You can find chapter 1 here.
I want to tell you all the details of a life that has brought me here not just to Ireland, but to this point, so that you can understand my pain, perhaps judge me, but at the very least, know me. Instead, I will spare you the details, telling you only about those who remain with me still. I am going to tell you about my true loves. I’m going to tell you about Ireland and my Dearest M.
Let me tell you how I got to Ireland for the first time. It began about two years ago when I wasn’t alone. I had been divorced since March of the previous year – well, separated, going through all the required legal motions. My married life was not easy. I do not want to speak ill about my ex-wife, as she is the mother of my children, but it was hell. We had tried therapy several times, but in the end, after once again accusing me of things I had not done, I decided to leave. After a short-lived and disastrous relationship, I reunited with Becca. I still remember the date, October 10th. She was a psychiatric provider at the place where I was a therapist when I first moved to Colorado. By then, I had started my own company in direct competition with the other mental health agency in town, and monopolies do not like being challenged. I didn’t know anything about her personal life. However, I figured if I was in the right place at the right time, and she was, in fact, single, I could maybe see what might happen.
She was beautiful. Auburn hair, blue eyes, and a brilliant little perfect smile that quickened my heart. She was soft, gentle, intelligent, and had a seriously odd sense of humor, sometimes dark, just like mine. Like I said, beautiful. And during moments of hell in the marriage, I envisioned being with someone like her – well, her, really – to hide from the reality of what I was living in. That night, I saw this new side of her, hidden from the world, and showed her a new side of me. We danced on her back porch, under the clear sky with the stars shining bright, with the warmth provided by our bodies. She was hesitant, and so was I. Much of that night is lost to the wine, but I remember feeling her body next to mine, and it brought me back to life.
I’ll save you the intervening details, but throughout our travels and life together that first year, we traveled to Mexico, Cuba, and New Orleans (near where I was born). I struggled to ignore the red flags, fighting to find a way to keep her in my life. It made sense to marry her. Yes, I believed I loved her, and she loved me. We looked good on paper. She was coming to work for me. Boy, I have a pattern. So, I started to plan a trip to Ireland to propose. I had never been, but even then, something drew me here before I had set foot on this island. I had already bought the ring and made plans, and once committed, I would not back down.
Did I love her?
Love without obligation. I had wanted that for as long as I could remember, even if it took me years to formulate that phrase and the meaning behind it. That is what I had with Becca. With her, I could hold her in my arms not to still a storm but to actually enjoy it — we could enjoy each other for the sake of enjoying each other. When I met my ex-wife, it was not soon afterward that we were expecting our first child. This meant that we had to, in some way, love each other for the sake of the child. This love came with a certain amount of pressure, of fear. We had to find any way to overcome obstacles — such as our various pasts full of childhood baggage. But with Becca, what I was feeling was a love that did not require me to stay, fear she would leave, taking with her half of our possessions, or having to sacrifice myself to make it work. There are different types of love, and perhaps the genus of love has a variety as numerous as the flowers of the field or the cattle on God’s hills, but at that point in life, I knew of only two kinds: obligatory love and love without obligation. I think, looking back, I was more in love with the second species of this elusive monster than I was with Becca. I would not discover the third heaven of love – unconditional love – until it was much too late, leaving me only with a month of sorrow to finally reflect on what I had missed.
Imagine stepping off a plane, knowing this is where your story begins.
I remember the first time I looked from the plane window to see the green and yellow meadows stretching out below, protected by stone fences. For 16 years, my home had been the rolling hills of West Virginia. But breathlessly, Ireland became home the moment I saw it, somewhere north of Galway. I watched for us to land with the eagerness of a child waiting at the top of the stairs on Christmas morning for the signal to unwrap presents. Seeing Dublin, coming around over the sea to that city’s east, I could hardly contain my excitement; it had nothing to do with the ring in my luggage. It was something buried deep inside me that I still can’t explain—why every molecule, cell, and tissue felt at home here. I am a man of science and spirituality; I believe DNA carries memories, existing in the ether like clouds, more real than the ones we see. We can swim in them, ride them, and cover ourselves with them as we sleep, dreaming of places and people we’ve never known. Then, one day, you land somewhere, breathe in new air, and suddenly everything makes sense. You find yourself in a familiar territory, even if you’ve never walked here. You feel the weight of your ancestors, the call of their spirits, and you are free because you are home.
It was every home I had ever wanted – at least until I met my Dearest M. But it doesn’t feel like that anymore. But then, it was…
Home.
After customs and making a mad dash around and out of Dublin, we found our place just south of Wexford, in Rosslare. It was a duplex, probably an old stable that had been turned into two apartments. It sits on active farmland, with the sound of man and animal in the distance. Painted white, with red doors, it also had the first thatched roof I had ever seen. The rustic simplicity was a marvel to me. It wasn’t quint or a novelty to be enjoyed by a tourist. Rather, what I was feeling was something like nostalgia. I could almost remember moving from thatched roofs to shingles and somehow missing the gathering of the twigs that sheltered me from the rain. Here, the cottage was surrounded by a thick Irish forest to the back and fields of livestock to the front. Because we had something of an elevation, you could see the Celtic Sea just south. Those were our first nights in Ireland. I was already planning on how to live here. I wanted to live and die in Ireland. And I knew it when I landed.
Unlike the frantic rush of Dublin, I breathed in Wexford. These days, I’m more drawn to the countryside. Growing up in the village of Port Vincent, Louisiana, on the ever-flooding Amite River, I craved the big city, with Baton Rouge always in my sights. I wanted the hustle and excitement. I got my wish, only to regret it. Ellul was right—cities are our way of rejecting the ordinary, like a defiance of the divine. But cities never lead to peace. I wanted to know my neighbors. It wasn’t until years later, in a small town in rural Colorado, that I found the peace I’d unknowingly sought for so long, the kind of happiness that took me by surprise after years of running from it.
Becca, of course, did not like Wexford. Her tendencies were more towards the crowded city streets, which is why she never really did get why every part of Ireland mystified me. Wexford was my first real flirtation with the island; thus, it will always hold a special place for me. I like memories and cherish everything given to me. That day, when I first saw Wexford’s town center, I was given the gift of a connection to the earth and sea while watching the port where so many Irish fishermen had come and gone over the centuries, following the Vikings a millennia before. Here, I could feel something inside of me start to percolate as I smelled the stiff sea air and the scent of the docks where fisherman would leave and come to daily with their haul. What a life, I thought, to be a fisherman off the coast of Ireland, to see this island over the crashing of the waves. The supposed memories of people I had never met nor places I had never seen spoke to me that day as we toured one shop, one historical marker, and one statue at a time.
The next day, we went north to wander up the hill to the Hell Fire Club. We both were fascinated with the occult, not in practice but in theory more than anything. We both believed in ghosts, and this place was reportedly very haunted. This rather imposing stone house is built on Montpelier Hill, overlooking Dublin, southern Ireland, and the channel between the island and England. Due to the summoning of the devil, or perhaps because it is built on an ancient cairn – an Irish burial mound – it is purported to have ghosts roaming the lands. I believe in all the ghost stories. It makes things more interesting. After all, how boring is it to think that when we die, either we cease altogether to exist – with our loves, losses, and memories just vanishing with our last whisper – or we attend to some ethereal catacomb to wait for a final judgment. Perhaps there is more to the story, such as all that we have been and, in some way, will always be will still exist in some way, in different ways, on other planes, and sometimes that which remains haunts the hills of Ireland.
I hope that is the end for my soul, to roam the hills of County Kerry, going from glen to glen, around Brandon’s Point, up to Tralee, overlooking the pubs I visited, and watching time wind down. Perhaps, at that time, I will see others who have chosen to remain behind to watch as their beloved land is swept to and fro by the winds of time. Yes, I would like some part of me to remain here and let God take the rest. Imagine the ghost stories I would hear when that time comes!
After Wexford and the Hell Fire Club, we headed to the next destination – Portroe in County Tipperary. It is a small village with about 600 people and several pubs, all aligned down one lonely street. The patrons at Seymour’s would laugh at us later when we told them we only had one bar in our town of 9000 people. Portroe sits on Lough Derg – yes, that Lough Derg. It still bewilders me how close I have come to that hallowed Saint from time to time. Before we got there, however, we decided to drive through County Waterford and on to Ardmore on the coast to see more of the Irish seaside and stop at a few local distilleries. Becca and I would often tease each other on whether each other existed as a land or sea person. In the end, I will always be an island person – if I can see the coast. I am not sure I would want to return to Ardmore, but it was a beautiful sight.
We ate at the hotel, overlooking An Mhuir Cheilteach, where people were swimming and kayaking in their long sea vessels, even in the chilly early September air. Someone mentioned that the walk to Admore Head was a beautiful trip – and it began just outside the Cliff House hotel parking lot, near the ruins of St. Declan’s Church, an early 5th-century church founded decades before St. Patrick arrived on his mission. Those were my first ruins; I could still feel the presence of something peaceful there, surrounded by a grove of trees, a side of a mountain, and green, green grass everywhere I could look. It was at the head, somewhere along the walk, that I would propose. I just knew it. She did not. I had slipped into the car to retrieve the ring unbeknownst to her and had it hidden in my pocket.
I quickly formulated my plan as we climbed the terrain to the old watchtower. At the top of the trek, at the edge of a cliff overlooking the ocean on both sides, with down below littered with wrecks of ships, I would ask her to marry me. She would not expect it, and it was a perfect spot. The sun had come out again, the day warm enough, and no one was around. Once there, I set the camera so that it could take the picture, and I did it hastily. She said yes, of course. We had talked about it for months. We both knew that this trip was for that reason. Do I regret it now? She had never been married nor asked, and we were the same age. She had had only one serious relationship. It felt mostly right, except for all the screaming red flags – more red flags than May Day in China. But do I regret it? In so many ways, yes, of course. Not because of her, how things ended, but because I regret every action from my divorce to meeting my dearest M. Had I waited, I could have proposed to her in Ireland instead. Had I waited and not made so many mistakes, I could have been perfect, and maybe she would still have been with me. As it were, what I feel for my dearest M has made me a liar to all of those before her. And I regret my part in that. All roads lead to me.
That night in Portroe, we celebrated as two were apt to do. No need to give you those details, as that part pertains to her privacy. However, we celebrated several times throughout the night and into the next morning. We had to rush to Galway the next day to take a ferry to Inisheer. Let me skip ahead and return to Portroe before I tell you about Inisheer. That night, tired from our journey, we sat down at Seymour’s. Well, James owned it. But it was called Seymour’s. It was my first real Irish pub experience. Only a few were there that night, regulars. After some inquisitive looks and easy banter, they asked how I enjoyed Ireland. I replied that I found it thoroughly enjoyable as everyone was so nice.
“That’s because you aren’t from here. We treat people from here like shite.”
I feigned hurt while pointing to my red beard, “That strikes my heart. Here I was, hoping I would fit in.” There is more to fitting in than having red hair, but I’ll get to that.
That was the catalyst that burst the damn. We spent the next three hours lobbing insults at one another, with jabs rushing from each other’s mouths like an ancient contest between knights on some far distant field. Between hurled invectives, we would offer each other the learning about our different towns, like Sligo, and what we each did for a living. Becca and I shared tales from the States, me from West Virginia, and her from Colorado. One patron was in mental health, and we each bought a pint for one another, commiserating over the darkness in the profession. “There was this girl once…,” he would start. Or “I had this guy come in once…,” he would continue. I still remember so many of the details of that night and of that pub. The wee bar was in the front, crowded, with low ceilings, while the back bar had room for the weekends. I tend to prefer the smaller, quiet places. Something about being shoved next to one another makes it more real for me, I guess. I remember the smells, like whiskey, like home. Like it was a place I had always been.
Each pub has a different atmosphere, to be sure. Etched into its walls are memories that are sometimes not spoken about with strangers who are not yet friends. This one will forever reside in my memory as the first Irish pub I was welcomed into. I wonder if they still use the nickname I gave the gentlemen from Sligo – Smeagol. It sounded funnier after the fifth pint. Of course, I have been to numerous other pubs in Dublin, Wexford, and other towns around the island since then. I even found myself in the most western pub in Europe and the most northern pub in Ireland – Farren’s. And each one has a place in what remains of my heart.
Inisheer was a random excursion. It was something to do because Portroe is in the middle of nowhere – and I wanted to see the coast again. I had no interest in Galway, and of all the times I’ve been to Ireland, I have only passed through. That is not a slight on that fair town, as I am sure there is a remarkable set of women there with fine shawls; I only mean to say that I prefer small villages where I can also see the coast and not a lot of people. We had signed up for three hours, with a guided bus tour starting from Galway. Little did I know that that trip would change my course. Perhaps, if I can find no room here in Kerry, my soul will wander across the water to that fine little island.
The ferry ride was, in a few words, unlike anything I had experienced before. The waves were rough, much like we picture the ancient seas. We would suddenly drop, and you could gauge the depth of such a drop by the green rising in the faces of the passengers. I do not get seasick. But others did. To her credit, Becca had some medicine she could hand out to a very sick child that warmed my heart as I watched. I was too busy drifting in thoughts of ancient sea rovers – and loving, absolutely loving – the up and down, to and fro, side to side motion of the ferry. The waves had to be at least 100 feet high, sending us crashing down after each passed. Or maybe just 20-foot swells. No matter, I was an ancient Celt, riding out to a distant land, surrounded by my comrades in arms. I was somewhat sad when the waters calmed just as we turned into the little harbor of Inisheer. However, that minor depression was quickly alleviated by the site of this majestic island. The skies were blue, I remember. The clouds were most welcoming with their white puffs descending directly from the heavens above.
When you step out of the ferry, you have landed on a manmade concrete monstrosity, walking up to the horse and carriages with their ever-patient caretakers waiting to take the tourists, if they are interested, on short rides around the eastern part of the island. The island is not necessarily a tourist trap, as most of it is still land reserved for agriculture, cordoned off by stone fences. However, when you first land, you get the wool shops, coffee shops, and some other little places meant only for tourists. Walking up the hill, you come to an ancient burial mound, about 2500 years old, discovered only after a storm had wiped away the sand. No sin, no struggle remains hidden when the wind, then the rain, and when the full force of Nature descends upon you. Such is with this little burial mound. Of course, no one remembers who is buried there, but it immediately gave me the sense that this island was more ancient than the land we currently stood upon.
We only had about two hours or so, which was a deep and grievous mistake. If you should ever go, take the first and the last boat. Otherwise, you will find that you have missed this connection; I promise that you will mourn what you do not know. But Becca and I made the best of it. We went to the ruins of St. Cavan’s church. It is in the middle of a burial ground, a graveyard. It is now a hill overlooking so much of the island, with Galway in the distant north, and Doolin hidden to the east. You might even get a glimpse of the Cliffs of Mohr. But today, we just descended into the ruins and explored. Yes, yes, of course, I could feel something.
I believe that energies are left behind. Whatever word you want to use here is fine with me. But for me, I will use energy, or depending on who is with me, “ghosties.” I do not mean it is haunted in any real sense of the word, only that if you are sensitive enough, you can feel – literally feel – something in these ancient and holy sites. Not all ancient sites are holy, and not all holy sites are ancient. You understand, do you not?
As I said, we did not have much time, so after the ruins, we stopped at a few shops, eventually making our way to the main pub on the island, Tigh Ned’s. So many tourists. Well, looking back, I can say that. Then, I was just happy to hear so many American accents. We had a pint and a bite to eat, enjoying the atmosphere. I was not able to speak to many people, but I was able to explore some of the memories on the wall. Here, they still spoke Irish. No doubt, it has a different accent than other Gaeltacht communities around this island of mine, but I still do not have an ear for that. I tried to learn Spanish but would love to have learned Irish. It is a regret of mine that I do not have time for that adventure. After the pint, or two or three, we headed back to the ferry, which took us around the Cliffs.
We decided to sit on top because why not? I mean, the sun was out, and who would have thought about bringing a raincoat? Well, the Irish did. We, tourists, were left on top to be soaked by the rain that came out of nowhere or the massive waves now crashing along the sides of the boat. I could not tell which part of me was rain and which part was the saltwater of the Atlantic. But all in all, the tour was beautiful. The Cliffs stand magnificent and imposing as if challenging the millions of years of storms, crashing waves, and pelting rain. We did climb them afterward. That was all part of the tour. That, along with some wonderful insight into the history of the area as provided by the bus driver. It was my first real introduction to the story of the famine that had hit County Galway and All Ireland so terribly.
I am not sure I can express enough how I fell in love with Ireland the moment I saw the western coast, but that night in Seymour’s Pub, Portroe, I realized how much I needed her. This place, more than anything. That is why I would come back to her every time my life seemed to go to hell, like returning to my partner after a bad day at work or seeking comfort with my lover when all the world had turned against me. I needed her because she suddenly made me make sense. She knew my fears, my deep secrets. She knew I questioned everything around me, my faith, my steadfastness, my strength, and what she gave me was not answers but the space to ask those questions without fear or judgment. I feared my humor, which for so long had been repressed, and yet, here she was, giving me room to be myself and more, demanding that I be so. In her sacred emerald arms, I found that I could be myself, joke and laugh, lob insults, take them easily enough, and enjoy the cool warmth of a pint of Guinness, joining many others before and around me in a celebration of the end of a day without the slimmest care if I would see the next. I did not have to tell her anything. Instead, she knew me better than I knew myself. In Ireland, something bigger than myself loved me, and in that unexplainable presence, I could love myself. This is why, I think, I would spend so much of the next few years reading anything about Ireland’s long history that I could find – the history of the Celts, the 800 years of English and then British rule, and, of course, her literary prowess. I wanted to know why she could make me make sense immediately when I had struggled to make sense of myself for so long. I wanted to know her, as anyone wants to know their lover or their god.
The next morning, we headed to Dublin to enjoy a night in the town. As I said, Dublin does not really interest me much because it is so large with so many people and terribly like other large cities I’ve been to. There are crowds of tourists milling about. We did happen to go to Temple Bar, where we found a very loud and crowded pub playing traditional Irish music. Again, this is another memory I will cherish. Throughout all the time – such a short time too – in Ireland that first time, I kept thinking about how to get back there. Maybe four times a year, I thought to myself. Maybe find a way to buy a house. Something. I had to do something to get back to Ireland. In truth, I had only settled on Ireland. Not Dublin. But somewhere in Ireland, I knew there was a place that would speak directly, loudly, to me rather than whispers of “come hither” that seemed to carry about the wind every time I looked at a map.
Ireland was an enchantress, like the ancient murúch (merrow or mermaids) – but without the terrible fate of sailors. Her green fields, the clear dark skies occasionally obliterated by the sun, the sweeping vistas and valleys. Something there stirred my spirit inside of me that when asked much later, after my second or third visit, as to why I went to Ireland so often rather than any place new, I would answer the question with a question, “Have you ever been home?” I knew not how, and I could not explain it with any other words, but I knew that Ireland would be my final destination because, in a way, it was where I had first understood the word “home.” I did not, in fact, ponder it as I have tonight, however.
There is always about something that is the last that makes you think about the first, isn’t it?
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