I've just spent the last week driving around the west of Ireland with herself, my sister, listening to Irish music and photographing landscapes, livestock and monastic ruins. The roads were hair-raisingly narrow, bendy and enigmatically marked. It rained much of the time and the temperature seldom crested 70 degrees except in the humid confines of our rather small rental car. Our flip-flops were inadequate, sunscreen unnecessary and swim suits completely irrelevant. Each night we were tired from a long day's slog, but each morning we soldiered on in the quest to drink in as much of the countryside as possible in the short time we had. Of an evening we enjoyed a bit of music, a bit of craic and I'll admit, a bit of whiskey. I realize this isn't the conventional picture of a great vacation, but I'd turn around and go back in a heartbeat to spend several weeks more doing the exact same thing. So, I know, would anyone who has been there and done the same already.
The plane carrying my corporeal self arrived back on Sunday, and it's Wednesday now. But, my thoughts and my dreams are still running to the wilds of Connemara marveling at the beauty of the low-hanging clouds on the hilltops, the flowing mountain streams and lush wildflowers. Either that or I'm on a clifftop in Clare gazing out at the ocean and feeling the uncompromising wind that trains the branches of the trees to point forever inland. It is an amazing phenomenon to become more accustomed than not to finding a soul-moving vista around nearly every bend. And it's an unwelcome adjustment when it all ends.
In Ireland, the west in particular, the terrain is so uncluttered that the map relates directly to what you are looking at out the car window. When you meander through the remains of a 12th-century monastery, it isn't so very difficult to imagine what it was like when it was up and running because essentially what you see from the now ruined windows is what was always here. You can travel a secondary road for 15 minutes without encountering another vehicle and in the more remote reaches, you might never see another one. Of course, we avoided the obvious tourist sites we've already seen--you can't avoid crowds everywhere. But it's easy to get off the beaten path and well worth it.
I'm excited about spending the upcoming week at the beach. The ease and sultry warmth of our American summer will be a welcome contrast to the rain and cool of Ireland. I ought to get packing, but I've frittered away my time the last few days fine tuning my pictures, captioning them and uploading them to share. I've looked up and read about the ruins we visited. I've dug out photos from previous trips, comparing, remembering and reliving. I've found my old cassette tapes and looked for my celtic favorites on iTunes. I have yet to reset my watch to the correct time. In short, I'm doing everything I can to resist getting back to normal. I prefer to wonder whether or not the cows in Ireland ever get to go inside than to think about what to make for dinner. Sorting out old photos really beats sorting laundry. Transporting myself through time to envision a bustling medieval community of friars beats transporting the boy to his various amusements.
But I am back and I must grab hold of myself. There are things to do, places to go and people to meet. For now, I will leave Ireland latent in my mind . . . until next time. I hope it's soon.
