Ireland, Part 2

Driving south through the narrowest of streets (is it really that expensive to add another 18 inches of pavement?), I’m growing more and more used to this left side of the road thing. I still have no idea where other cars are, or where to look to find them. It’s still disorienting having so little car to my right and so much to my left—I’ve probably run Julie into the sides of many a vine-covered embankment, but she has graciously stayed quiet.

“It’s much easier being a passenger,” she remarks when she decides to drive for a mile or two.

I’m crawling up the back of my seat, not from anything she’s doing behind the wheel but from my own disorientation in the left-hand passenger seat. “I can’t agree,” I mutter through gritted teeth, and am happy to drive again.

Driving in the cities is easy, though, because I just follow the traffic. The Irish know what they’re doing, because for them the left-hand side is right. (Get it? Ha. I hate myself.)

We’re off to the cliffs of Moher. The road takes us past Dunguaire (or is it Dunedain?) Castle, a cold-looking tower above a black bog. Water rushes out of the side of a hill into the deceptive stillness and shallows. We sneak around on the same path where knights and princesses, fairies and ancient sprites have played for millennia. Puck of Pook’s Hill smiles from just behind that branch. No, over here! There! Quick now, here, now, always! Aryn lists this castle as her favorite part of the trip—even more than jumping on the hotel beds.

The countryside changes slightly, subtly, hinting that this small island has a nuanced depth that years couldn’t scratch at. We wonder aloud how different it might look in the summer, with leaves, flowers, heather in bloom, grass and ivy thriving. We’ve said we’ll come back to most places we’ve visited so far, but I’d be surprised if we never see this land in season, with every shop open and the weather ten or so degrees warmer. (Note: February is one of the drier months of the year here, and one of the cheapest, so if cost is a factor don’t wait ‘til the summer to visit.)

The road signs in Irish and English, the conversations in pubs during Sunday afternoon soccer matches that sound like no language I’ve heard, the look among strangers to the strongest English speaker when a question is posed, remind me that even here (oh yes), here English is also the language of the conqueror.


Travel is a funny thing. We search for the unique, the authentic foreign experience, but our search takes us to places that millions before have recommended, to share an experience with those chattering, camera-toting hoards lucky enough to get there too. Do we want to eat pizza at Da Michele’s because Julie Roberts did in Eat, Pray, Love, or because it’s the best pizza ever? (It is.) Do we want to see the cliffs of Moher because we saw them in the Princess Bride as the cliffs of Insanity? And if the answer is yes, does that lessen the authenticity of our experience any more than the cart selling keychains or the wire mesh fence obstructing our view from Giotto’s Tower?

Because, grinning fiercely from atop the Cliffs into the wind whistling in from Nova Scotia with nary a hill nor tree nor blade of grass to slow its mighty course, gulls riding the updrafts 700 feet above the spray from exploding North Atlantic breakers, my birthday memory is worthy of nostalgia without qualification. When I joke in the future about the twelfth anniversary of my 29th birthday, I won’t be thinking about my eyesight, hairline, muscle tone or strong joints. I’ll be carrying a little girl with muddy boots, listening to the wind tear at our raincoat hoods, walking the well-trod paths high above the cold, iron-colored sea.