As I mentioned two weeks ago, I went to Ireland for almost
two weeks in June. While I was there, I wrote every day in my notebook about
what we did, among some other ideas. Rather than including everything, and I
know I still am including a lot, I’m just including the parts that get
thoughtful, maybe even a little prose-y. To me, a simple itinerary of what I
did isn’t very interesting or worthy of sharing. These are just thoughts,
observations, and reflections that were inspired while in Ireland. As this was
done journal-entry-style, there are some jumps, and it’s not all very refined.
Nonetheless, I hope you enjoy :)
6/14/17
[…]
Then the music started. It was the
woman who owns the place, another girl, and a guy. The first woman
(respectively) sang, played penny whistle (I think it’s called), and a wooden
flute. The second looked a little younger, was absolutely adorable, sang, and
completely killed it on the “fiddle.” I think she was actually playing a violin
or a viola. The guy, a little younger as well, played a classical guitar, and,
man, did he play. The most impressive thing was his right hand. At times he
would strum so fast! He really made use of the guitar as a source of rhythm
without compromising any of the chordal stuff.
They were all beyond spectacular.
They were so tuned in to what they were doing. You could tell they believed in
what they were doing, and that made everyone else believe in it, too. The whole
place payed attention. I wonder if it would’ve been different if you took the
same band, the same audience, and changed the setting to something with less
novelty—a place where people aren’t on vacation. I hope not. They played a lot
of songs that were instrumental, some that had words, and even some that were
in what I assume was Gaelic, though I didn’t know the language had a few phlegmy
words the way German does. I guess all of the selections were folk songs. An
older lady in the back sung along to every word (regardless of language). I
love when that happens. The musicians were just so into it. They almost brought
me to tears a few times, but I kept them in (that would have been just a little
award)—not the sad kind, though. I was just in awe. It was a lot of fun—amazing
energy. Some ladies even got up and danced to a song. The music just filled the
place with so much joy.
I think God was there, watching,
and I think He was pleased.
[This was in a pub owned by the people who we rented from
for the first three days of our trip. We basically lived behind it]
6/17/17
We left
Dingle today. My sister and her fiancé arrived last night and met up with us at
a castle. It was kind of cool. The people who worked there were dressed really
stupidly—cheesy, and it was all very disorganized. It would’ve been better with
a tour guide and a small group. I love getting tour guides who actually find
the attraction they work at to be interesting and who give a lot of
information. There was none of that at this place. The rest of it was even
worse. It was surrounded my buildings that were supposed to replicate a town
during the time of the castle. All of them smelled terrible and were so
obviously fake. There were donkeys, goats, and chickens in random pens all over
the place. Two pigs were in a tiny shelter that was attached to a dreadfully
small and dried up enclosure. Two calves were in a pen drinking milk from a
fake udder attached to the gait. I asked the guy feeding them where the mom
was. He just said, “Oh, she’s miles away.” So either she’s on a dinner plate or
she’s suffering through the dairy industry to give humans milk instead of her
own babies. The whole thing was just a big touristy production—and a bad one,
at that.
6/18/17
We could
see the sun set over the water last night. There was a layer of clouds above
the horizon. The sun passed behind it at 9:53 pm.
[I talk
about walking around a town, nothing very interesting]
When we
got back to the house, Mom and I walked over the rocks to the ocean. There were
all kinds of puddles left over from high tide with little baby shrimpies, little
crabs in swirly shells, minnows, etc. The rocks had barnacles, muscles, and some
other shelled life attached to them. That was really cool. I probably seemed
like a little kid, but I couldn’t help that I was fascinated. Of course I
stopped to look at all of the tiny creatures.
Yesterday
we took a ferry to the Inis Oírr Island (one of the Aran Islands). We rented
bikes there and rode through a maze of rock-walled pastures, up to the rocky coast,
and to ruins of a church, a cemetery with another church, a castle, and a
shipwreck.
I love
the rocky beaches and the way that the waves rush against the rocks, sometimes
splashing up or running between them, washing over everything. It’s crazy to
look down and see this shallow area of waves and rocks, then look out and see
that it continues over the horizon. Touching that water is touching the same
water that’s washing up on the shores of California, or Africa, or Japan. It’s
the water that whales, sharks, and giant squids live in and that glaciers float
on. It looks so barren and lonely, but even the smallest puddles from high tide
are filled with life.
I wasn’t
a fan of the cemetery. Can you imagine your grave being a tourist attraction?
Every now and then as I walked through I’d whisper, “I’m sorry,” just in case any
of the dead could hear me or were offended. I heard someone say she saw graves
of a family—with children. I passed the grave of a 19 year old boy—Thomas, I’m
pretty sure. It was chilling. And of course all the while people are taking
pictures and such. In the middle of it was an old church that had been dug up.
The tour guide that we stumbled upon told his group that, as the cemetery
expanded, it began to bury the church, which was why it was in the ground to
far. He said a lot of cool stuff about it, actually, that I can’t quite fully
recall today. He said that weddings, funerals, and mass are still held there. “Whether
you’re religious or not,” he said about the service, “it’s an experience.” I’d
like to know more about that church. He made it sound very influential. I’d
also like to go to a service there. I’m all about “experiences.” It’s on the
bucket list.
He said
some things about the castle, too, when he led his group there (and we
followed), but not as much as he did about the church. It was half gone with
the second and third floors missing. The first floor had three rooms. I think
it was more of a tower than a castle. The guide said it was for intimidation.
If people think they’re being watched, they’ll behave better.
[On the
boat ride back from the island, we were taken past the Cliffs of Moher. I saw a
lot of sea birds and jellyfish in the water. I also got horribly sunburnt that
day. The sun was actually out in Ireland! That wasn’t what I signed up for! I
ended up sun-sick and everything.]
The sun
made it completely behind the water last night at 10:08! [I keep writing the
time of the sunset because it’s so much later than what I’m used to in Pennsylvania]
Today I
stayed home. I’m exhausted, my face hurts, and I have a headache. The backyard
of this house is rocks and ocean, so it’s still a beautiful place to be.
6/21/2017
Mom and
Dad took me where they went yesterday. They were right in thinking I’d love it.
It was a trail that went along the water, passing the cliffs, rocks, and small
caves that hold the ocean at bay. The land on the other side of the trail was
pasture, holding a herd of cows and three horses.
It’s a
beautiful place. It’s one of those places where I just sigh and think, this is poetry. I stood atop tall rocks
that dropped straight down to inky-black water, heart pounding as I said a
silent hello to Death, who had no-doubt taken his fair share of lives there. I
walked down to lower spots and watched the waves crash over and consume the
rocks. The ocean has never really captivated me the way it does some people.
Today it did. I don’t care for the plainness of its blue horizon and the
blonde, sandy beaches. The rough water slamming itself against the harsh rocks
is what seduces me. I love watching the dark blue water swell up, surging
forward, then stretching its limbs over the low flat rocks, embracing it with
long fingers and icy passion. To the right was more abrupt shoreline, part of
which vaguely resembled a wave. I thought of how we often pick up the
mannerisms of those we love and admire.
The
rocks were beautiful. All of them were flat, running parallel to the ground in
rough layers haphazardly stacked upon each other. Some had straight lines
cutting across the tops of them (so did the rocks on the shore of Inis Oírr).
How could such straight and thin lines have been formed? It looked as if
someone had taken a razor to the thick thighs of the land as it hangs its legs
into the water. Maybe the land resents itself, looking out over the ocean and
longing for that kind of fluidity, and the water tries to calm it. It soothes
the land with words of love and songs of strength, reflecting as best it can,
the land’s beauty so it can see itself for its worth.
I wish to
engulf and to be engulfed as the ocean does with the rocky coast, with reckless
passion. I wish to understand and be understood so well that we sink into each
other’s pores. I want to melt without any fear, insecurities, or apprehensions.
I don’t know with whom—if it’s even a person at all—or when, or how or why.
Wrap-up,
after the fact.
Yes,
Ireland was amazing. It was a very good vacation—very peaceful. My favorite
part was the rocky coastline [if you couldn’t tell], the landscapes, and the
scenery. It would have been great to just sit for a while in some of the spots
we were in, taking it in, listening, meditating, almost. It’s strange how
cameras are the central part of a vacation. Every destination is a place for
Mom to pretend she’s a photographer (nothing against her, someone in our family
has to do it, I suppose). At times I began to feel like the vacation was a
glorified photoshoot.
How would our interactions with
nature be different without the camera? It amazes me how many pictures people
do take, given that you can find a photo of anything on Google. I’ll admit, I
take a few when really inspired—often of things that are rarely captured (like
the fog) or a specific image that I think can be useful for later writings. I
think it’s a bragging tool for most, without realizing it. A photo is taken as
proof that one was able to take it. The remarkable thing is the image, the real thing, and it doesn’t need anyone’s
comment or attention to be so. Nature will still be beautiful and enjoyable
regardless of how we react to it. Honestly, I think that pictures are a little
greedy. We want. We want to be able to keep something, as if the experience isn’t
good enough on its own, or isn’t valid as just a memory. Taking pictures
becomes the focus. It diminishes, even replaces, the experience for a lot of
people. It saddens me. [This little rant/reflection on behavior is not meant to
be an insult or to target anyone, and I do think that real photographers are
very much artists and do amazing work.]
“Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and
narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts.
Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by
vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one's lifetime.” ― Mark Twain,
The Innocents Abroad/Roughing It
As always, thank you so much for reading, and feel free to share your own thoughts or stories in the comments!
