The Ballet

This blog entry is dedicated to two of the people I love and respect most on this earth; my sister Debbie and my Broman Gary. I love you both. Thanks for always taking such good care of me and for always keeping me entertained. (PS Don't forget Broman, it's called poetic license lol)

The journey of 1000 miles begins with....a hair-raising ride in my Broman's Exploder. It's the truth. It seems as if any time I start a long journey it begins in much the same way as no trip would be complete without a ride to the airport from my bro-in-law, accompanied by my sister in the front seat gripping the “oh shit handle” and wondering if we are gonna make it off the highway in one piece. You see, my brother-in-law is the poster child for road rage driving. He has the unique ability to make one shit in one's pants whilst laughing one's ass at the same time. The assortment of curse words, tempered with a wide variety of facial expressions and fist and/or finger waving are, in my mind, priceless. And, always expected when Gary is behind the wheel.

You see, usually I make my way to my sister's house in Ft Lauderdale on my own to begin most of my adventures but, on this rare occasion, my Sis and Broman came to scoop me up. And as such, the trip from St Augustine to Ft Lauderdale yesterday held all the fun of having tooth pulled with no novocaine. Similarities to the aforementioned car ride at the beginning of this story were apparent. But, on this occasion, I also became aware of the rather intricate ballet that ensues while my sister watches, and subsequently (whether he likes it or not) guides my Bro-man as he weaves his way in and out of traffic at an alarming rate of speed. Said ballet unfolds in perfect synchronicity. It is a thing of imperial beauty to watch the swan-like grace with which my sister moves her extremities like magic wands: pointing, waving, or steering as if the Exploder will ignore my Broman's commands and instead, magically read my sister’s body language and respond in kind. One can almost taste the look of consternation on Broman's face as he brakes just seconds later than Debbie would have preferred, as she jams her foot into her imaginary brake. And one can't help but chuckle under one's breath when the choice words of wisdom she offers up to Broman comes out of her diminutive self in such a way that you think there is a large, tattooed sailor in the Exploder all of a sudden. In all its glory and humor, this ballet of sorts unfolds before me, as I watch from the back seat in terrified amusement. I would like to say I would not give up the time I get to spend with these two as they make me laugh and keep me bemused and amused on the regular. That being said, I did find that the key to a successful road trip with these two is to keep one's iPod fully charged, your pillow fluffed, your head down, and your opinions...to yourself. 

And so it begins... 

 

To be Sure of It

The bus rolled slowly to a stop as I opened the door for the umpteenth time that day. The girls stood, unassuming, on the other side of the narrow, gravel road. I got up from my seat behind the worn and faded wheel and went down the three grey, metal steps and onto the roadside. The gravel crunched beneath my brown, faded work boots as I crossed the road, “you ladies trying to get the bus to Dingle Town?” “Yes sir.” Well Lassies to be sure, you be on the wrong side of the road then.” I squinted into the rare sunshine as I motioned for them to follow me. I stashed their gear in the nearly empty hold and we all climbed back into the warmth of the bus. As the young girls got themselves situated I slid back into my worn leather seat; my perch above the long and winding roads of Ireland. I closed the folding door and as I let out the brakes I heard the comforting and familiar sound of the air rushing through the lines. I checked the rearview mirror to make sure my new charges had safely settled in behind me and took my foot from the brake. The bus eased into motion.            

28 years I had been driving this bus, these meandering lanes almost to the day. And not a dawning had come and gone that I haven’t thanked the good Lord up above for my life behind this wheel. So many people have come and gone through these old, squeaky doors. So much life, and love, and laughter: faces of the earth, brown and golden. Pale. Eyes of green with black-rimmed glasses, long fuzzy scarves, toques, baseball caps, surfboards, and rucksacks, young folks and old. Travelers from the earth. 

I turned onto the asphalt roadway, gave her some gas, and picked up some speed. The bus rolled along, humming down the lanky road that came alive before me. Ahhh…a grand day to be sure of it. I took a deep breath. I had lived all my life in these hills. I had, for 50 blissful years, breathed the cool, delicate air which always seemed to be filled with the taste of green grass and the salt of the sea. To be sure of it I had grown, loved, and lost here in these highlands.

The locals were my neighbors, my friends, my family, my charges, my passengers. I loved to watch them, wrapped in their grey, woolen coats of winter or the short, cotton sleeves of an Irish summer. I loved to watch them as they hopped on and hopped off my bus with their brown, cloth grocery bags packed with the evening’s meal or backpacks filled with novels, binders, and school books. I loved to watch as the children, whom I have known for almost all of their lives, grow up and leave the comfort of this gentle place for parts unknown. I am the guardian of these times. Of the Irish folk as they intermingle with the tourists who have come to eat, sleep, and breathe Ireland. As one, they all come together sharing moments in time like vines growing and twisting up a trellis in full bloom. Life.

 My mind returned ever so gently and briefly to the task at hand. I was making good time as the bus rambled down the road heading west into the misty rain that had suddenly taken over the day, as was often the case here in Ireland. I checked the mirror once again to see the young ladies in a deep and blustery conversation. I steered the bus towards today’s final destination. My thoughts returned to the far-reaching asphalt that stretched out before me, the smell of the rich loam of the hillsides, and of the salt air that drifted in through the open window as I got closer to the ragged cliffs that sat stonily along the Irish Sea.  

 This is my life behind the wheel. I am content as I spend my time on this earth peering out the windshield as the wipers wash away the rain showers. The blades move back and forth with a rhythmic tick, tick, tick. Luck of the Irish they may say or, as I think of it, just a life filled with gifts, smiles, and long winding roads. Ahhhh….I am blessed to be sure of it. The young ladies behind me were still busy chatting with excitement as we drew closer to my concluding stop of the day and, as happenstance would have it, my hometown.  I slowly took the long remaining curve down into Dingle Town and in due course we pulled up along the quay and I gently guided the bus to a stop. I slid the door open and I, once again, eased out of my seat and hopped down to help the young maidens retrieve their gear out of the belly of the bus. “Have ya been ta Dingle before ladies? 

“No sir. This is our first time.” 

“Well to be sure of it then this is as beautiful a place as you will ever see. Now ya must take a ride out along Slea Head Drive as it is the jewel of Dingle to be sure. I was raised here ya know.” That single statement seemed to pique their interest and they stopped gathering their things and turned their full attention to me.

   Since I was in no particular hurry I sat down along the gated entrance to the harbor, lit a cig, and answered as many of their questions as I could. The part of my job I loved the most, imparting to the wandering souls the simple yet intricate details of the place I call home. I took a long drag off my cigarette and exhaled deeply. “Now if ya take this road up a block or two

and turn towards the water you can take a stroll along Dingle Bay all the way past Hussey’s Folly there and down to the lighthouse that has stood along these rocky shores since the year eighteen and fifty-five.” I took another drag on my cigarette and continued. “As you walk now young ones, keep an eye across the bay and you will see the grand and majestic Esk Tower which stands guard over the harbor and directs the fishermen to the entrance to the port and towards the safety and warmth of home. I pointed towards the bay across the colorful boats that were moored along the dock and filled with men returning from a day upon the sea.

“And see here. If you make your way past ole Murphy’s Pub there,” I pointed “just down around the corner there is a place along the lane that pipes ancient Gaelic music out into the alleyway.” The girls were drinking in the information like this was the place they had longed for all their lives. I smiled at them. I had two daughters myself about their age, both making their way in the world both feeling too confined and stagnant in this little seaside town.

 I worked many a year driving these hills and roadways to give my girls the opportunity to see the world beyond, as these two girls were doing today. Dingle was a world beyond to them but was an old comfortable hat to me. “Excuse me sir I know you have to be on your way but could you tell us where we might find a good hostel?” “Oh to be sure, now ya make your way straight up this street and you’ll find the ‘Hideout.’ Ole Micheal, he’s a fine man and will take good care of ya to be sure. And if you want to go drink up some of our national brew and listen to the best music in town you must go to the Courthouse up yonder there. That is where the locals go to be sure. Be still now, as we take our traditions very seriously and if you can be wordless, and close your eyes and pay close attention, the music will carry you back to the times of my ancestors and it will fill your head with visions of old to be sure of it.” The girls nodded their heads in quiet delight as I helped them shrug back into their rucksacks. I gave them a wink and smile which they returned wholeheartedly and as they turned to leave they smiled and waved back at me.

I watched with a slow, rising joy as they disappeared up the quiet cobblestone street past the rainbow-colored houses that were awash in the early evening mist. I turned and closed the luggage hatch, climbed back aboard my old red bus, took one last look at the fading twilight over Dingle Harbor, let out the brakes, and ushered my bus towards Tra Li.  I’d be there and back in two hours, driving my old sea blue pickup truck up and over Connor’s Pass and back to the green pastures of home. Tomorrow I would do it all over again. I was a lucky man…to be sure of it.

 

A Christmas Story: Kristine Style

 Last evening I decided to brave the holiday crowds and headed out to do some shopping on the last Friday before Christmas. So with my holiday cheer and as much patience as I could muster firmly in place, I arrived over at the Bed, Bath and Beyond to make my final purchase of the season. As I wandered through the store I eventually saw the item I thought I wanted to purchase: 12 feet over my head and decidedly out of my reach. So off I went to the front counter where a lady informed me she would send someone directly. After several minutes I noticed a young man scampering towards me, kicking something down the aisle, in bending to pick it up, he knocked something else off a shelf, and in doing so his radio fell off his hip and went skittering across the floor.  With an exasperated look at me and a wave of his hand at it, he leaves it lying on the white tile floor in lieu of helping me as quickly as possible. I gave the young man a wave and a smile and motioned for him to take his time, and retrieve his radio, which he did. Smiling hello as he approached the final few feet, I smiled back and turned and pointed towards the ceiling. We casually had some discussion about the item that was not just out of my reach, but out of his as well, so he quickly departed to retrieve a ladder from across the aisle.  As he was trying to make it back across said aisle to me, his sojourn was interrupted by yet another, obviously more impatient, customer. He helplessly began to listen to the man’s request, shrugging his shoulders and throwing me a glance of sincere apology. Once again I wave at him as if to say, no worries bro. You could see the visible sigh of relief in his posture and after a few minutes, he returned to me, ladder in tow. As we start to chat about my pending purchase, about his many encounters with unruly customers this holiday season, and about the weather, he climbs the ladder and I begin to toss instructions at him, “No that one. Yes. The one to the right. Damn. that’s not the one either. I want the one that looks like the one here.” He finally finds, in the far back right of the top shelf, exactly what I was looking for and makes his way triumphantly down to earth grinning all the way. I was like, “Dude you just made my Christmas! Thank you so much for all your help.” “Hey no problem” he responds, “I wish all our customers were as warm and friendly as you.” I smiled and shrugged at him and as I could not read his name tag I asked him his name. “Colton,” he said. I reached out my hand to shake his “Kristine” I replied. We cheerfully exchanged “Merry Christmases” and off I went to pay for my present.

So about a minute later, as I am standing at the back of the line, here comes ole Colton around the corner. He sees me in line and says, “Hey Kristine! I’ll take you over here.” and motions for me to come down to his register, which I gladly did. As Colton began to ring me up I retrieved my wallet and started counting my money to see if I had enough cash to make my purchase or if I needed to put it on my credit card he said “Here let me help you out” and promptly gives me a ten percent discount on my 100 dollar purchase. I was like “Awwwww…dude, you did not have to do that but that’s cool thanks so much.” Now as I am about to walk away sending another “Merry Christmas” Colton’s way, he says to me, “Hey, Kristine you know what you said to me back there, about making your Christmas? Well I just want to say, you made mine too.”  I hesitated and looked back at him and smiled and said “Hey dude no worries…might just as well be the reason someone smiles today, eh?”  As the realization of my remark came to him he smiled a smile as big as Texas and nodded his head in agreement and as I finally departed I realized in that brief encounter Colton and I left each other better off than we when we found each other. 

Kumbaya my friends, kumbaya. Oh…and Merry Christmas.

The moral of the story: be kind, be friendly, be patient. And regardless of whether you have known someone for years or just a few minutes leave them better off than when you found them.

The River

The Intro

 Ever since I was 12 there has been a spot out in the boonies that I still hold near and dear to my heart and still visit regularly. Deep in the heart of North Central Florida, there is a place that we who live in the area refer to as “the three rivers.” It is a section of land that oozes Spanish moss, where the distinct odor of bass bedding in the tall grass, and the heavy taste of a hot summer breeze are simply present. There in that nugget of the backwoods, snuggled deep down in the south, lies the apex of country life that exists out upon the banks of those majestic rivers that gently weave their way through the rolling countryside. It is there that the Suwannee, Ichetucknee and Santa Fe rivers meet as if cordially shaking hands while they float lazily past one another. Although we spent some time on the other rivers it was the crystal waters of the Ichetucknee that have always held sway over me and my friends and it is there, even to this very day, that we travel from our homes across Florida to drink, laugh, love, and enjoy each others company and of course the beauty of NCF at its finest.

Now in my youth, I drank a lot of beer, tripped on a lot of acid, and smoked a shit ton of weed out on that river. My friends and I tubed,

canoed, swam, caught crawdads, grilled out, and just had an all-around wonderful time. Although the years have left us with a few grey hairs, a few extra pounds, and hopefully a bit more sense (of course that remains to be determined),

those years have also left us with a wealth of memories and stories that happened out on that river. This story is dedicated to those friends and those fantastic memories that I hold so very dear. The names have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent.

                                                    

         Francine "The Story"

Now as life would have it I still get together with several of my friends that I have known since I was 12 and spend some time down

on the river. That’s right; since I was 12. Amazing anyone would want to be friends with me for that long!

At any rate; my friend Patty’s father owns a cabin out on the river and once a year about 6 or 7 of us get together for what we refer to as “girls' weekend” to raise a little hell, do a little grilling, some tubing and some…well….drinking. Now I should probably set the stage:

The cabin is at the top of a rather large bank or, some would say, a small hill and there is a path of stepping stones that will, when you are sober, take one gently down to the dock which sits along the crystal blue river. Now this particular evening the tequila shots and beers were flowing freely and all of us had been down on the dock for quite some time and we were, as usual on the first night on the river, getting rather intoxicated.

At one point my friend, we’ll call her…Alice. Yes, so Alice decides she needs to go up to the cabin, and being the wonderful friend that I am I thought I would give her a hand as the more inebriated you are the steeper and more treacherous that damn hill seems to get. So off we go, down the dock, off into the grass, along the stepping stones, all seemingly going fairly well until my friend….ahhheemmm…I mean Alice, comes to the conclusion she no longer requires my assistance and decides that she can “make it up the hill on my own!” All at once she gathers her wits, her keen sense of direction, and herself and attempts to make the final push towards the cabin and as such she snatches herself out of my rather protective grasps, takes two maybe three rather confident yet wobbly steps in the correct direction up the hill and then without hesitation, takes four lurching steps backward down the hill where she unceremoniously lands on her ass, side and face in the mud, the muck, and the leaves.  Now trust me when I say I was, with great concern of course, laughing my freakin’ ass off as I tried to get her back upright which of course she would have none of, continuing to insist that she could do it on her own. She finally made it to her feet, covered in mud with sticks and leaves sticking haphazardly out of her hair. She proceeded to stagger up to the cabin,

in through the porch door where she was met with a chorus  of “holy shit what happened to you?” At once, not waiting for a reply, Patty takes ole Alice into the restroom to help clean her up and as I walk up and into the cabin, still chuckling to myself, I see that down the hallway some of my friends have, trying to get a look at what was occurring in the bathroom,

stacked themselves up one head on top of the other peering into the crack of the half-opened door when we hear Patty ask Alice once again what happened. Alice bellows out, in honest indignation and in her deep southern drawl, “That damn Francine pushed me down! Can you believe it?! That bitch Francine pushed me down!” In concert, all four heads that were peering through the door turned around and looked at me with expressions that read “Who the fuck is Francine?” Ummm…just for the record; I’ve known Alice since I was 15 and am currently 50. Oh…and my name is Kristine. 

At that point, the pyramid of heads and bodies collapsed into a heap of laughter that echoed through the woods and out across the river. We were literally on the floor rolling around we were laughing so hard. And thus Francine, my evil twin was born. For the rest of the time that we were there that weekend, and I am sure for the remainder of the time we get to enjoy each other’s company out at the cabin, whenever anything goes asunder we all know that it will have been ole evil Francine at work once again. Alice, I love ya girl!

The Sign

 Dedicated to the Memory of my Grandfather Neil Campbell:

I don’t really know if you believe in signs, but I do. I believe that we all have loved ones that have passed on that surround us with their love and want us to live happy, healthy, wonderful lives and I believe that these signs should be looked upon as the most treasured of gifts. 

 And as such, back on my first ever visit to Ireland and Scotland in 2011, it was a misty double rainbow that appeared over the lush green pastures and hills of Dingle that I received as a gift from my great-grandmother (times 3) as my feet touched the sandy shores and ragged cliffs of Ireland for the very first time. And was it, as some people would have it, mere coincidence that I met on a solitary mountaintop deep in the heart of the Argyll Forest, the Duke and Duchess of Argyll, the head of Clan Campbell and the apex of my journey two years ago to that vast and beautiful country? 

                                

Was it just coincidence that I found my grandfather’s name “Neil Campbell” carved into a monument in the center of the small town of Inveraray the home and seat of my family’s clan? Or was it by chance that I came across a road sign bearing my grandfather’s adopted name along a gravel trail that lies along Loch Fyne? Could it have been just dumb luck that a Scottish bagpiper, much to my surprise and delight, came piping down a small boreen in the middle of the forest where I sat upon a hill amongst the purple heather?

 All coincidence one could say, but not me. I believe that they were signs. That they were an affirmation of the pleasure my grandfather and those who came before him felt at my sojourn back to my roots. 

And so, several years later, it was on top of a bridge in St Augustine, overlooking the Tolomato River, where I once again received a sign. One that would give me the courage that I needed to move forward with a dream. And thus the story goes as follows: Since my return from Ireland I told myself that I would settle down in St Augustine. You know, get a job, go back to school, put away my foolish yearnings to return to Ireland and just live a normal life. And although I have done that I still found my mind wandering time and time again back to my wild ideas of crossing Ireland and Scotland on foot. 

 On this particular day, I was taking a walk through town, out along the salt marshes, and up and over the Vilano Beach Bridge. And, as I often did, I found myself thinking very deeply as I walked about the possibilities of making a journey across Scotland. Across the lands of my ancestors, through the Argyll Forest, along the craggy shores of Loch Lomond, and deep into the history of my family. As I chugged along that day, making my way up the steep bridge, head down into the wind, not paying attention to anything except my feet, my mind telling myself to forget those foolish dreams but thinking of hiking through the hills of Scotland none the less, I looked up and there, just a few feet in front of me, was a man that so closely resembled my grandfather that it stopped me dead in my tracks. 

 As I stood there mouth agape, the gentleman pulled alongside me, looked straight into my eyes, held them briefly in his steely gaze, and then, as if in grand approval, gave me a wink and a nod. And it was there in the wake of his passage that I could have sworn I heard the words ‘follow your heart’ swirling somewhere on the salty breeze. It seemed as if time itself had stopped and I stood…motionless. Then, as if breaking myself free from the chains of indecision, I turned to watch as he disappeared over the horizon and out of sight. 

I'm not sure how long I stood there in quiet contemplation of what I had just experienced but eventually, I turned and walked in silence down the other side of the bridge; peering occasionally back over my shoulder and finally making my way down onto the shell rock beach, out along the water, and onto the boulders that jutted out into the jetty. I seated myself upon the rocks and looked out across the sea towards Scotland and beyond. It was there that I came to the realization that once again I had received a gift beyond measure. One that would solidify my desire to return to Scotland and Ireland and one that made me realize that I could do it, that I would do it, and that living a dream is a grand and wonderful thing and not foolish…at all.

   The Clan Campbell Castle In Inveraray, Scotland

Glendalough: The Myth, the Mist and the Midges

Now, there have been times on my journey across Ireland in which I made some seemingly wise decisions. Some even bordering on brilliant. And there have been other times when I, after the fact, said to myself: 'Self, what the hell were you thinking?' Now, as it happens, the time I spent in the Glendalough Valley was an experience that was as wonderful as it was god-awful. Let me elaborate upon that last statement.

        I arrived in the Glendalough Valley in the owner of Captain Halpin’s Bunkhouse somewhat beat up old van accompanied by my friends Anna, Eike, and Myles, all of whom were staying at the hostel in Wicklow and who also happened to be my roommates.

At the end of the day, everyone had plans to head back to the hostel, well, except for me. The day before I had come up with the bright idea to take all my gear with me and spend the night alone in the hills of Glendalough. At the time I am sure I was thinking to myself, 'This is going to be awesome!' Hindsight they say, is 20-20.  

       As the day drew to a close, I certainly had some reservations as I watched all my new friends drive away in Ian’s van back to the comfort and confines of the hostel.  Had I known then what I know now, my ass would have loaded up in that van so quick it would have made your head spin. But no, I had to be the great adventurer. Taming the wilds of Ireland alone. Forging ahead into the distant horizon. Going where no man has gone…well, you get my drift. 

          My first order of business was to find a place to pitch my tent as camping in the valley itself was not allowed. I had to find a site that wasn’t a three-day hike out of the glen and was in a place where I felt comfortable and safe. To circumvent all of these issues I did what any mountain woman would do. I left the wilds of the valley via the park entrance, walked across the road, up the hillside, and found a place to pitch my tent behind a tree just outside the park boundaries. “Ha-ha,” I said to myself. I am a damn genius. From my perch behind the small solitary tree, I could look down not only on the parking lot of the park and the visitors center but the local hotel as well. Now this is what I call wilderness camping at its finest!  

        So, with that, I pitched my tent on the hillside being harassed in part by the few midges that had decided to join me. No biggie I thought 'I can handle a few pesky bugs.' However, by the time I had my tent erected, which takes all of about 5 minutes, I was beginning to regret my decision to stay behind. The longer I was out there the more midges joined the party until I unceremoniously left my tent behind, walked briskly back down the hill into the park, and finished my day with another short hike because at that point constant motion was essential to my survival. 

        Now, those of you who have read my blogs before must be thinking, she has dealt with this before, why on earth did she not bring some repellent? Well, that is a great question. And the answer is: NOTHING repels midges. There isn't anything thing that exists on God’s green earth that can combat those little flying Piranha teeth. What does work? Keep moving. Hey, no problem, at least for a few more hours. But eventually, I would have to go back to my tent. And when I did, it was war. And guess who was on the losing end...again. Sitting peacefully on the side of the hill watching the sun go down over the majestic Glendalough Valley was out.

However, lying in my tent with the door zipped up tight was in. 

         One must understand that midges are so small and so crafty that they can somehow, someway, get in through the screen door of any tent. I don’t care how expensive and bad-ass you think your tent may be. Therefore, I could not even leave the tent flap open to gaze outside into the valley below me. By seven o'clock that evening with four hours of daylight to go and another five until sun up, I laid on my back in my tent watching the million or so midges that had now found me and were trying, and often succeeding, to enter my humble domain. I had not brought my laptop, no book, no motor car, not a single luxury (sung to the theme of Gilligan’s Island) and I had only a partial charge on my iPod. It was, to say the least, going to be a very, very, long night. 

          Now, I did have three other sources of entertainment. One was listening to the midges bounce off the tent as they tried to get to me through the tent, the door, and any other crack or crevasse that they could find. The second was to go spastic on occasion. Like a cross between the karate kid kicking someone’s ass and a Ginsu knife on the Home Shopping Network: all going off inside my tent at once. This all to kill the little bastards that kept making a great impression of Houdini and appearing out of thin air, again, and again, and again inside my tent. Then of course there was my third and most successful form of entertainment: snacking. I spent the evening lying on my front, back, stomach, or side, shoveling whatever I could find into my mouth, watching and listening intently to the midges like they were on late-night television, and flying into an occasional fit. I swear I laughed at myself a lot that night at how ridiculous this all must have looked to the universe.
         The next morning I awoke, after maybe two hours of sleep, to the sound of a gentle rain falling on my temporary home. I thought to myself “Well at least there won’t be any midges to contend with.” Unfortunately, that was not to be the case. As I unzipped the door to my tent I realized that what I thought was rain pelting my sleeping quarters was actually….yup, you guessed it, four trillion midges. I took a deep breath of exasperation, ate 250 midges in doing so, and immediately re-zipped the tent door and thought…fuck. I considered my options. Grabbing my gear, leaving the tent behind, and high-tailing it out of there, was on the top of the list. Couldn’t do it. That is in essence littering. So there was no way I could do that. Throughout my camping experiences in Ireland, I have done pretty much everything in that tent, sleeping, writing, brushing my teeth, getting dressed, all while lying flat on my back. 

         That morning I must have looked like the three stooges all wrapped into one as I, laughing at myself once again, dressed from head to toe including my boots (no easy task I’m tellin ’ya), packed all my gear, including all the wrappers and garbage from my marathon eating session, and made my great escape. I, at a frantic pace, opened the door, shot out of the tent like a cannonball, rolled nimbly to my feet (just like GI Joe), and pulling my rucksack haphazardly behind me, un-staked my tent, grabbed it by one corner, and literally fled down the side of the mountain with its white and blue exterior flapping in the wake of my speedy descent. I was followed by a veritable sea of midges. All, in my mind’s eye, wearing tiny little napkins tucked in their tiny little shirts, holding knives and forks in their tiny little wings, and making nummy-nummy-nummy noises. It took me the entire hillside and then some, to outrun the little buggers. By the time I ran through the park entrance past the parking lot and reached the picnic tables at the visitor’s center, I had outrun their entire ravenous army. No small feat for a woman with my short legs and stature. Victory was at long last...mine. If you can call it that. 

        I found out after the fact that all my friends had gone back to the hostel, enjoyed nice warm showers, drank ice cold beers, had themselves a little music session right there at the hostel, and afterward got a great night's sleep in a nice comfy bunk. Ouch. 

However, I must say that the reward for my stalwartness was that at 5 o'clock in the morning, which is when my “great escape” occurred, there was no one at the park, anywhere around on the trails, or in the valley itself. I literally had the entire place, miles, and miles of wilderness, in all its wide wonder, all to myself. I did not lay eyes on another human being for 6 or 7 hours and it was a true gift to be able to wander the hills and valleys of Glendalough in such solitude. It was a treasure to behold. Now as stories go this is a pretty good one. I will have to say unequivocally that the trials and tribulations I had to endure were worth the experience, the solitude and the sheer joy that I garnered from that part of my incredible journey across an amazing country known to those who love her as...“The Bog.”

The Old Boathouse

                                                    

    Have you ever had one of those days where you know, without a doubt, that you will never have an experience like the one you just had ever again? It is like you know inside of yourself that those moments in time were special. Unique to that place, and space, and time. And as you are living it, you know it. 

     That was the feeling I had as I approached the old boat house, that stood on the edge of the rocks which stretched as far as the eye could see, along Wicklow Bay. The owner of the hostel in which I was staying had told me that it was “National Heritage Day” in Ireland. He told me that there would be traditional Irish music at “The Old Boat House” that evening and urged me to go. I immediately thought to myself "How cool." A bunch of pub musicians getting together at a local bar in celebration of their heritage. I could not have been more wrong about that assumption or pleased that I was. First and foremost the “boathouse” was just that; an old lifeboat house which, since the year eighteen and sixty-six, sat at the back of Leitrim Place and had, over the years, seen a lifetime of men sail out to brave the sea; to make a living for their families, to rescue those in need, or return a lost soul to a family that waited ever vigilant upon the shoreline. 

     Time seemed to stand still as I stepped up to the old wooden door, worn and tattered from the constant battering of the wind and the rain which howled past and seemed to beat ever gently upon it; as if waiting for someone to answer. I turned the handle, stepped across the threshold, and found myself instantaneously engulfed in the warm glow of the inner circle of the community of Wicklow. The room was filled with people. Not musicians from the local pubs, but young girls who sat twirling their fingers in their hair. It was filled with young boys laughing and dragging the toes of their sneakers across the faded wooden floor, as they impatiently waited for the next song to begin. There were young men who sat bemused. There were old men beyond 80 years and then some, that held within their wrinkled faces; strong eyes of crystal blue, quick smiles, and the knowledge of the ages.

     There were women who wore cotton dresses, who sat with their hands folder in their laps while chatting with their daughters; all of whom were seemingly waiting for the town elder to begin the next song. 

      I tried as hard as I could to be unobtrusive and quietly made my way the few steps to the back of the room. I nodded at two of my roommates from the hostel who were sitting in folding metal chairs, each looking rather unsure of themselves. I smiled and eased myself down into a chair next to them as a hush fell over the room. The boys straightened in their seats, and the girls tucked their fiddles under their chins. A chair scrapped across the floor, and the rest of the players, young and old, plucked and strummed in preparation. And then, simultaneously, without so much as a cue, the music began. Simply at first. Then then with the vigor of those comfortable in their surroundings and a certainty of their own skill.

      The room was filled not just with the sound of traditional music, but with a depth of purpose that I can only describe as a legacy defined. It was as if hundreds of years of tradition, of heritage, of pride, was at that moment being passed down from one generation to the next. I could literally taste the past in the notes that drifted across the room and fell upon my grateful soul. As the music played I closed my eyes, opened my heart, and felt an unimaginable sense of peace and belonging well up inside of me. This was it. This was why I  had come to Ireland. To live and to experience this very moment in time. And as the night progressed I began to realize that this wasn't just about “traditional music” but about tradition. There was to follow: readings of Gaelic legend, traditional Irish dancing, and of course wine and song. I found myself wrapped in the warmth and deep-seated love of these people and the beauty of their Gaelic culture.  

      The singers came one by one to welcome me and my friends. One of the elders began to open up bottles of wine, passing them about with little plastic glasses which were of course accompanied by smiles, music, and the hushed sound of children giggling. The women tried to teach me some Gaelic words, the men an Irish jig, and the children an ancient Irish song.  It was as if these people did not want their heritage to just be a thing of the past, but were breathing life into it right then and there in that little boat house. They were ensuring its survival as they gently and patiently handed down music, stories, and dance that had existed for centuries, to the children who sat within. The children who would in time, pass what they had learned down to their children and to their children’s children. 

      It was a simply beautiful evening that I was blessed to share with those people...my people. I was treated as if, and I certainly felt as if, I belonged there. They did not approach me as an outsider but accepted me as one who loved the land, the legacy, and the tradition of Ireland as much as they did. They shared with me, in the glow of the evening, something special. Something…magical. I will never forget the stories that were told, the music that was played, and the love and laughter that were given to me so freely in the old boathouse that still sits quietly on the quay in an extraordinary place called Wicklow Town which lies nestled beside the echoes of a deep blue Irish Sea.