted, see, haunted by the place where I’d just spent nine heavenly, truly amazing days, where we gloriously had spotty WiFi, where the people didn’t push or shove or walk in front of you, but were charmed by our American accents, went out of their ways to help us and take care of us, where the green came in so very many different shades, where the sky was the bluest I’d ever seen, where the cool, clean air cleansed from my pores the New York heat and stink and sweat that had built up all summer, and I felt like I could breathe, like I was actually taking the first true breaths of my life.
I’m talking about a little place called Ireland.
From the charming Limerick to bucolic Cork and Cashel to the grand Markree Castle to Omagh to Giants Causeway to the beaches of Sligo to Galway and the Aran Island of Inishmore, which, in a heartbeat, I would make my forever home, and back to Limerick, Ireland embedded itself into my very soul.
With every passing moment of the trip, my angst and general nervous energy fell further from my memory. I smelled the flowers permeating the air. I felt the sun on my face. I shouted, gleefully, to point out every “moo” or sheep we passed (which was just about every five minutes). I sat with the kids on the hill behind the Rock of Cashel and thought, “It can’t get much better than this” and was surprised over and over again that, yes, yes, it could.
I didn’t mind when we got caught in the thunderstorm we had just watched roll in over the sea at Giants Causeway, even if it meant my sneakers squished the rest of the day and my jeans, heavy and wet, clung to me like a second skin on the two-hour car ride back to Omagh because “it wouldn’t be Ireland if that didn’t happen!” I clung for my life on the deck of the ferry to Inishmore during another quick-passing storm on a rocky sea, not wanting to miss a single view of the island the fella couldn’t wait to show me and the kids, the place where he wants, someday far, far away I pray, to have his ashes scattered. And now I, too, want the cliffs of Inishmore to be my final resting place, the pull of this remote island is that powerful to me.
To walk those ancient roads, dodging bikers and those crazy van-tour drivers and feeling like a true “Man of Aran” as I saw a world completely and gloriously untouched by modernity, a world that was the most beautiful sight these brown eyes has ever seen — and most likely will ever see.
Sadly, just as I was about the press “publish” on this blog yesterday, WordPress took a poop and ate the back half of this blog, but maybe it’s for the best because it got pretty emotional; I get pretty emotional when I talk or even think of Ireland, even still, days later, even as I go through all our photos for the millionth time.
It was the trip of a lifetime, and those memories will never fade from my mind or my being. I’ll see you again in a few short years, dear Ireland. Don’t forget about me because I will never, ever forget about you.
Without further ado, here are the images that, while beautiful, don’t do our trip a lick of justice.