During our recent Trip to Ireland, there was one afternoon-into-evening in the town of Dingle that stood out to me because it was such a great example of a sort of everyday kismet that marked our time there. And, really, seemed the glorious norm in this gorgeous country.
There were 19 of us on this getaway, adults and our kids, all friends of J’s from JMU (now happily my friends, too). We there to attend a wedding of another JMU alum, Joe, near Athlone, which is located in the very middle of Ireland, and we had arranged to Travel from the east (Dublin) to the north (Belfast, Giant’s Causeway, and County Armagh) to the west (Donegal, Galway, Doolin, Aran Islands and Dingle) and the south (Cork) before ending up there to close out our trip, spend one last night in Dublin and then fly home. We had overnight stays in some spots and a few hours’ visit in others. While it was certainly a whirlwind, it never felt rushed.
Because our group was so big, we often split off from one another. Sometimes on purpose, when one family wanted to explore a historic site or get to that night’s hotel for a needed nap, and other times by accident, due to being compelled by various distractions. My favorite of these distractions for our own family was visiting W.B. Yeats’ grave in Drumcliffe on our way out of Donegal. He’s buried in a simple, unadorned plot with Ireland’s famed Benbulben - a flat-topped and strange yet lovely mountain - looming ghostlike in the background. “Cast a cold eye on death, on life, horseman, pass by,” it says on his grave, which is the last stanza of his poem, “Under Ben Bulben.” Fitting. But I kept thinking of another stanza of his poetry that I have always loved as we trampled through the historic churchyard: “Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.”
Anyway, we were absolutely content with this reality of group travel, gathering soon enough over the next pint or dinner, and on this particular day in Dingle, we had started out all together shopping the local gift stores, but soon Gabe, Aidy and I found ourselves on a side street outside a tiny music store with CDs and vinyl lining the walls. We went in, naturally.
That’s where we met Mazz O’Flaherty, proprietor of the shop, a witty conversationalist, and an immediate friend. Mazz told us her eyesight was failing and asked the kids to help her find a box of egg shakers she knew she had somewhere in the store. Success! She told them each to pick one and to keep the beat while she sang. And this is exactly what I mean about the the days unfolding in serendipitous delight. We were the only ones in the store, which we’d stumbled upon unaware, my youngest children partaking joyfully in an unplanned egg-shaker Irish session. People would pay a ton for this type of authentic experience, I thought. Except it’s not the type of experience you can pay for.
Our friends eventually found us there, we participated in another round of group singing, Gabe purchased a Dubliners double CD, and we asked Mazz where we might go to hear music that night. She directed us to a Kennedy’s, a pub up the street where there was a session starting soon. That’s where we went.
Fitzgerald’s was small and candlelit. In a small side room, a group of musicians began playing Irish and American traditional tunes. There were regulars, as well as newcomer listeners like us, but the place never got too crowded. Our friend Tom borrowed and played a mandolin for a few songs.
We met Brian at the bar, a musician who told us he’d be performing at another pub down the road later the night. We met Catherine, a puffin caretaker on Skellig Michael Island (who I now follow on Instagram) there, too. We talked about her journey to landing such a remarkable job. We talked about how our crew knew one another. We talked with her, and her friends, about what it means to live a fulfilling life.
Next we found the pub where Brian was performing. Of course we did. That’s where we met Gayle and her daughter, vacationing from their hometown of Cork, which just so happened to be where we were headed next. They recommended a good dinner spot there, which we booked the following day (Gayle, it was perfect!). We raved about our travels so far. We sang along to the music. And Becky (thank you thoughtful Becky) ordered pizza for our children, who had long ago retreated to the hotel (a notable hallmark of this trip was having children who are old enough to both stay in and explore on their own, making lasting memories with their group of friends).
This was just one afternoon-into-evening. What was so incredible to me about this particular trip, with this particular group, is that all the days felt like this. I think that was a combination of Ireland - and us.
Ireland is so small, but so universally remarkable. We’d made a decisive travel plan, but were so open to spontaneity.
I’m not saying we didn’t have our moments. I can only speak to my own family’s, because as a group, we truly didn’t; the moments were all positive, all laughter, all instant hits in the realm of life experiences. Rounding the bend at the Giant’s Causeway and spotting the soaring cliffs above a the geometric marvel of a stone beach below…a proclamation declared around an outdoor table that we would have Irish coffees every day at 5 pm (we did not)…the absolute giddy SCREAMING that occurred when Mike was driving us all home from the pub the night after Joe’s wedding (eight of us in a very small car), pulled into a driveway to turn around, and Karla spotted two border collies that had rounded the corner to see what in the world was up, their heads cocked, ears alert… “Look at the DOGS!” she yelled and we all began screeching at this adorable, but honestly not-that-remarkable, site, apologizing profusely to Mike for our three-or-four-Guinnesses-in behavior, but not really behaving any better for the rest of the ride.
For our family there were the normal, but thankfully fairly rare, scuffles among the kids. You can travel to another country, but the dynamics don’t really change, especially when you are crammed in the backseat of a - let’s call it cozy - car, and your parents are having some - let’s call it disagreements - about how the driving on the other side of the road is going. The situation was amplified by Gabe’s purchase of a tin whistle, which he immediately commenced playing on the regular, trying to work out his favorite Irish tunes. We had to make a “no tin whistle in the car” rule lest Nora murder him. And we’ve had to make a “no tin whistle before getting ready for school” rule upon returning home, as his passion has only increased in the weeks since.
And yet, in the grand scheme of international travel, these spats were nothing, only notable for their cultural relevance, their hilarious specificity. At the top of Blarney Castle, an experience I thought I’d skip due to its “touristy” nature, but am so glad I didn’t, Gabe repeatedly informed Aidy that the stone itself was covered in germs, to the point that I had to (quietly, as it was crowded with many other tourists there for exactly that purpose) deliver a strongly worded reminder that she could kiss it if she wanted to, please stop trying to sabotage this experience for everyone, Gabe. Aidy and I did the deed, Gabe and Nora did not, and everyone survived both the argument and the alleged bacteria.
Other moments were notable because they reminded that travel, specifically faraway travel - the newness! the unfamiliarity! - can deliver a dream sequence of family life. Away, together, awed, in it.
The trip ended with with Joe and Laura getting married in festively adorned event hall, their young children running up and down the aisle, their loved ones beaming (and crying). The event was marked by reconnections and new friends.
It began with myself, J and the kids visiting my mom’s family in Northern Ireland, including the small Catholic chapel where my relatives are buried. Including lunch on the grounds of a beautiful castle. Including strolling with my some-degree-of-cousin Julie under the midday sun, chatting about our jobs, and our interests, and about how fun it would be to send Gabe over some summer to play soccer for hours with his some-degree-of-cousins in the fields near their home. Including hearing delighted giggles from the backseat upon getting ready to leave the Mullan farm in Tynan. A small and very friendly terrier had jumped into the backseat, and onto the kids’ laps.
I could, oh I could, but I won’t, delve into every detail of every experience. I will, however, say, that renting and riding bicycles on the smallest Aran Island of Inisheer - the ocean on one side, stone walls and ponies on the other - was the purest joy, our group dotting the three-square-kilometer landscape, careening down hills and huffing up them, losing and finding one another at the shipwreck…at the beach…for an afternoon coffee, reverently touching the stone walls of a 10th century sunken church, suffering minor injuries, discovering those kittens behind the small stone house.
I will say that I could have spent several hundred at the sprawling food stalls at the English market in Cork if I’d only had a refrigerator and a few extra days to eat it all. And that I immediately felt I could live (and shop and socialize) happily in Dublin’s frenzied center. That I’m happy our family begrudgingly turned the car around when we realized we’d overshot Galway and went back for a quick visit. Those brightly colored townhouses, swooping seagulls, and a treasure of a bookstore.
And I will say that our two-nights stay at a family-friendly hostel in Doolin (a creek out back, a donkey in the field across the narrow street) was the perfect headquarters for our west coast adventures. That the little village delivered our favorite night of traditional music after landing at a local, recommended pub, where known talent just so happened to be playing that evening. This country, we said (again, and again). So effortlessly excellent!
I’d normally end this type of self-indulgent (sorry!) absolute ramble (truly!) of a post by making a sweeping recommendation regarding how you should, when presented with the option, go on the trip. Go on the trip. With your friends, with your loved ones, solo, whatever. Go to the wedding. Go find your roots, go meet your family. Visit the places that are on your list. And this is all true. You should. Go. Go. Go!
But it would be unfair of me to stray too far from two basic points: Ireland is magic, and our trip there was both adventure and true vacation. We developed a deep appreciation of the country, culture and people that has followed us home, that is so very welcome. Gabe plays his Dubliners CD every single evening as he’s reading in bed.
And good friends are magic, too.
On our last night, a few of us decided to have one last pint at a bar near our hotel in Dublin, where, it just so happened, a lively 65-year-old-ish gentleman wearing a black turtleneck was singing the classics to a crowd of jubilant locals, making rounds with the microphone and alighting on a table for a saxophone number. The fuse blew and half the power went out not once, but twice. Everyone carried on until it was restored and the music began once again. It was, we concluded, the perfect ending. We cheered to the greatest trip in the history of trips and it wasn’t hyperbole, just the truth. We raised our glasses to friendship as we had a million times, it seemed, over the past 12 days. Friends like these, experiences like this, are worth a million more.
