The sights and sounds, stories and symbols of Ireland are tucked snugly away into my pocket of memories. Ireland can’t be boxed, put on a shelf, and forgotten. The traveler who has been to Ireland always carries it with her and becomes a part of what she has seen; at least, this traveler does. Remnants and reminders of Ireland will always be with me.
I took notes going and coming to Ireland, and while I was there. Writing on the bus was a jiggly process as I jotted down thoughts or scenes or what Bill Mahoney was telling us. I’m closing out my Ireland series by sharing a few of those disjointed notes with you:
Friday morning–rain. Typical weather is rain, sunshine, rain.
No Wal Mart in Ireland, but Aldi stores.
I see a picture-perfect Irishman, walking with a cane and wearing a Sherlock Holmes cap, but he’s on the sidewalk and I’m in the bus. No snapshot.
Narrow streets, narrow sidewalks, shops come almost to the street. Stepping off the sidewalk is a dangerous thing.
Ferryboat runs between Dublin and England.
Daniel O’Connell, Irish hero who fought for the right of Irish Catholics to own land.
Lots of crows in Ireland. They are tame and watchful. Hmm. Story idea?
A tunnel runs under the River Shannon.
Food here is delicious, home-cooked and of Irish products. Always potatoes at lunch and dinner; sometimes breakfast.
King John’s Castle on the River Shannon, Swans on river, lots of sea gulls.
Inniscarra means Island of Friends, in the valley of the Lea River. People get in and out of area across bridges.
Average Irish income is 45,000 Euros. Corporate taxes are low.
Coming into County Kerry, green hills, dark forest with spruce, pine growing so thick I don’t see how anybody could walk through.
The unicorn is a religious symbol of some sort and sits atop a hill on the way to Cork. An Irish saying in County Kerry, “If you can see the mountain, it’s going to rain. If you can’t see the mountain, it is raining.”
Lady’s View: so cold and windy, the wind almost blows us off. Legend has it that a Spanish Armada sailed into the coves far below us and buried treasure sometime in the 1500s. Mist is moving away from the hills which wear dappled sunshine. Small fishing boats in the sheltered coves now. We passed a fairy ring, a falling-down fairy fort. Farmers leave them alone.
Houses are plaster or stucco, very little wood. Many are painted a pale yellow, perhaps to combat the grayness of the misty days?
In Ireland, there are groups of people who move from place to place called “Travelers”. Bill assures us they are not gypsies; however, in the USA, I think they would be very much akin to gypsies.
Leaves are turning color and falling from the trees in Dublin. It’s autumn in Ireland and the weather is chilly. With winter coming on, the people will be snugging into their cottages and it’s time to head home.
Me, kissing the Blarney Stone.
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