Cool Parts of Coole Park

After several days of 'slothing' around my apartment and having a few seemingly well-thought out plans fall through, today I ventured off to Coole Park and the former estate of Lady Augusta Gregory, friend and muse of one William Butler Yeats. I've studied Yeats extensively this year, mostly through my 20th Century Literature Class (that feels like a century ago), but also a little bit through my own readings and museum findings. His brother, Jack Yeats, was a prolific painter who boats a huge exhibition at the local (and free) Galway Museum. Anyway, all semester I've been trying to get to Thoor Ballylee, Yeat's monument and tower located in the middle of County Galway, which you would think is an easy enough commute, but not so.

Public transportation in Ireland is great: CityLink or GoBus will get you to any of the big cities and a lot of the tourist destinations for a pretty good price, and BusEireann or a few smaller services are very effective for bouncing around to more places off the beaten trail. I've used the train once, as well. But for all of these wonderful options, there are a lot of places that are only accessible by car, limousine or horse and buggy. On Monday we scrapped plans to visit Clonmacnoise (but will go tomorrow!) because we'd have had to take an expensive taxi, and yesterday I needed to skip a livingsocial cruise deal around the littlest Aran Island and under the Cliffs of Moher because there was legitimately no way to leave the port town after 1:45 in the afternoon without your own magical transport. Thestrals are out, flumes are underappreciated, and I've still got a ways to go in my teleportation skills. So Thoor Ballylee is no exception of a hard-to-get-to but worthwhile place, 5km walking distance from a town called Gort.

I didn't reach it today, although I found out at the very end of the excursion that there had been a sign for the tower near where we'd been traipsing around all day, which was a bit heartbreaking, but it doesn't necessarily mean that I absolutely can't make it back out there sometime next week. At 10 euro for a return student ticket, Gort is very nicely accessible from Galway and easily doable in a day. Coole Park itself was a 3km walk- a little bit under 2 miles, and when we set out that morning the weather was looking extremely temperamental  It's always a gamble trying to do anything in Ireland outdoors, which is frustrating at times because it's a very outdoors-y sort of place, but today we definitely lucked out. It drizzled all during the bus ride out, was mostly sunny through our walk to and around the estate, and poured while we were sitting under a covered waiting area to get on the bus back to Galway.

The place itself was really a gem, something we'd stumbled upon as a plan at 2 am the night before despite always having been vaugely in the back of my mind as a maybe destination at some point in the semester. (The problem is, 'sometime' is quickly becoming a very narrow window). Filled with beautiful green trees and boulders and wildflowers, all of the recent rain had done wonders for the natural spring feel, smell and look of the gardens. In the walled garden, we found a few pretty gazebos and an enormous old tree that had been 'autographed' by many of Lady Gregory's now famous friends. She asked them to carve their initials into the bark, almost all of which are still visible and easily identifiable. I'm not the biggest Yeats fan for all of my obsession with reaching his tower, but it was still pretty cool to see the letters he etched away right distinctly there in front of me. Throughout the park, there were little placards indicating what portion of the trail we were on, how they inspired various poems of Yeats, and excerpts from respective writing about those locations.

In general, it was just a very good day trip, one of those spontaneous ones that work out really well. It was a lot of walking and my feet are blistered yet again, but I really enjoyed it. I kept exclaiming at how 'cool' everything was and then pretending that I'd just made some very witty never-before-heard pun. Likely not, but it was effective and fitting. We lunched on a 'cool' old stone bench in the shade of a gigantic-branched tree that fairies definitely live under (it was surrounded by a ring of similarly gargantuan trunks), happened upon a winding river and lots of mossy groves, as well as an odd-looking statue bust wearing a cardigan tied around his shoulders. The visitor's center was free, and included recreated rooms from the old Coole house, based off of a memoir written by Lady Gregory's grandchildren and their time wandering and exploring the grounds like only little girls can do. It included artifacts from the family as well as famous visitors (Yeats included) and was staffed by two very friendly women. School groups were there the same day as us, which is always a funny concept to think about- Irish kids going on field trips to all of these places I've been attempting to reach over a semester.

It was a very cool day, and one I'm glad to have experienced! Hopefully, the weather and buses will hold up a bit more reliably during my now last week here. Keep checking back, we're in the final stretch now.

Lonely 'Round the Fields

I would like to preface this by admitting that I can't properly spell 'fields', I instinctively go for 'feilds' and it is only the little red squiggly line and the memory of a friend's mocking correction on the day I'm about to describe that prevents me from doing so above. I before E has failed me, the exceptions to that supposed golden rule always make me second guess myself- 'does it sound like neighbor or weigh?'

But anyway, a few days ago I took another little Irish day trip to the nearby-ish town of Athenry, almost purely off of the desire to see the location so romanticized in my favorite Irish tune: The Fields of Athenry. If you haven't heard it, you should go click that YouTube now and let it play as you read the rest of this post. And if you know it well and love it, still click and listen anyway and hum along for the fun of it, because it's so pretty and heartbreaking. We got there by train, the first time I've taken such transportation in Ireland over a coach bus, which is also definitely my favorite way to travel, hands down. It's a fairly small town, characterized by being an intact, well-preserved medieval city. Much of the inner circle is modernized and fully functioning, but it's still surrounded by a centuries-old stone wall, sports a gorgeous monastery, neat castle with free video and 1 euro admission, creepy cemetery and is, of course, surrounded by fields. Much of Ireland is farmland or rolling hills so that's not really a surprise or anything particularly exceptional, but I set out that day with the solid intention of belting 'Fields of Athenry' in the middle of a field of Athenry, with my friends or by myself if necessary.

The first place we stopped at in the town was an old cemetery and church. Creepy enough to wander through on a cloudy afternoon, the atmosphere was made significantly more frightening when I creaked open the door of the large stone cathedral to be greeted with the silhouette of a kneeling hooded monk. Part of an exhibit about the area's history, seeing an ancient holy man in front of a glowing stained glass window was a bit of a shock. I don't really think the woman working the tickets to the exhibit quite appreciated my running out as fast as I could and forcing my two friends to repeat my slow-opening shock experience. But to be fair, I didn't see her/know there was a live person in the building and there is absolutely no way we were the first people to have that reaction to the figure.

So she was a bit standoffish, and we decided to forego an interactive dress-up exhibit about old Athenry and instead ventured to the nearby castle. Everything in the town was really extraordinarily walk-able and after enjoying the castle, we were given wonderfully helpful advice by the curators of the building on how to find a really great field. (Yes, this does mean that I awkwardly asked the woman working behind the counter where I could find some fields. I think they get it a lot- the town certainly was capitalizing on the song, anyway.) So they pointed us toward a holy well, where it is said that Mary appeared to give comfort to the dying on a battlefield there years before. Each year on August 15th there is a gathering of faithful who process out of that site. It was a really beautiful spot and peaceful garden, and an area we would likely have never known about without the advice of a helpful local.

Getting to the well and back was a little bit of a hike, but provided some very good views of the medieval architecture from afar, enabled us to make more friends with animals, and of course, sing some lovelorn Irish ballads. The Fields of Athenry is a really, really sad song, and I'm not sure why it's my favorite- I'm normally one for upbeat and happy, positive and life affirming. It was one we sang frequently when visiting the local elder care center with Ros Geal house, and the several others we sang there also hold a special place in my memory now because of that. I suppose I identify with it in some way: while I can't at all compare myself to a basically-widowed young woman bidding farewell to her husband as he is shipped away to a prison colony for stealing food for their children, the theme of being far away from home and reminiscing on happy times certainly holds true to me.  It's been rough, mostly lately, being away from school. I have made friends here that are absolutely wonderful individuals, who are now so important to me that I can't imagine not knowing them, which only further cements the idea of never being able to have all the people you want in your life. Or me in my life, I suppose would be more accurate. It's one of the trade offs of global inter-connectivity. With Facebook I have been able to get a hold of anyone, at any time, which is nice but also overwhelming. Maybe having hundreds of photos of my friends having fun right in my face at all hours isn't the healthiest situation while grappling with homesickness.

In the Athenry castle, there were a lot of interesting doors that were always locked when I tried to push or pry or pull them open. I kept trying, though, and was vaguely annoyed when each of my friends opened a similar-looking door on two separate occasions the first time they tried. I never did open one that afternoon, but there is probably an inspirational message there about 'one door closing and another one opening' that I should apply to my life. Transition times always make me anxious, as my parents can agree to each time they pick my cranky self up from school, as do uncertain or hastily changed plans. At the moment I'm struggling with both, but I've seen worse and will certainly be fine getting through. The small free birds are flying above Athenry, and for just now, I'm one of them- and that's pretty nice.

Backlog Blog: Belfast and the Causeway

Regarding the Events and Experiences of April 26th and 27th

In all the travels I've been fortunate enough to experience these past five years, I've never truly disliked a city. Sure, towards the end of my time in Spain I longed for the sound of someone speaking English, let alone American, and there were a few nauseating bus rides in India I wasn't so sure I'd get through without vomiting, but overall I've been quite successful at finding the silver lining or a beautiful piece of culture in each new place I've seen. When I finally arrived in Belfast after a full day journey from Edinburgh involving two buses, a train, and the fanciest ferry (more tiny cruise ship) I've ever seen, it was for some reason in a bad mood and generally untrusting about the existence of Northern Ireland in general. I felt on edge and defensive of my adopted country each time I saw a fluttering Union Jack flag, and critical of each Carroll's tourist trap souvenir shop hawking all manner of bright green paraphernalia.

Maybe it was the explosive history of Belfast that had me on edge, perhaps the extraordinarily bad weather, or even the sketchy and likely unsafe hostel we unfortunately occupied for a night. We found our way to the well-done Ulster Museum a half hour before it closed, sped through a history of The Troubles, and then wandered around in the rain attempting to find either the rumored free Andy Warhol exhibition or the famed peace murals. Unsuccessful on both counts, we retired early with boxed Spar sandwich meals and How I Met Your Mother  on the kitchen TV. So my experiences with Belfast were brief and quite probably unfairly judged. We only planned time for one day in the city itself, shortchanging it's offerings and quite frankly using it as a stopping point before the real landmark we most wanted to see: The Giants Causeway.

Taking a scheduled and structured bus tour has it's perks. We paid a bit more than it would have been to get there via public transportation, but taking that route would have resulted in highways, complicated scheduling, and potentially walking a bit to get to our intended destination. Although it began a bit rough, waiting nearly an hour after our scheduled leaving time in the hopes of picking up a few more paying stragglers, the day turned around quickly. The good parts of a bus tour, then, are the convenience of not needing to navigate complicated schedules, know where to stop to take pretty pictures, and with the added bonus of having a friendly and knowledgeable tour guide. Cheerful and sounding suspiciously-Scottish, he granted us several helpful and interesting tidbits of information, rushed us to a pointless old Brewery at the end for the sole purpose of shopping so I think they had some sort of deal worked out, but overall, I quite enjoyed the day.

There were a few stops before we reached the Causeway itself: a castle at Carrickfergus that I enjoyed mainly because of the song about that town, and the famed Carrick-a-rede rope bridge. Just what it sounded like, the bridge suspended across two large sea rocks. You crossed it slowly, single file with no more than 7 on at a time, gripping for dear life on the handle-rope and feeling very much like Donkey and Shrek as they fled from Fiona's castle. Once crossed, though, the view was perfect and we were able to frolic about in the soft grass on the little island we just reached. Honestly, it was the most comfortable grass I've ever experienced and I laid back and nearly took a little nap right then and there. After a lot of travelling, it would have been quite ideal, but soon enough we were back on our way towards the Causeway, and I was about to check off one final item off my top to see in Ireland mental list.

So the Giant's Causeway, pictured below, is a fascinating natural rock formation that I really can't comprehend but would probably be like Christmas for a geologist or student of similar discipline. For me, I contented myself with gaping across the wide spread of hexagonal rocks, imagining how it got there and trying to remember the legends of Finn McCool (to whom I am potentially related!). I was a bit forewarned before I went not to expect anything spectacularly impressive in the sense of being the best thing I've seen all semester, but that was without merit, and because my expectations had been lowered I think I appreciated it that much more. Walking all over the natural landmark was a treat, far better than standing on the edge of a protective barrier and snapping photos, I played like stepping stones across the way and generally just felt truly privileged to experience the site. It's truly one of the top spots in Ireland (Republic and North combined, I know) and I would recommend it to anyone in a heartbeat.
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And now, I am all caught up, and can get back to the present day posting. I hope you're enjoying this as much as I am- only 12 days left, but I'll try to squeeze as much adventure in there as I can!

Backlog Blog: Magic in Scotland

Written Mostly April 25th, finished recently

Coming to Scotland was never very high up on my then-unwritten Wanderlust List before venturing off into this study abroad in Ireland travelers excuse. Sure, it’d be fun if someone had given me a free flight (cough BankofIrelandliedtome), but I’d never budgeted much time to planning a visit, preferring to dream of the Amazon, Serengeti or Himalayas. Now that I’m here, though, I can’t imagine why I would have ever swapped this trip for another. In my brief time in Scotland so far, I've spent time writing and sipping coffee where J.K. Rowling did much of her work on the Potter books, explored the treasures of real medieval strongholds so much like the ones in books I've devoured and planned, somewhat-accidentally dipped my (sneaker-clad) toes in Loch Ness despite warnings of very real Scottish piranha-beasts, supped on meat pies and chanted off-tune Irish pub songs through a highland hike. I've experienced so many cool new moments in a very short amount of time, and as of writing, this little trip is just about halfway over.

Our Scottish experience began in Edinburgh, capital city and very much still at one with it’s proud and storied past. Our phenomenal (but really) hostel provided us with a free and funny walking tour of the city, and the Australian guide pointed out a lot of neat things we mightn't have otherwise noticed. In a creepy old cemetery notable for the little dog who sat at his deceased master’s grave for 14 years, we were introduced to the crumbling tombstone of a Mr. Tom Riddel, and his son of the same name. There was a McGonagall one too, but that had me less convinced. We saw a street purported to be the real Diagon Alley, like so many others in Scotland, London and Rowling knows where else. I've now taken two winding long train rides through this gorgeous landscape, soon to be followed by a bus, train and ferry adventure to ‘the North’ starting tomorrow at 5 am.

I feel like I keep talking about how beautiful everything I've seen is this semester, and I’m continuing to do so now, at the risk of cheapening the word. There are different sorts, though. Vienna was a very refined, intentional grace and elegance, whereas Scotland is a wild and untamed harsh sort of breathtaking Awesome, by comparison. It's the sort of place I can see Arya Stark or Alanna of Trebond fitting in quite perfectly, where I half expect to see characters from Lord of the Rings or Narnia pop up and wave hello or challenge me to a swordfight. Combined with my obvious Rowling-fangirl finds, it's been pretty much perfectly out of a storybook. There was also a really cool old bookshop in Inverness where we sat on the floor and scanned the shelves for forgotten treasures- I actually did find a battered copy of Treasure Island for my friend, which was perfect because R.L. Stevenson is a Scotsman we found featured in the Edinburgh Writers Museum. Also, I bought the last necessary volume for my accumulating 'Harry Potter in British' collection at a little independent bookstore where the checkout guy chatted with me about the author he seemed to know a lot about, and found a delightful 'Winnie the Pooh in Scots' that I've had way too much fun perusing.

In the little time spent here, I've seen plenty of tartan, though mostly in tourist shops, tried one tiny bite of haggis, and heard floating bagpipe melodies coming from the castle that disappeared both times I tried to track them down. I did see one street performer playing the quintessential Scottish instrument, saw plenty of Scotty-dog merchandise, and overall really just enjoyed the country. They've got a tough-guy attitude and a chip on their shoulder about the English, in a different way than Ireland, yet still comparably so. 

And now, I've run out of things to say, but will update you soon on Belfast, the Causeway, and Getting Around.

Surviving and Thriving in the Aran Islands

Biking the Aran Islands, to most people, would imply a lovely, carefree jaunt down the winding road of a picturesque Irish coast. And it'd be partially true, because to most people that's what the day entails. However, my past experiences bike riding have been short and disastrous, as my family, close friends, and entire India and Nepal travel study class can agree (there are several stories here, the most infamous being a short-lived bike tour of old Delhi involving crashing into a ceramics salesman and a moving truck). So it was kind of scary, to say the least.

The Aran Islands are situated a mere hour long ferry ride away from the edge of windswept Connemara, and were one of the first attractions in Ireland I truly got excited about when I first figured out I was coming to Galway and pulled up Google Maps to virtually explore my future surroundings. My mom and I remarked on how these beautiful natural treasures were so close, I could surely visit all three, and even several times! While that probably won't hapen at this point, since it’s taken a good full four months to just reach the largest, I was quite excited to finally be heading out to the jewels of our West-Irish coast. 

I went with three friends, one of whom would later remark that she originally believed I was exaggerating how bad my bike-skills really were...but I wasn't, and on the ferry ride over was hotly debating in my head if I should even attempt to ride, at the risk of ruining everyone else's day. The only real way to get around the Island in a day and see all of the important sites was either riding a bike, taking a bus tour for the same price, or else a pretty horse-drawn carriage ride for four times that amount. So the horses were a no, the bus sounded like a cop-out on such a beautiful day, and I would have been happy to walk, but also reluctant to miss out on the many beautiful sites of the Island that were unreachable by foot. 

Before my India trip, I made a point to practice riding around my neighborhood, was sort of successful, and was very vocal about the challenge and how I would surely rise to it when the time came. As I mentioned at the beginning of this post, it was basically a failure, so this time I didn't tell anyone back home about how I was going to try again, figuring it'd be just a personal decision and we'd see where it went. The circumstances here were a million times better, as well: instead of winding busy bumpy dirt roads, I was treated to a clear blue sky, wide concrete roads with plenty of warning if any other vehicles were coming towards you (I almost always dismounted in that case) and three encouraging close friends egging me on instead of stressed-out tour guides and angry vendors staring at my wobbly inching prowess. 

I did take one spectacular spill fairly early on that resulted in the ruination of my third pair of pants this week, many people stopping and staring and offering assistance, but after a somewhat-exasperated explanation of how to use the grippy brake, I managed to stay off the ground for the remainder of our six-hour ride. And, it was kind of fun, in an exhilarating I-might-die-today sort of way. We reached Dun Aengus, a remote stone fortress so old that the ancient Celtic myths tell stories about how it might have been formed by fairies, picnicked on the edge of a cliff overlooking the wide open ocean, made friends with a white horse who proceeded to spit an apple at us, and happened upon a group of sunbathing seals I originally thought were rocks. 

All in all, it was a fantastic day. I'm terribly sore now, having used muscles I forgot I possessed for far longer than was pleasant, have a lovely scab on my knee that might take a bit of time to heal, but feel empowered and honestly like a champion. I can't imagine the skills necessary for something like the Tour de France or even biking through a crowded city, but maybe one day I'll pick up cycling as a hobby for real. Even if not, it was a perfect continuation of stretching my limits and trying new things that come along with being in this beautiful country. Each time I took a spill or hastily hopped off to let a quizzical looking driver pass me safely, I kept in mind the philosophy of Ireland: "Sure, yer grand." We carry on.

For anything you're struggling over, I hope this story helps someone take heart, and if you don't want to take it from me, check out my favorite video of this kid, because it sure inspired me.

The Particular Sadness of See You Later

I will write about Scotland, I will, I will. I promise. I already have a post and a half partially drafted dedicated to my past week traversing the lands to the North, particularly Edinburgh, Inverness, Belfast and Giants Causeway. I was writing for most of the time there too, but couldn't bring my laptop in the interest of space and as a result am very far behind on my blogging. I could throw something up here from those notes, but I want to do the trip justice, so will need to delay that a bit longer.

But while I hem and haw about getting all of the details of those adventures right, I keep straying back to thoughts of the last two days, and since those are fresher, I'll give you a dose of those before I lose them and then will return to dealing with Scotland.

The goodbyes have started, and now with my last big trip finished and just a little over two weeks left in study abroad (how on earth did that happen?), I'm in a very strange place emotionally. The day I returned from that trip I stopped over to visit a friend of mine from Writers' Soc who returns to her home in France early tomorrow morning, to return a book and share a cup of tea and exchange hugs. She'd hosted an 'Au Revoir' gathering the evening before, which I unfortunately couldn't attend, and made sure to point out that in French, that farewell translates to more of a temporary goodbye than a permanent one. It's a thought I've been holding onto desperately, and needing more than I anticipated.

Leaving home to come to Ireland was very emotional. I absolutely cried after getting through security, waved one last goodbye to my loved ones across the airport and then promptly sat down on a bench and felt completely overwhelmed with my situation. Being away has been tough, sometimes more so than others, and I had a few moments not too long after Vienna where I thought about moving my flight home to see my boyfriend for more than one day before he leaves for Kenya. Missing my family has been easier since we had that wonderful week visit, but still the notion that I could be home and that my work is all done and I am  mostly out of money was a somewhat unhappy one as I stood in the airport waiting for another bus to take me back out of Dublin once again.

But then I went to Scotland, and while I'll give you loads of fresh details on that soon outside of my own disgruntled feelings and some actual facts and stories, I will say that I had experiences there I can't imagine giving up. I've always tried to 'suck the marrow out of life' a la Walden Pond, and to give up these last precious weeks in Ireland, where I'm not sure how long it'll be until I return, would be such a foolish thing to do that I know I would regret for the rest of my life. The best medicine for homesickness has been, for me, knowing that the people I care about care about me too and will be there when I get back, and for a long time after. Every message I've gotten from friends and family while I've been away has been more wonderful than they know, so if you are one of those people (and just by reading this sentence I appreciate you so much), thank you.

The hard part now is going to be leaving the friends I've made these past four months, some of whom I've grown very close with and others I never got the chance to know as well as I would have liked, but with whom I've still shared laughter or poetry or tea, hostel bunks and crowded lectures, pints of Bulmers and digestive biscuits. As of now I've bid farewell to three, and despite promises of 'we'll absolutely stay in touch', 'let me know if you're ever in Chicago/Aix-en-Provence/Buffalo', my chances of seeing them again are much more uncertain than my tearful goodbyes to my La Salle friends on the last day of fall semester. As much as I will try to stay connected, aided by the magic of Facebook, it's fairly certain that even when I do get back to Galway, it won't be the same. My friends and I here will maybe never again be all in the same room together, after the next week. It's terrifyingly true. I have a bit more time before the bulk of the goodbyes start to hit, but I'm really unsure about how well I'm going to cope.

I'm happy I left these next 17 days free from any major international journeys, and happy I didn't impulsively go home, although that was never really a feasible option. Staying here was a tough decision to make, because of course my travel bug wants me to get everywhere I can, but I know I need to spend more quality time with Galway too. I think that's going to be one of the hardest goodbyes of all.

Home Sweet Knockahoney

Have you ever had one of those moments when the very core of your being lights up and glows, ready to burst delightedly out of your chest and embrace the whole wide world simply because you're alive? I have, a few times, and the most recent was when I finally followed the way back to my Irish roots.

It's taken me three and a half months to get there, but this weekend I spent two lovely days with my Grandma's cousin, visiting with her, her husband, their son, his wife, and two wonderful children who are all living just under two hours away from Galway. As I stood on the literal roots of a tree overlooking the home where my great-grandmother grew up, and then wandered through the area, I attempted to realize what she would have been thinking about before heading off to America without any real guarantee of ever returning, at much the same age I am now (or perhaps a bit younger).The funny thing is, I realized while standing on that hill, is that I've found my roots, and they go deep, but are also holding up many new generations of family still living in the same area.

Though I'd never met them before venturing out on student-fueled Bus Feda, I did one afternoon in February have dinner with the other son of my grandma's cousin, his wife and young daughter. They were wonderfully hospitable, and the rest of the family was no exception. I lost count of the number of times I had a cup of tea during that roughtly 24-hour period, but it was far fewer than the number of times I was offered, and almost immediately felt perfectly at home, as if I was returning to the home of a third grandmother I'd known all my life. Each time she introduced me to another neighbor or friend, I was always her 'cousin visiting from Galway', never described as a distant American relative. I've been very careful here, thanks to the advice of some guidebooks and internet forums, not to describe myself as Irish for fear of offending anyone, but there was something heart-warmingly affirming about being recognized as family without question. In the dining room, I spotted a photograph of my grandfather and two other relatives that was taken in my grandparents' house back in Pennsylvania, and I heard a snippet of conversation that declared I was 'a true Cawley', the last name of my great-grandmother. She also mentioned about how my grandma had 'been home' a few times, which is true, but was never the way I'd looked at it- I'd always known she'd traveled to Ireland, but never properly given it much thought before. I learned about how everyone who came to Ireland from our family over the years has taken a sort of pilgrimage out to see the old homestead, and I can't blame them in the slightest.

The little town most certainly felt like a small community straight out of a novel, everyone said hello to each other and knew everyone, we went to mass on Sunday morning at a small parish church overlooking a breathtakingly beautiful lake and mountain scene, and I finally felt far from a tourist; I felt like I belonged. I was fed well: breakfast of eggs and sausage and homemade brown bread (my adoration of which I've mentioned before here), supper of steak and potatoes and oxtail soup, carrot cake and plenty of biscuits later. My dad would have loved it here, I know, for the carrot cake but also the family history and common ground.

If I'd grown up and lived in Ireland, I think that Knockahoney and Charlestown would have been the types of places I'd have liked to have been. The bus I took was designed specifically for students commuting to Galway from their hometowns, and was filled with young people.At one stop, the bus driver came back to wake up a young boy who'd dozed off: that's the sort of caring that should be universal. I fell comfortably into the brief bit of time I had pretending to be a part of that routine, though felt a bit sad about the other students who weren't paying much mind to the beautiful scenery that passed by their windows unnoticed. Simple joys I'd forgotten to appreciate this weekend came back to me without fail: I walked a little white dog named Rocky who has stolen my heart, clambered around the abandoned barnyard of my own volition.

I'm catching a bus to Dublin for a 6am flight to Edinburgh in almost exactly one hour, and will try to get a half hour mini-nap in now and pray that it doesn't do me more harm than good at this point. I won't be bringing my laptop with me, so I wanted to post this before I go- if I buy some internet time at one of the hostels, you'll surely be hearing from me, but if not, I'll update in a week. I leave you now with a snippet of something I jotted down on the bus back to Galway but haven't been able to figure out how to weave into here:

"And the beauty of a rolling green field is too much to handle, cows lowing in the background and baby lambs on their first spring legs falling over and tumbling, and my God, I wish I could run and live in this field forever."