I met Alvan at 8am and as we walked
into downtown Galway, he told me all about the different historical aspects of
the city. We ate at a cute little café,
where I was actually able to eat a real breakfast for the first time in a month
and a half! I had an egg, toast, bacon,
sausage, and a pot of tea; it was wonderful.
After we ate, we took a jaunt to the pharmacy to see if I could get my
antibiotics over the counter, but the lady told me that she couldn’t give them without
a doctor’s prescription; after that, Alvan led me around a little more of
Galway. We walked down to a river to
show me the old Spanish wall that is randomly by the Galway Museum. We saw three or four snowy white swans
swimming happily in the river and it made my heart glad. I love swans, with their long necks and
inquisitive looks. We also saw a bird
that disappears underwater to catch his fish and it always amazes me how long
he can stay submerged before coming back up for air! (We later looked it up and decided that it
was called a Shag.)
We then set off to find the travel
agency so that we could get tickets for the bus to Inis’ Moor; we got there and
the lady told us that we had better run if we were going to catch the bus. Alvan and I ran full-tilt and since the lady
had rung the driver, he graciously waited for us as we came in, red-cheeked and
breathless. After about forty-five
minutes on the bus, we arrived at a dock and got onto a ferry. It took a rather long hour to get to the
Island, but Alvan and I talked and had a good time. When we stepped off of the boat, the wind cut
us to pieces! Alvan needed money, so we
walked to the one grocery store on Inis’ Moor and found the ATM. Walking back to the dock we found a bus
driver who was kind enough to escort us for the day. We ended up being the only two on his tour,
but it made it that much more special. I
couldn’t stop smiling and Alvan kept looking over and grinning about how happy
I was. Our tour guide had a beautiful
lilt to his voice and I was content to just sit and listen to him and Alvan
talk. The amount of knowledge that was
bouncing around the van was absolutely mental!
We drove up to this cliff and he
dropped us off so that we could walk and look over the water. The place where he dropped us off was very
cute; it had some Aran sweater/wool/gift shops and two little restaurants, only
one of which was open. The two of us
followed the stony path on our way to the top; I don’t think I can describe it
well at all, so the pictures will have to do.
But here is a short journal excerpt from that day:
“Ireland; the snarled shrubbery
entwined with the yellow flowers of the windbrush change this green and stony
land into something magical. As you
stand on the crest of Inis’ Moor, the crashing of the waves sound below and you
feel like a spec; a spec on a rock, a spec in Ireland, a spec in the
universe. It’s a feeling of
insignificance and yet a feeling of complete dominance and power. The bitter wind bites strong and hard as the
snow is whipped directly into your face.
Somehow, as you look across the ocean, you don’t mind the unpleasantness
of the weather; looking down to see the foam of the waves be dashed on the
bottom of the cliff is a rewarding sight.
The rocks that jut out from the
sides of Inis’ Moor are covered with bright green, dull green, orange and brown
moss. In some of the crevices, you can
see tiny daises peeking out their heads as if to inquire whether springtime has
arrived. A lone dandelion has stubbornly
stuck his proud head up to show his singular yellow color among the forty
shades of green. Despite the harsh
elements, this lad continues to brave it out and show the world that he is not
afraid of what may be thrown in his path.
As if to mock the lonely estate of
the dandelion, the path winds down the Inis’ Moor cliffs and is suddenly
surrounded by the brightness of the windbrush.
Substituting for sunshine, the thousands of little yellow flowers
compose beauty in a tangled way. The
bushes are very tall and follow up their pompous air with spines that cover
every part of their stem; under the guise of protection, these spines help
classify the plant as a farmer’s worst nightmare. It seems as though the windbrush gloats as it
arrogantly covers both sides of the path for yards.
A step is not taken without a stone
under your foot; acres and acres, as far as your eyes can possibly ever see,
there is stone. Mixed with grass, mixed
with cattle, mixed with more stone…stone.
Used to build walls and create buildings, used for good luck; these
stones have managed to last for centuries and positively reek of history. If they could speak, the amount of stories
would be endless. Wars, famine, love,
sickness, heartache, toil, blood; loyalty.
Imagination can hardly begin to recreate such tales, but the ruggedness
of the rock taunts you as if to ask whether ye can hit the right facts or go
completely awry.
And yet, it is here among the
taunting rock, crashing waves, arrogant windbrush, and colorful moss that there
is a special kind of peace. You need
only glance once and you are captured, enraptured, and home is redefined. For the very first time since I left my
childhood home, I have found a place that begins to run in my blood and tie me
down. Never in my life have I found a
place that has been able to kidnap my heart like Ireland has; never again will
I be in possession of my entire heart.”
Not that I could capture the beauty
in my own words at all, but I hope that gives you a little peek into the world
that I was beginning to explore for the first time. I'll post the next installment later!
