Walking down to the beach was no easy task; an enormous mound of rock separates the farmland of one person from the ocean that no man can own. The rocks on this levee of sorts are small enough to hold, but big enough to be heavy, thousands of them. I slipped and slid the entire way down to the beach.
The first step, the step that moves me from the unsteadiness of slippery rocks to the sand that squishes between my toes, simply reminds me how beautiful Ireland is. As I walk towards the water, memories of times long since gone bombard me. Things in my life that are happy, or wonderful, or powerful come to mind.
Lost in my reverie, the icy water startles me back to reality. Looking up, not only can I see my four year old cousin, with his sandy blond hair and huge, innocent eyes, running to greet me, but I can also hear his laughter. Ireland is good for him too, I think.
When his short legs finally get him to me, he jumps into my arms. Spinning him around wildly, I can only think to myself that my favorite sound will always be his laughter.
I recently found this post from an old blog that I tried to keep up without quite succeeding. After reading it, I almost teared up, the longing feeling in my heart almost too much. I loved Ireland so much, and this only documents a very small portion of a very short two week trip.
I want to go back so badly. I remember shopping in Ennis. There was this one store, Dunnes, that was comparative to an American Walmart, it had everything. I bought my favorite pleather messenger bag and was introduced to one of my favorite singers, James Morrison.
I rode bikes through the Irish countryside in County Claire. I watched the sun go up and down most days. I visited the Cliffs of Moher, and that sweet little boy up there pantsed me not only in front of my whole family, but also in front of every person who was walking to the top of the cliffs for the view. Oh yea, Ireland saw my panties.