Bonus Blog: Close Encounters of the Sidhe Kind

While officially my blog should be over, I can 'unofficially' drag this material out for another two to three months, but never fear, I promise not to bombard your inboxes with countless clover cliches and travel diatribes any longer. Though I will encourage you to check back occasionally, as I will likely pop up from time to time with another misty-eyed rant about my twisted need for a regular Irish fix. Until then, here's one more little ditty from our travels that Nathan and I'd thought previously to keep between ourselves. Yet it seems you people just can't get enough and since we've had the question put to us more than once, I thought I'd better post the answer here.

The question is: Did we run into any faeries or leprechauns during our visit to Ireland?

The answer is: But of course. Before I continue, let me set a few of you straight about the difference between American and Irish faeries.

The concept of faeries comes to us from ancient Ireland, Britain and parts of Europe. These residents of the Otherworld have long been the subject of countless folk and "fairy" tales. Now, I'm no expert on faeries, but I can say I've encountered one or two in my lifetime and therefore am at least acquainted with the species (if you can call it that) in general. Before you look up the exact area code for calling the mental health division of the Department of State Health Services, I should mention that I don't see the faeries, nor do I physically hear them. However, I do sense them and on occasion communicate with them. So, while that should rule out visual or auditory hallucinations, there's really very little I can say at this point to exclude the possibility of grandiose delusions, fantastical thinking and overall mentally unsound behavior. In that case, please feel free to continue dialing while I expound.

In America, the notion of faeries has unfortunately devolved into the benign, gnat-sized, winged, magical beings we often think of today. I'd like to take this moment to point the finger of blame at Walt Disney. Mr. Disney has warped all our imaginations beyond repair with his sugar-coated, sexist versions of the once dark and complex tales that served the ever useful purpose of keeping children in their beds at night where they were less likely to be eaten alive by any number of unknown, hellish beasts from the other side. If you don't believe me, I give you Tinker Bell, the popular American stereotypical 'fairy' who prances around in an Esther Williams costume and speaks by making a tinkling sound when she shakes her ass. But once upon a time, faeries were highly regarded nature spirits who worked vigilantly behind the scenes, maintaining a primarily peaceful connection between this world and the next. Notice I said "primarily", because faeries weren't all good, neither were they all bad. Whatever they were, they were to be respected, admired and even feared. Anything less might invite the wrath of the Sidhe (Irish term for faeries, pronounced 'shee') and invoke their trickster like -or worse- response.

While we hold to the idea, here in the states, that these beings are purely fictional figments of overactive medieval imaginations, the Irish are far more stringent in their views on the fae. It is very much a part of their culture still to recognize and respect the reality of faeries and they are careful to uphold the traditions that were passed down to them by their ancestors to keep the interference of these nature spirits at bay.

My own run-in with the wee folk of Ireland happened in county Wicklow, at the Glendalough monastic settlement. Having left the initial ruins and cemetery behind to stroll through the enchanted nearby forest, I crossed a little wooden bridge over a bubbling stream. It was freezing wet, a misty rain was falling and we'd been warned not to stray from the paved path for our own safety, but I couldn't resist the faeries' call when it reached me just on the other side of that bridge. Carefully I picked my way down a game trail that ran alongside the stream, almost loosing my footing more than once on the sheet of slick moss that covered everything in sight. Nathan attempted to scold me, but I was already too far ahead by the time he realized I'd left the trail. I clambered over a log or two, ever aware of the leading of my invisible guides. They had something they wanted to show me, just ahead, if I would only continue to follow them. Once or twice I considered turning around, but I couldn't shake the curiosity they'd instilled. All of a sudden I felt the command to stop. I was completely out of sight of the original trail by now but I knew I could get back easy enough. I looked to my right where the stream ran by, sensing their urging to 'look to the water', and I nearly doubled over with laughter when I saw it. There, folded as neatly as if in a closet at Buckingham Palace, was a pair of men's trousers hanging on an out flung branch over the water.

Now, I can't say how those slacks made it there exactly, but I can say that it is damn cold in Ireland in November and nobody is more aware of that than the Irish. It is highly unlikely they were left there when a well meaning Irishman dunked in the stream for an icy swim. They were too far out over the water to be reached or hung from the bank, not without sliding in and getting hypothermia. They were dark and unfaded, so they couldn't have been out there since the summer. However they came to be there, they'd not been there long. But the best part was how they were folded, creased down the middle of each leg, just like my mother taught me. The humor was unmistakable and I, for one, am dead certain that my Irish faery friends were delighted to share this rather jovial prank with someone new. The fae are tricksters after all, even if you believe they are little else.

So there you have it, my encounter with Irish faeries. Of course, I made my way quickly back to find Nate and drag him to see the pants. He cracked up and I dare say he might be willing to believe me from now on when I tell him the faeries are near. Thanks to those pants, I might even manage to avoid the padded cell and straight jacket he's been threatening all these years. Consider yourselves warned though, whoever the three of you may be, there are no Tinker Bell's in Ireland, but there is a gang of invisible nature sprites ready and willing to steal the trousers right off your shanks if you cross 'em! And somewhere, maybe a few meters down the Wicklow Way, is a pantsless man, probably American, wandering in aimless search of his $200 Calvin Klein dress slacks, praying he finds them before the goats do.

Day 6: The Face of Leap Castle

We left the pockmarked coastline of Cork to travel north, up through the fertile midlands to Ireland's hidden gem: the Slieve Bloom Mountains, a gently rising range densely clad in fir forests and crowned with heather and blanket bog. Nathan and I intended to spend the next two days hiking to our heart's content through the sanctified serenity of Slieve Bloom. Unfortunately, the weather had other ideas.

On our sixth morning, Nate and I crossed ourselves, armed ourselves with whatever psychic regalia we had and headed a few miles up a country road to Leap Castle, one of Ireland's most haunted sites. Now, you may have already heard of Leap Castle, maybe even seen it on television. The castle's bloody history and reputation for the paranormal have landed it many a headlining role on various 'haunted' shows, the best known of which would be Ghost Hunters, Scifi channel's docu-series following TAPS, The Atlantic Paranormal Society, and their all-night vigils trying to capture evidence of the other side in some of the world's most haunted places. Don't worry though, Nathan and I have experience at this as survivors of the Myrtles Plantation and Salem, Massachusetts.

When we pulled into the circular drive, we began to think we'd arrived at the wrong place. Leap's crumbling facade was partially boarded with plywood. An aging motor-home sat to one side and a heap of rubble along with several ladders sat to the other. A sheep dog with some kind of skin condition greeted us reservedly (is that mange?). Surely this was not the ghost ridden hot spot of legend, praised and filmed on American t.v.? It was.

Sean Ryan, Leap castle's current owner met us at the giant studded, wooden door after I clacked the knocker a few times. I was instantly charmed. Mr. Ryan looks a bit like Ireland's version of Jerry Garcia: husky, hairy and happy. He led us to his fireplace where a crackling flame perfumed the air with a mingle of peat turf and incense and bid us sit down in one of the well worn chairs gathered round. For the next couple of hours, we sat spellbound, listening with rapt attention as he laid out the history, both normal and paranormal, of the place he now called home. Like any landmark that has survived a good many years, Leap Castle has seen its fair share of tragedy. It only follows then that at least a few of those who'd lived and died there might want to stick around. Listening to Mr. Ryan spin his tale I felt certain the television shows were both right and wrong. Leap Castle is haunted, but a hotbed of demonic activity, it's not.

Whatever spirits linger there, they were wholly eclipsed that morning by the castle's living resident. As he played us a tune on the Irish whistle I realized, Leap Castle hosts something rare indeed and it's not just the ghosts. Sean Ryan is a modern day bard, part storyteller, part musician, part historian. As he weaves his enchantment over you, you walk away entertained and enlightened. A couple of hours as his audience is worth however many euros he'd like to charge, though he only asks for six. It is no small leap (pun intended) of the imagination to see how in their day, bard's were a very hot commodity amidst the ancient Celtic societies where they lived and loved.

My story should end here, but it doesn't. Before driving away, we snapped off a couple of pictures of Leap Castle. I didn't ask to take any inside, feeling it disrespectful to the privacy of our host. After all, the castle is now a warm and loving home, not just a tourist trap. After we returned to the States and I plopped down the $50 it took to develop over 350 memories on film, I noticed something unusual in one of the Leap Castle photos. In a window to the left, where the castle is still decrepit and unlivable, is the pale silhouette of a person. Zooming in, I expected the form to dissipate in a play of shadow and light, looking less human upon close inspection. Instead, it looks more human. Using zoom on the computer, a face begins to emerge, with two shadowy eye hollows and a distinct forehead, cheekbones and shoulders. It appears to be leaning around the edge of the window, watching us drive away. It looks young and feminine. Not unlike how I imagined the face of twelve year old Charlotte Darby as she fell from one of the castle's watchtowers to her death centuries ago.

Before that picture caught my eye, I thought I'd just met the real face of Leap Castle. Now I wonder, is the ghostly image in the window a trick, a pattern played by the leaves and vines slowly pulling the castle's wing back into the earth? Or is it the real face of Leap Castle, watching silently from the shadows as another unsuspecting car of visitors pulls innocently away? You decide for yourself...

Day 5: The Standing Stones of Drombeg

Before we left for Ireland, I made an entire list of 'must-sees' during our trip. I don't mean literal destinations like Dublin or Newgrange. I mean things that I felt were uniquely Irish, things I definitely couldn't see here and maybe couldn't see anywhere else in the world. You can think of it a little like Irish travel bingo. Just imagine a card divvied into squares, each one containing its own picture. One might show a raven and another might depict a rainbow. On one there would be the image of a sacred well and on another, a rag tree. Maybe when I'm all blogged out I can share my list in a special blog with my loyal readers (all three of you). Until then, I'll give you a clue. One of the things you would definitely find on my bingo card, probably dead center, would be a stone circle.

Stone circles fascinate me. Don't ask me why. Could be novelty caused by the obvious lack of them here in America. Could be curiosity. You can't see one without wondering what it's doing there and why someone went to all that trouble to erect it. Could be a bunch of metaphysical mumbo jumbo about sacred space and energy lines, yada, yada, yada. Truthfully, I think it's all of the above. Fortunately, Ireland is dotted with them like a case of bad pubescent acne. Cork and Kerry alone share 120 between them! While I'd love to see them all, I am reasonable, at least some of the time. So I settled for one. And to make it easier on Nathan, I wasn't even picky about which one, just as long as I saw one.

By the time we reached Kinsale, we'd already passed two signposts for two different stone circles off the road somewhere. Nathan wouldn't stop for either. Well, it's not that he wouldn't as much as he couldn't since the signs sprung up out of nowhere as he was blazing through the sheep fields like a bat out of hell leaving a train of fire in his wake. I kept telling him to slow down. By that point I was, needless to say, unamused. I seethed, then I pouted, then I finally gave up. That's when we walked into Kinsale Silver.

Picture this, a tiny one-room shop where the local jeweler tinkers away at his table making teeny singular replicas of ancient Celtic artifacts in silver to display as pendants, rings, earrings or pins. On one table, to the right, lies a solitary silver ring upon a cloth of black velvet, almost crude in it's appearance. Behind it is propped a picture in a simple wood frame. The picture is of a grand thirteen stoned circle jutting crookedly out of the earth, cows and sheep milling happily in the background. The ring is its replica.

I marched right over to that picture and swooped it up off the table. Holding it up to the jeweler and jabbing my index finger at it I demanded, "Where's this?"

He looked at me, his expression all a muddle of shock, confusion and perhaps a little fear. "About 40 Kilometers from here," he stammered.

"Can you draw me a map?" I commanded more than asked. At this point, Nathan is hiding his beet red face amid a curtain of Celtic knotwork necklaces, feigning interest so as to not be associated with the crazy, picture wielding American lady.

"Ya," the jeweler relents, hesitating.

I laid the picture down on his table and heaved a sigh of relief. I would get my stone circle by golly, if it's the last thing I did. "I'll also be taking the ring," I added decidedly, which elicited a small, involuntary shudder (a natural reaction Nathan has to me spending money-it's a wonder this trip didn't send him into convulsions) from my husband in the corner trying to pretend he didn't know me.

The next morning found us off bright and early with nothing but a sketchy, penciled map and a silver ring to guide us to Drombeg, Ireland's most photographed stone circle. Luckily, signposts kicked in about two miles up from the actual site, but until then it was an iffy hour's drive. You have to understand, this isn't Stonehenge. There are no tour buses here. These circles litter the backyards, wheat crops, sheep fields and cow pastures of Ireland's rural communities. Save but for the enduring patience of the farmers who find themselves the proud keepers of one of these ancient monuments, we would never see them at all. These men have to contend with people of all walks of life tracking back and forth upon their land at all hours of the day and night for a little of the circle's magic.

On a crisp, sunny morning, five days into our trip, when the moon was still visible low in the sky to the west and the water lay quiet, dark and brooding to the east, I saw my stone circle. Thirteen gleaming jagged pillars, of the original seventeen, stood proud and steadfast before me, reaching toward the bluebell sky with whatever dignity they had left. I walked around them, touching each one, zigzagged in and out of them, snapping shot after shot and I knew, this was someone's cathedral. We may never know what these circles were really for, but what we do know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, is that they mark something special to our ancestors. These stone circles are the monuments of our parents of the stone and iron age and as such, they are our inheritance, our birthright. They belong not just to Ireland, they belong to the world. I, for one, was privileged to be among them.

I wrote a story once, called The Guardian Stone. The gist was that every stone has a story to tell and therefore an inherent value. I collected countless rocks as a little girl (and still do) for that same reason, always imagining what my little specimens might tell me if I could get them to talk. As I stood in Drombeg circle, I was awed with wonder at what those stones might say if they suddenly started speaking. What could they tell us, standing as sentinels to 2500 years of change and evolution? What would they teach us, as the guardians of that same 30 feet of sacred space for over two millennia? I can't even begin to know.

Drombeg turned out to be a two-fer. On site, just behind the circle, is an ancient well, dug at the time the circle was erected as a place to retrieve water for aid in food preparation for whatever stone-age festivities went on there. I'd brought an empty plastic bottle for just such a thing. No, it wasn't a well associated with any new world saints or heroes. It wasn't one of the wells that countless Irish still made pilgrimages to regularly to ask for divine intervention in whatever struggles they were encountering. But to me, it was holy. To me, Drombeg's well might be the holiest water in all Ireland. Before I filled my bottle, something flashing in the sunlight amid the ashes of a recent fire within the stones caught my eye. Bending down, I found a single, 1 cent euro. Suitable fare for my parting gift (Glendalough taught me well). I stooped beside the well, offered a prayer, a kiss and a euro to whatever gods or goddesses still ruled in the hallowed waters of that old, old place and I filled my bottle knowing that a little of the mystery of Drombeg was coming home with me.

Day 4: "C" is for Cork, Color, Crafts & Cod

No, this is not some misguided, tossed out draft of a Sesame Street script. This is Day 4 of mine and Nate's Irish excursion and our introduction to county Cork, the farthest we wandered on the map from Dublin, our starting point.

County Cork is wedged along the southern coast of Ireland between it's smaller, more popular neighbors, county Waterford, home of Waterford Crystal, and county Kerry, home to Ireland's top tourist destination, the Ring of Kerry. Always willing to go against the herd, I decided to forgo the Waterford Crystal factory and the stunning, wind-whipped (and therefore exceptionally cold in November) Kerry peninsula for the quaint, picture-perfect postcard town of Kinsale, with its colorful harbour full of sailboats. Also, Nathan refused to go to Ireland unless we visited Kinsale, so that played a bit of a role in my decision as well.

Kinsale claims to be the oldest town in Ireland, a title that I'm sure many of Ireland's towns and villages are willing to stake a claim on. While its seniority may be arguable, what is not up for debate is the tons of charm this sloping village packs into its minuscule proportions. Here's where the C's begin. Kinsale's charm can be levied on the three C's: color, crafts and cuisine. Amid the subtle greys of a misty Irish sky, Kinsale's many painted shops and cottages pop like the neon lights of Las Vegas at night. Reds, blues, yellows and greens light up the landscape like a technicolor parade. And it doesn't stop there. Kinsale's artsy fartsy residents aren't afraid to expand beyond the primaries. Think Barney purple, hot pink, Arizona turquoise and pumpkin orange, to name a few. No matter how cold and dreary the weather, one peak up or down the rainbowed alleyways of this little fishing village will warm you right up.

If a dozen Easter-egg tinted photo-ops don't do it for you, consider the crafts. Ireland is known for its crafts. I'm not talking Hobby Lobby cross-stitch or painted birdhouses. I mean quality, hand-made, you'll-have-to-write-it-into-your-will-it-will-last-so-long items that combine form and function in a way only the Irish can. Silver, pottery, hand woven scarves, sweaters and hats, photography, sculpture, the list goes on and on. Kinsale is home to many unparalleled artisans who draw hour upon hour of inspiration from the moody nearby sea and the cradling curves of the coastal Cork landscape (there's some C's for ya). Here's their best kept crafty secret for all those who think I'm crazy for passing up the Waterford factory: the Kinsale Crystal Showroom; an individually owned studio with one of a kind, deep cut crystal treasures you won't see the likes of anywhere else, even at Waterford. If you're ever in the area, bring your cash and your sunglasses to Kinsale Crystal. You'll need both to get out of there without retinal damage.

If I still haven't convinced you of Kinsale's merit, let me give it one more shot. The final C is for cuisine. Kinsale boasts that it is the culinary capital of Ireland, and that's probably a title they can take to the bank. Especially when you consider the loads of fresh seafood that float in and out of there daily; prawns, oysters, mussels, scallops and my personal favorite, cod. It may surprise some of you to hear that I chose cod over a platter of shellfish drenched in a creamy concoction of butter and herbs. Cod is my favorite because it's the traditional choice for fish and chips. Yes, you read me right, I visited Ireland's culinary capital and ordered fish and chips. These, however, are no ordinary fish and chips. These came from a little restaurant with harbour views that serves only fish and chips because they know how to do the tried and true classic right, in a top-secret handmade batter that fries up to the most heavenly golden brown you can imagine, drizzled in fresh lemon juice and malted vinegar. Not only that, they have an entire menu of fish and chips, a veritable fish and chips smorgasbord, if you will. Now whose mouth is watering?

There you have it, the three C's of Kinsale in county Cork. I have literally spelled it out for you. But if you think that's all you're gonna find in the county that hosts Blarney Castle and its notorious stone (which I have it on top authority is regularly pissed on by the local boys, "Pucker up sucker and kiss this!") then you are wrong again. Curious? Too bad. You'll just have to wait for the next blog. Stay tuned...

Day 3: Is This Island Rocking or Is It Just Me?

Apparently, it's just me...

With a fond farewell to our friendly Wicklow hostess and a stolen moment to repair my shaky alliance with a number of the county's more irritable, invisible residents, Nathan and I hit the road in search of Kilkenny City, in county Kilkenny. I chose to stop at Kilkenny City for three main reasons: Kilkenny Castle, Kilkenny Craft Center and Kyteler's Inn Pub. I would only return for one of those, the pub.

Kilkenny City is a good 2.5 hour drive from the village of Laragh, where we stayed in Wicklow county; longer, if you're still adjusting to driving on the right-hand side of the car on the left-hand side of the road. Particularly if that "road" is a foot wide half-paved rollercoaster romp through the hills of Ireland, buffeted on either side by a densely overgrown wall of hedge, or even better, a twenty story drop to one's eternal glory. We were beginning to understand why we kept getting the familiar response from the locals, "You didn't drive, did ya?"

I'd say about an hour into that drive I was struck with the sudden sensation that not only was the car moving, but the ground beneath it was as well and not in the same direction. A good half hour after that Nathan found himself waiting patiently by the side of the road while I attempted to keep down my black pudding. With a few more breaks to stop the world from spinning, we finally found ourselves in Kilkenny City. I mistakenly thought that once out of the car, all would be well again. Apparently vertigo doesn't care whether you're walking, riding, sitting or sleeping, it keeps on rockin' just the same. The walk from our hotel to Kilkenny Castle was like a three block long fun house.

The castle was lovely, though I would have liked it more if it would have sat still. Note to self: winding 700 year old stone staircases constructed for Irish midgets are not conducive to alleviating vertigo. The craft center was fabulous, if we were about 2,000 euros wealthier. I discovered later that there is a store in Dublin named "Kilkenny" which is essentially a larger, better stocked version of the Kilkenny Craft Center, making our shopping detour superfluous. The only truly redeeming quality about the city, I decided, was its selection of fine Irish pubs.

I came to Kilkenny for one pub, the medieval and purportedly haunted Kyteler's Inn, former establishment of Dame Kyteler who was found guilty of witchcraft after being married four times and allegedly poisoning her husbands. She was sentenced to burn at the stake but seems to have escaped her fate and fled the country. As one Kilkenny barman put it, "She was what we call 'cute'." I believe 'cute' is Irish for 'sneaky'. The pub now boats a kitschy, witchy themed atmosphere, replete with a black-clad, many-moled mannequin stoking her cauldron fire. It was wonderful! Trust me, nowhere does the medieval witch trial victim angle work better than in a stone constructed pub established in 1324. It was very convincing.

Kyteler's Inn would have alone made our Kilkenny detour worth it, but we also bumped into a good two to three more cozy centers for good ole Irish craic, stout and traditional music. One was named Paris, Texas and was modeled after the movie which the owner apparently fell in love with sometime in the early eighties. Having had the unfortunate experience of passing through Paris, Texas, it is hard for me to imagine anyone naming anything after it, least of all anything of value. But who was I to burst this poor, deluded Irishman's bubble?

While Irish roads and Irish castles do not a cure for vertigo make, Irish beer is another story. Here's the secret. You have to have enough. It seems, and I can say this based on my wholly scientific impromptu experiment carried out all in the name of selfless medical research, that a pint or two may not stop the world from spinning, but six will take that island by its hills and nail it firmly to the earth where it belongs. So this is my advice to any and all who find themselves trying to hold on to their Irish breakfast after a nine hour plane ride and three day excursion through the country's back roads, find yourself a good pub, sidle up to the bar and down a steady six pints of Guinness, doctor's orders. That'll knock things straight again.

Day 2: The Haunting of County Wicklow

On our second morning in Ireland, we were happy to leave the madness of Dublin behind and head south of the city into the mountains of county Wicklow. County Wicklow bills itself as "The Garden of Ireland" which, from what we could see, is quite accurate; if by 'garden' you mean 'hauntingly beautiful mountainous terrain thickly blanketed by enchanted forest'. When Americans think 'garden', we usually think of the tortured, wilting tomato and herb specimens we fruitlessly try to nurture into viable flora again and again via our not-so-green thumbs (some of us learning the lesson sooner than others). Apparently, the Irish have a completely different view of the word 'garden', one that more often than not includes sheep, but we'll get to that in a later blog.

Yes, the Wicklow mountains are a serene, inspiring backdrop for much of Ireland's tumultuous history. They are home to various movie sets, including Reign of Fire starring Matthew McConaughey, several firing ranges utilized by the Irish Army (thus the tanker that nearly pushed us off the road), scattered herds of wild, feral goats, various fantastical and/or mythological beings and countless ghosts. You may not find those last two on discoverireland.com. You'll just have to take my word for it.

Like many visitors to Ireland, we decided to tour the ancient monastic site of St. Kevin at Glendalough, one of three glacial valleys in county Wicklow. The initial ruins include a church, a monk's house, a round tower and a cemetery. Now, I've visited many a historic cemetery before. In fact, I like to think of myself somewhat as a connoisseur of final resting places. That said, no graveyard has ever made me feel the way this one did. As we walked among the tilting tombstones and Celtic crosses, I, for no apparent reason, began to cry. Nathan rolled his eyes and pulled out a Kleenex, "What's your problem now?" All I could say was that this place felt very sad, very tragic and the weight of all that sadness was sitting on me like a bacon press. As we moved towards the back of the cemetery, the weight lifted and I felt better. Coming again through the front to exit, I could feel it returning. Here's where I made my fatal mistake.

One of our family members -and you know who you are- requested I bring back a rock from Ireland for their souvenir. I'd intended to get one while in Wicklow, but I knew as I perused the sorrowful site at Glendalough, that taking a rock from that ground would be wrong, very, very wrong. Instead, I plucked one from between the deteriorating stones inside the church, just above the still visible font for holy water. I'm not sure what I was thinking, except perhaps that A.) the rock didn't technically come from the ground, B.) the church should be a happy place by contrast to the mournful cemetery, or C.) a rock is just a rock, right? Wrong.

That night, after we'd retired to our room in the Wicklow Way Lodge, where Mr. McConaughey stayed during his bald Reign of Fire days, I awoke sometime around 3:00 a.m. from a terrible nightmare. All I could remember upon waking was that in the nightmare I was cornered in a castle or dungeon of some kind, being confronted by the cumulative spirits of Wicklow for having offended them beyond all hope of reconciliation. In the dream, I was quite ignorant of whatever it was I'd done, if indeed I'd done it all, but that was of no significance to them. Something was coming for me. Something dreadful. Something being sent to punish me for my crime. I awoke so terrified that I contemplated packing up right then and driving, or rather having Nate drive, straight into the next county. In one evening, I'd gone from viewing the Wicklow mountains as the most enchanting, breathtaking natural wonder on the planet, to a recoiling place of torment sodden with the spirits of Ireland past.

As it turned out, Nathan was not keen on a midnight getaway and promptly rolled over, writing off my fears as yet another one of my ridiculous, however imaginative, delusions. With no other recourse, all I could do was pray and ask to be shown how to appease whatever disgruntled ghosts I'd awakened. The answer seemed obvious, and I promised to follow through at first light. I was rewarded with a much happier dream to follow, which implied I could leave Wicklow county acquitted of all charges. Long story short, the lovely owner of Wicklow Way Lodge now has an inconspicuous little addition to her driveway rock collection, courtesy of St. Kevin's church. The moral: leave sacred ground where it lies, don't collect rocks, tell well-meaning relatives with unusual souvenir requests to get stuffed.

A Blog About The Blog: Why Ireland?

Ireland is a fantasy, a mythic relic I have carried in my heart for so long now that I can't remember a time when I didn't want to go there. The enigma is that I really don't know why. I have no obvious Irish heritage. I don't have a great Irish surname like O'Brien or O'Donnell. I don't even have a great Irish first name like Shannon or Kelly. I didn't marry an Irishman. No one in my family has been to Ireland and come back with marvelous tales or pictures to tempt me. There is virtually no explanation for this Celtic infection that caught when I was fairly young and took over. All I can say is that the idea of Ireland inhabits a place in my mind reserved for unicorns, Avalon and the Loch Ness monster. It's a kind of dream space where all the things we wished existed when we were kids continue to live out their magic. The difference is, Ireland does exist. And because it does, it gives me hope that maybe those things do too. Somewhere beyond the fog, there might actually be a fairy flitting about. Or maybe there is a place where the rainbow ends and untold fortunes are waiting to be uncovered. Ireland makes me believe in the unbelievable. It seems impossible that a place that beautiful could simply be the result of a geological accident. Surely in some lost time, amid the crumbling, carved facade of an unknown hall, a host of mythical beings sat around a great stone table and conspired to create a land where dreams and reality converge. That land, I am proud to report, is Ireland.

When my husband and I first planned this trip, I was beside myself with glee and anticipation. Though we had only months to get everything together, it felt like it was thirty years in the making. However, just before we were to leave, I was walloped with a terrible notion. What if Ireland didn't live up to my expectations? What if the reality of Ireland fell short of the fantasy I'd always entertained? Ireland had become my mystic compass, without it I would feel lost in a world of the mundane. This trip had the potential to crush the dreamer in me. Luckily, it didn't. Ireland turned out to be more magical in reality than it ever had been in my mind. This blog is my attempt to share a little of that magic with those who haven't had the pleasure of feeling it for themselves. It's my way of chronicling my journey, because Ireland is not a mere vacation. Not to me. Ireland is a pilgrimage. It is my Mecca, my holy land.

In addition, I hope it will provide a little practical advice for those, who like myself, are planning a trip and scavenging the internet in hopes of finding some nugget of traveling wisdom gained through personal experience instead of the same old regurgitated guidebook tripe. Try as I might, I had a hard time scrounging up real advice for visitors to the Emerald Isle that didn't come from a tourist site, and I wanted my experience of Ireland to be unique and personal, not patterned after the tired routines of countless tour buses.

Most of all, I must confess, that this blog is my attempt to keep Ireland alive in my heart and soul. It is a sad, perhaps desperate effort to maintain my connection to a place that feels more alive and vibrant to me than any other, to keep it from slipping effortlessly back into the mists where it ceases to be real anymore. Now that I'm home, the Texas landscape seems a dismal comparison to the day-glo green I came to love during my week in Ireland, my new favorite color. Still reeling with the nausea of post-flight vertigo, I take comfort in knowing that right now it is 2:00 in Dublin and a bevy of urban pedestrians are making the cobbled streets of that grand old city virtually impassible for motorists, countless sheep are happily grazing through lunch in rolling pastures the shade of radioactive Kryptonite, and the celebrated stones of Newgrange are solidly standing watch over their spiraled secrets, awing a new busload of visitors as they await the dawning Solstice sun, just like they have for the last 5,000 years. Oh yes, Ireland will make you believe.