I've been stalling from making a post about Ireland because, you know, it's only the place I've spent my life dreaming about.
I can tell you that I did a pretty terrible job of taking pictures if we add up the moments I could have taken pictures and then look at when I actually did take pictures.
But if there was music, I was too busy dancing and clapping.
If the hills were nearly mountains, I was too busy driving (or nearly crashing).
If the pub was quaint, I was too busy chatting.
If the food was superb, I was too busy eating (minus the one picture I got of my stew. Mmm, and what stew that was).
I did a decent job documenting the trip in crazy bullet points scribbled across journal pages, words sharing space with random bits of flowers and moss that I would find too dear to leave behind.
"What was your favorite part of the trip?" I've heard so many times.
Usually I end up sputtering, making a lot of noises that signify deep thought and ending in a hopeless, shrugging silence.
The silliest question.
I can tell you a few things, only if you promise to understand that this is not the half of it, not the half of the half of it, and we'll talk more later.
It was strangely surprising to me how real it all was when we first were driving (and lost, incidentally). Worried I had built it all up in my mind, I wanted to stop and kiss every low stone wall, every pasturing sheep, every old home with simple, clean lines. The music in the pubs, the stories we heard until too-late hours, the beer, the brown bread and smoked salmon - it was all really and truly. I kept saying stupidly "This is real life!"
Here, anyhow, are some of the answers I give to the impossible question of favorites:
The people dancing in the streets to the gypsy band in Galway.
The music in the pubs. So much music, everywhere.
The Guinness. Friends, it's real life.
That time we lifted some pub glasses.
The one dear librarian with the glasses on her nose. She had to look over them to see the computer, and she moved so slowly that it took her a half hour to look up directions. Once we got there we discovered it still was not the place we had been looking for. But you've never met a dearer librarian.
Speaking of poor directions...the hilarious amount of poor directions we received.
The ruins we crawled around.
Talking to Stephen about the ruins he crawled around growing up. We also discussed Irish history and economics and language.
Receiving maps of Sligo from the John the map guy, the cartographer who carries a bag of his maps with him.The man was an absolute gem, and has a website: johnthemap.co.uk
The smell of the Long Room at Trinity College.
The chills I got at Newgrange - partially from the wicked cold, partially from the incredible structure. So much to say about this!
The pub in Slane where the owner played us the U2 DVD from the concert he went to at Slane Castle. We all sang along.
Speaking of singing along, I'll always associate "Ho Hey" now with the time we sang it with a room full of Irish folks at the top of our lungs.
Ronan, one of my very, very favorite. He regaled us with tales of the pub he'd owned for the last 22 years, then walked us to our car to make sure we got out alright.
The tea with milk. Always tea with milk in cups.
The woods. So alive and eerie at the same time, what with the moss and ivy and crumbling ruins you'd find.
The rivers.
Every perfectly delightful friend we made.
There, that's enough for now.
Now that I'm back I'm bracing myself for the future, trying to find signs of spring and remembering to love this land as well.
[And, of course, planning an extended return.]
