An Irish Summer

I was just telling my friend, Nikki, earlier today that ever since I was a little girl I dreamed of going to Ireland.  In fact, in high school, one of my dear friends, Ashley, bought me a book about Ireland, because she knew how close it was to my heart. I never imagined I would make it here. This verse came to mind today, as I finally realized my old, child-like dream had come to fruition. 

This is a section of a piece I wrote for my travel writing class about the National Park, Gougane Barra. 

Finbarre's Chapel

To imagine Gougane Barra one must think postcard for a moment. Think scenery from Lord of the Rings. Think otherworldly.  As my group’s bus enters the national park, chills go up my arms. Closing in from a distance are the Shehy Mountains, green in the most unembellished sense of the word, and bolder than the sky. To our right is the source of the River Lee, tranquil, reverent, and the home of a small island where Saint Finbarre took his hermitage long ago. On the foliage-laden Island sits a small, white chapel— a young, dreamy-eyed girl of seventeen tells me it’s “the only place in Ireland to marry.” Apparently, it’s a place to say good-bye as well; a procession of mourners fills the chapel honoring the life and death of a young man. I look on from a distance as a sad beauty comes over the place, and Silver Birches become friends of grave stones.

Walking deeper into the forest, a strange thing occurs to me: I hear such a solid silence that it is actually musical. It is fairy music: resounding off white and red fuchsias, pine needles strung as harps, echoing footsteps of percussion, and the hum of a waterfall. As we hike higher up the mountain there is only more evidence of the magic here: purple foxgloves, sun-splashed streams, and green bog moss that could have been the bed of kings.

At the top of the mountain, we’ve reached Irish heaven. Between the chill of the wind against the light sheen of sweat on my body and my exhausted quads, I know I’m victorious. My friends high-five and break out into bold, heroic poses on a boulder. This is a moment for the giggling and dancing of child-like, endorphin-filled, adults.

 Off a ways, in a sheep-filled meadow, I sit and immerse myself in the beauty. The meadow was the ocean, seemingly dropping off when it met the sky. Voluminous white clouds, so fat and puffy, could have only been the product of the purest volcano. Rocks the size of fallen giants are covered with vegetation.

All around me I feel Irish. Not that I am Irish, but that the spirit of the Irish people is tangible. I see it in their earth and smell it in their mountains. I hear it in their laughs and taste it in their air and rain. I’m touched by it in their churches. I will carry these memories back to Texas with me, but they could only be made here. Forever I will cherish this place. Sweet, sweet Ireland.