Find the whole of what I’ve posted here. Why am I doing this? Because… I want to? Or you’ll have to go and read the first post to find out why.
The drive to Sligo, following as best as I could the Wild Atlantic Way, was mixed with stopping at sites, climbing cliffs, walking trails, and finding Gracie’s, a nice little pub downtown. It was like the previous several days spent driving around Inishowen, talking with God, mourning Rich, and singing so off-key as to embarrass myself even though I was alone. I keep thinking I’ve never danced with an Irish woman, but I keep forgetting about that elderly lady with vertigo who insisted I dance the night away with her while I was there. She swore up and down she was keeping me from the known prostitute at the corner of the bar. I honestly do not know, but I do know that I so enjoyed the warmth and hospitality of that moment that I cannot believe I have forgotten it until now.
Sligo reminded me too much of Ohio. I am immediately attached to every place I’ve visited in Ireland. Maybe not Sligo. I once saw a meme calling County Sligo the Ohio of Ireland, which may have shaded my view a bit. It may be petty, but I am not a fan of Ohio. I would gather that if I had to choose my favorite place, it would be any place on this island, save Sligo and Dublin. This is not to say that the former is not given to beauty on its own, with Yeats and the mountains I have climbed. Still, surely it comes down to my resistance to the state that not only aggressively bordered West Virginia but also dramatically ended the beauty of the Appalachian Mountains, which still disgusts my soul. Mayo, Clare, Kerry – and the fabled Donegal – all recalled my mountains, and make no mistake, the Caledonian range is, in fact, my mountains in every sense of the word. I could find no such attachment in the rather flat – again, save the mountains that I have climbed unprepared or in my cowboy boots – in that beautiful country called County Sligo. It was industrial and crowded. Personally, I do not think the grief they gave my Portroe friend was justified, but I still did not care for it. I did not have much time to explore it, as I had to spend a day getting Becca in Dublin. However, what I did see, Benbulbin, just north of the town, made me want to come back and climb it. As Becca would casually say, one day, I would climb a mountain just because it was there. That much is true.
Now that she was with me, we explored a little of the north of County Sligo. The county itself is bland when you compare it to where I had just been, Donegal, or where I was going, Kerry. It was mostly beaches or at least flattened earth to meet the sea. Exploring the Yeats trial was perhaps one of the best moments of that excursion to Sligo, going to the grave of this poet that I had read about. I learned more about Celtic crosses. And, of course, the time with Becca was good. But that is how it always started. Good. Loving. Affectionate. We ended the day at Gracie’s with some more music, but it is a day I can barely remember.
The next day, we headed down to Lisdoonvarna. This town is known for matchmaking, something I learned on the bus tour the previous September. I picked it because it was small, and I wanted small Irish towns. It had lost some of its luster – once, it had been the only town with natural hot springs, but now, it was more of a pass-through until the matchmaking festival in September. However, there was a little pub there, The Ritz. It was crowded that night, with a lone singer giving us his delights of a mixture of American and Irish music. One crowd member, well, she gave us a treat with a rendition of Grace, in what I guess is best described as angelic. There is something about singers here in Ireland. They sing with such emotion that all I can hear is the joy, sadness, and hope in each melody – and for some reason, all the Irish people I have met can sing.
As I am apt to do, I requested “Country Roads.” I just wanted to because I had spent time telling people, whoever would listen, about that time they sang “Country Roads” in Tralee. I tend to want to recapture the magic, to experience things again if I can. Or add to previous experiences by fleshing it out. This time was no different. I wanted to see if the people knew it. They did. They all sang along, and again, it moved me. Not to tears for me, but I did see something rare enough that had it not startled me so, I could have been – for I saw Becca moved to tears for the second time since I had known her. For some reason, as the crowd sang, as I sang – and trust me, I do not sing openly – belting out the tune about mountain mommas and moonshine, she burst into tears. She could not tell me why. The first time was when I gave her a music box for Christmas. She knew why then.
I tend to have my theories as to why this person, who had difficulty sharing any emotions other than anger, sobbed so openly. Hearing the camaraderie, seeing my face with something in my eyes that I knew was there when I was in Ireland and nowhere else, she was overcome with the sense of my belonging here. I think it gripped her so. It grabbed her so much that she knew I belonged here and I would not leave one day. Of all the moments I shared with Becca, it is that one that kept me going back to her for the next few months and, well, dreaming of moving to Ireland. In truth, if I could choose to remember Becca for any moment we had shared over the two years we were together (even on and off), it would be that one. Not the shoving, the accusations, the judgment, the controlling behaviors – but that one, when her heart was tender for a moment, and could recognize something, dare I say, metaphysical occurring around her, when she could see into my heart and soul and knew where I belonged, where I felt peace and joy. Sometimes, however, our sins, actions, and pitfalls hide too much of the good that remains in us.
The next day, we headed to Doolin to catch the ferry. Ballina was the next stop for a bit of lunch before our destination that night. It was a wonderful town, but the parking was dreadful. I guess it’s not really dreadful. Life largely depends on how you perceive it. If parking were genuinely dreadful, then I would not have found a place to park along the River Moy, walking up Moy Lane, a somewhat back alleyway, to The Loft, which notably had good fish and chips – my go-to meal when I traveled the island the first four times. While you can go wrong – I had this once in Lisdoonvarna, and it was rather forgettable except for the somersaults my stomach did later that evening. However, The Loft was simply cozy, with good food, and Becca and I found a spot in the back to chart our course to Tralee. If parking were dreadful, I would not have seen more of Ballina than initially intended. Every step is a chance to see something new or old things anew. If we are forced off the beaten path or our planned trek, then made, we should seek to find joy in that rather than lamenting how much of an inconvenience it is that life did not go our way.
Like I said, this time, I wanted to spend as much time as possible on that little island, Inisheer. I could hear it calling me at night sometimes when I laid my head down in Western Colorado. I would answer that call this time and get as much of it as possible. We landed and started our journey. She let me lead, so we walked to the southern part of the island and proceeded to walk around. I am unsure if that was the plan or not or somehow orchestrated by whatever it was calling me to that rock that sprang forth out of the ocean, accompanied by two of her sisters – a sort of Irish Holy Trinity made of stone that spoke to me. Either way, we found ourselves walking around – literally around – the island. The trail on this part of Inisheer is not so much a well-marked one, but if you can spot where others have been before, you can get a pretty good idea of where to go. Plus, it is an island, and you cannot get lost on an island this small.
We walked for hours, admiring the ocean to the south, the stone fences, and the occasional livestock. I wanted to take the longer paths, but she was getting tired – and trust me, that is not a good thing – so we headed back to Tigh Ned for a much-needed break. As we set there, drinking our pints and having a small bite to eat, I was quietly planning my trip back. I understood that you could stay on the island due to the marvel that is Airbnb. I met a gentleman there who, due to either the Irish brogue or memory impairment caused by that third pint, I cannot remember his name. However, I do remember the stories he was telling me. He had been born there long before the ferries operated. He told me about the increasing number of tourists and how he would come back there every year. He had been a teacher on the mainland but always came home. He never felt quite right the rest of the year until he returned. He bought me a pint, and I tried to return the favor, but he was not having it. I am not going to quibble about a free pint; trust me. Something about that storyteller sitting on the corner stool struck me.
Here was a man who had lived countless lives in this single one and was willing to share some of it with this clearly American tourist happily – and then to buy a pint. I soaked in all that I could before we had to get back on the ferry and head to Lisdoonvarna. I can remember every detail of what he looked like. About 70 or so, my height, wearing dark clothes. He also taught me how to drink a Guinness – splitting the G. His laugh was contagious, and I can hear it now. It is the laugh of a man who can enjoy life and wasn’t afraid of the next journey.
I can hear all the laughs and the stories even now, of all my trips. Of all my life. As the hours wane here at Ballyseede Castle, I prepare to go to Sean Og’s one more time, to hear music, to lift that parting glass, and to come back to this room to lay me down to sleep, to pray the Lord my soul to take, so that I hurt no more, in any sense that you might take that phrase. What rings in my ears is not a warning from the faith of my youth or some melodramatic “please, stay” from others to change my course, but rather the rushing waves of Inisheer, the calls of the birds – all of the Morrigan’s minions – around this fair island, and the nightly banter at each pub I have found rest therein.
Our next stop was Dingle, where I had another rather fortunate Airbnb find above what I can only assume is a place meant to torment me: a bakery. The smells from there in the morning, the fresh dough in the oven, made me go mad. We were only there for a night, however, thank God, or else I feared I could have eaten the entire contents of that bakery. And thankfully, we were there for only two nights because, once again, the red flags flapped steadfastly in the wind.
After unpacking, we headed to the hotel for a bite and a pint of Guinness. It had to be the worst place in all of Ireland to get a pint, with it being extremely bitter and a massive head. Just unfair, really, if you ask me to ingest and then pay for such a thing. We did tour the town a bit, going in and out of little stores. This was also my first encounter with Irish street music, with some red-headed maiden playing the bagpipes. I swear I would see her again this past summer in Tralee. We made our way to Dick Mack’s, which does have a beer garden, but the wee bar at the front is where we struck our claim.
Previously, in September, while touring Waterford, we had gone to the distillery there for a taste of the whiskey. I will tell you that I have two local distilleries that are by far my favorite, with one being Waterford. In Dick Mack’s, there was an American couple touring Ireland and complaining about the poor taste of the whiskey they had been served. So, as any good neighbor would do, I found Waterford and bought them a shot. That was such a memorable experience for me because I was able to share with someone something I had learned. I did this as an American standing in Ireland for other Americans. It really is the simple things that bewitch me, that captivate me, that give me strength – to be able to connect with people in some way. Here I was, connecting with people over shared experiences.
After Dick Mack’s, and some rest, we went for supper, with more bad pints. Seriously, I have a problem with not giving up on people or things, even when they consistently disappoint me. It is almost as if I believe that if I believe in something just enough to see the good in people and things, then that good will become a reality for them as well. This has brought more trouble to me than it is worth, I fear. But like with Rich above, there are those moments when belief does become a reality. The pint at the hotel in Dingle was not one of them. Neither was Becca.
We found a little pub playing live music, Bob Griffen’s. The outside is sky blue and quite unassuming. But you could hear the peals of joy coming from inside as the musicians played. When you walk in, you are met by the low ceilings of a proper pub, the bar to your left adorned with the tap and bottles of spirits behind it. To your right is a small room, and just around the corner, another room – the kitchen – where the two pickers had set up shop, surrounded by those who had no doubt come to feel refreshed by the only thing that truly refreshes the weary traveler, Irish music (and Irish whiskey). Becca and I sat and listened and drank for what seemed like not long enough.
There were these moments that came about every so often with her. More than every so often, if I am telling you the truth. She called them “a wild hair,” but this is a rather disingenuous way of looking at it. Suddenly, a switch would flip, and rather than the loving and affectionate person, what would emerge is nothing short of a taunting bully. She started to “playfully” hit me, and I asked her to stop. Then it became harder, and I demanded she stop. As you can guess, it did nothing but increase her anger. I got up and left to sit outside.
Growing up, there was physical abuse in much the same way from my father. His “playful” hits often followed a switch that suddenly flipped for no real reason that I could detect, and they always led to anger outbursts. There were times I was thrown across the room, or the moving vehicle, or times when my hair was yanked – I keep it short for that reason, I suspect – or a slap would come out of the blue for new reasons. I do not like to be hit. I can tolerate playful gestures, surely, but to be hit like that does not do me well. Knowing this about myself, I remove myself from situations like that, just as I did from Bob Griffen’s. Becca followed, and through the drunken haze, I remember us arguing about it. We decided to go back to the Airbnb – which had two bedrooms, thank God, and I slept in the other one.
Not handling rejection well is a hallmark of Becca, and so for the next hour, I did something that I had not done in ages – raised my voice to another person. I hate that. I hate that loss of control, that sense that I must puff up my chest to get my point across. I stayed in bed under a heavy blanket, but I raised my voice. I just could not take it anymore. I told her very plainly to go to sleep and that in the morning, we could continue as friends.
The morning was tense. We had breakfast – at a place that served American bacon. I was aghast, aghast, I tell you. And, as I had promised, I drove her around the Dingle Peninsula. She was quiet, sullen, and did not want to be on the trip. It made my usual stops unavoidable because at least I could escape the car for a few minutes and soak in the peace and quiet afforded by the crashing waves. Even at St. Brenden’s Creek, where I wanted to sit and focus, I was not allowed because following me was a storm cloud threatening to become a hurricane. We hurried to Tralee.
I had told Becca a great deal about Tralee, calling it my hometown since the first night Dan and I had landed there six months prior. It was late July, and the weather was true to form. We arrived early due to our host’s warm hospitality. I took one room, letting her decide which. She was not happy when I insisted that due to her actions last night, which weren’t necessarily about the hitting but more about the defense and the refusal to take into consideration my feelings that I clearly expressed – I did not want to be slapped, hit, or other as it just brought up things – we could continue as friends. I took a nap because I was standing up for myself. I guess she did not because when I got up, she asked to speak with me. She had run through the apology handily, and in the end, we agreed to resume what we were doing – exploring our relationship – and we decided to share a room.
She later recanted it, saying she feared my bully-like behavior.
However, for the next few days, we did enjoy our physical reconnections numerous times, and each time better than the last. That is the thing about sex; it clouds so many issues. I am not a prude, but I think that maybe waiting until the relationship is so firmly developed to engage in intercourse might keep bad relationships from happening. I’m not saying wait until marriage, but there is something about waiting until you have a solid idea that maybe this person could, in fact, be a person you want to spend your life with, especially and more so if you find an emotional connection in making love. I do, and I value that – I valued that, I believe I value that still, but I am sometimes just a man, a weak man – because when two people are intertwined, focused on the pleasure of the other, when their breathing aligns, and their hearts provide the beat to the euphoric moans of ecstasy, there is a certain surreal moment that breaks forth. Passion, I believe, is compounded by connection. No doubt, you can have good sex without connection, without knowing the other person, but you cannot make love without a connection – and that connection, great or small, is worth more to me than any momentary minutes or hours and hours of physical pleasure.
We spent our evenings at the pubs for the next three nights. She did not care for loud music, but I was able to convince her to go to Sean Og’s one or two nights. There we met Ross Brassil, who is, in my opinion, the best pub singer I’ve heard in Ireland. Everyone at Sean Og’s has their favorite, but he is mine – and I will talk more about him later. Again, “Country Roads” – but this time, I did not request it. This time, I found myself in the middle of a bunch of footballers celebrating a trophy – and I am not sure how I ended up with the trophy in hand, jumping up and down, shouting “Kerry!” and “Up the Kingdom!” but there I was, doing it.
One of our days in Tralee was spent once again going up the coast to do what I had set out to do: bring my friend’s ashes to Carrigafoyle Castle on the banks of the Shannon. We did, in fact, stop at the well and even at the ruins of the castle in Ballybunion. But it was Carrigafoyle that was my intent that day. I was somewhat ready, I guess, not really knowing what to do, but having told Becca that was why we were going. The weather was finally cooperating and what was more, the Castle was open. We climbed to the top, around the spiral staircases, into each room, and finally to the highest place you could go. English canons had obliterated so much of the front of the castle, but what remained was nevertheless imposing. I could still hear them, smell the lingering effects of gunpowder, and wanted to take up my sword as a gallowglass. On the landing at the top floor, you could see for miles, especially on a clear day.
The tide was coming in, which meant I could still walk around the back of the castle – well, I guess it would be the front if you were one of those ship captains coming to pay his tax – where I decided to let the ashes of my friend go. I did this slowly because this deserved some ceremony, unscrewing the top of the little container with care and precision and saying a prayer as I did. I told my friend about the castle, what I knew, what I had read, and why this was the place I had chosen. I would come back here, I told him, to visit him from time to time, to see if he was making headway either as a rebel or a redeemer, or maybe both. I told him I missed him every so greatly – our coffees in the morning and having a friend to talk to. I reiterated my promises to take care of those he loved and to do my best not to lose faith or grow weary in well doing in my company he had believed in and that had believed in him. I thanked him for all that he meant to me, admitting and then asking forgiveness for not realizing how much I had meant to him and how much he had meant to me.
The one good thing about death is that we come to realize how much someone means to us. Or does not mean.
And then I let the ashes go, some on the wind, some on the water. I imagine they have made their way to the ocean by now, with not a single life under the water knowing what they meant. That was not Rich; it was just our last physical reminder of him. I knew that, but in some way, it was every bit of who he was to be poured out to remain somehow in Ireland until either God or the Sun swept away the cosmos, with Ireland at the center. I did this alone. People come into our lives, making us feel less alone and giving us love, and then they suddenly leave us, taking all the comfort, love, and companionship with them. There is an injustice to all of that.
The next day, we took a day trip to Killarney, where we happened upon a carriage ride through the national forest. This is one of those interesting one-offs that really make any trip. The driver told us story after story about the national forest, Ireland, and anything else he could think of. We found it immeasurably peaceful. For me, Killarney is a beautiful little town surrounded by mountains, but more than that, it connected me once again to St. Brenden, who had studied there to become a monk. There are the small ruins of the abbey on an island situated ever so neatly in Lough Leane. Again, I didn’t see as much as I wanted but I decided to visit again the next time I was there. The next time, always the next time, I thought to myself. I found myself here, like I did other times, wanting to leave just a little bit unexplored to give me a reason to return. What I did take with me was enough to sustain me until such a time as I could.
I feel as if I am skipping out on so much, telling you these vignettes of my travels, but for so many of these places, I return to them, and I write more extensively because they will have come to mean so much more. When you come to know that it is your last time to see something, when you know it is the last time you will touch the soil, breathe in the air, or meet the storyteller, something inside of you draws nearer, closer, so that you do not miss a thing. I wrote every day to my dearest M, about every travel, and I would rather save that for her. With this, I am telling you how I decided to make this my last visit here, to fulfill my dream of living and dying on the Emerald Isle. It is rather safe to say, regardless of the number of words used, I could never in enough detail relay to you how my heart was always at peace here, and every new thing I witnessed, either street, hill, or ship, I took it all in and made it a part of my dreams.
Dreams are the air we breathe, more so than faith, love, and hope could ever hope to achieve. My dreams were always about something grand, but after Ireland, my dreams settled on becoming one thing: someone who lived here. When you take away a man’s ability to dream, or those dreams become nightmares, what you take away is anything that makes us human. I was human once, with dreams, with hopes, with faith. I was human once because of love. No more. No more do I sit and ponder the great things of the universe because, in the end, I have seen and experienced something that could never be out-measured. I had only wished to share Ireland with her, with my dearest M.
In Dublin, for the final night, again, a red flag was raised when I was accused of a rather archaic word, given our penchant for modernity: lust. Becca was deeply insecure, and as such, this started to cause more problems that night, leading to a very tense airplane ride and a showdown at the airport back in the States. When we landed, finally back in Colorado, I had but a few hours before I was going to leave again to go to Baton Rouge and then on to South Carolina to see my son. I do not really know why, but again, even when it was time to leave her, I called her and told her we were clearly not done, that neither of us could really separate from each other, and that when I returned, we would attempt couples counseling. Of course, I had another trip to Cuba coming up, but we would figure something out.
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