I went to Ireland last weekend and I haven’t known how to talk about it because I’ve been holding the experience so close to my heart.
I’ve grown so used to being in cities; to the crowds, public transportation, the hustle, that getting away from it and seeing nothing but rolling hills, sheep, green pastures and the sun peeking through clouds took my breath away. I sat in silence as I looked out over the fields.
I hiked into the mist, scampered over rocks, laid down in the grass and closed my eyes and listened to the sound of nothing.
I headed to the small town of Carlingford with friends in tow and ordered beer and fish and chips, enjoyed a mint chocolate chip ice cream cone and sat in a couple of bars drinking gin and tonics. Eventually, I made my way to a bar with an ‘upstairs disco’ and got twirled around on the dance floor and sang my heart out to Proud Mary. I met a man named Steve who was expecting his second child, a son named Cole after his brother. His brother would cry from being overwhelmed once they told him the name he said. I hugged him and said that his brother was lucky to have him.
I crossed the street to the B&B and fell asleep to the sounds of people heading to the next bar, one of three, in the tiny seaside town.
I enjoyed a full Irish breakfast with extra jam for my toast and talked about how much I loved jam and marmalades and preserves. I vowed to try and make some of my own.
I bought books I bought so.many.books. I packed my tiny bag, a delightful exercise in minimalism, and headed to the airport full of memories and wistful for my next return.