Green Rolling Hills, Music, and Home

How a random text helped me to visit my ancestral origins

I was standing in the workroom in the high school where I once worked when a random text message came to my phone asking about the dates of Spring Break. It was still wintertime, as there was snow on the ground- so a quick glance at the district calendar gave the answer that I needed to respond within a few minutes. It was the response that came next that would forever change my worldview, and how I viewed my lineage on half of my family tree.

“You’re coming to Ireland!”

Having never left the country before, these words were quite exciting- especially once I was told that the trip was through LivingSocial, and airfare, lodging, and prepaid activities would all be covered for around a thousand dollars. Arrangements were made, and a few months later I was sitting in a terminal at JFK Airport waiting to board a green Aer Lingus plane with a giant shamrock on the tail. There were eight of us milling about the boarding area- four of which were members of a local band that played amazing Irish around Southern New England, and to say that the excitement was palpable among us all would be one heck of an understatement. At the stage of life where I was ten years ago- it was impossible not to consider Ireland as a possibility to start fresh- maybe writing poetry in a small cottage surrounded by grass and a random wandering cow or two, a glass of whiskey next to the old-fashioned typewriter purchased at a small Dublin shoppe. 

The picture that every book nerd strives to take at Trinity College in Dublin.

After landing, making our way through customs, and renting our cars, we drove towards the bustling center of Dublin to wander about as the tourists that we were. I remember being tired to the point of heavy eyelids and remembering less than I would have liked to. Despite the advice to sleep on the flight, that intense excitement carried over onto the plane, and between watching a movie or two and visualizing our position over the North Atlantic Ocean, I was awake for the entire six hours. My tired eyes and exhausted mind were a bit of a detriment to my first day, but it mattered little because I had finally made it overseas, and I was in Ireland.

To write a diary-like diatribe in which I recount a day-by-day, meal by meal account of the trip would not only cause this account to spiral into a morass of boredom but would also defeat the purpose of putting fingers to keys to recall an amazing week on the Emerald Isle. Some highlights were the live music everywhere we went, trying blood sausage for the first (and only) time, standing at the Cliffs of Moher, and crisscrossing a country rich in not only literary history, but that of my ancestors. The number of times that I simply paused to look around, take in the sights, smells, and sounds became too many to count.

The Cliffs as seen through the fog

The moment that everything clicked, and I truly felt a sense of home in Ireland was on our fourth day. We had reached the west side of the country and were weaving our way to the Cliffs of Moher in County Clare. The day was in complete contrast to the bright sunny days that we enjoyed while in the Eastern half of the country; the clouds hung low as they released a slow and chilling drizzle that found its way through the layers of clothing that I was wearing. As we got out of our cars and made our way towards the towering cliffs, I could only think to stare in awe at all of the green visible through the mist, and occasionally stare Eastward towards the open ocean- gazing back at North America while picturing my ancestors aboard the ship that brought them from this land towards new opportunity in America.