I’ve been cheating on you, my pretties. Whilst you thought I was here, slogging away at the computer, I was actually there, eating scones with clotted cream, drinking pots of tea, and walking about the Irish countryside.
You know all that stuff about how poetic the Irish are? It’s true. One rainy day, I asked an old codger how long a particular hike was, and he turned to me and said “How long is a piece of string?”
(The answer, as I found out after walking for two hours, is damn long.)
I got to see my husband down a pint, show my daughter the Book of Kells, and watch my son charm the local populace in two languages. (If the Irish for hello didn’t work, there’s always his signature “Hellloooo, ladies!”)
I watched my parents and MIL experience Ireland for the first time.
And saw a white horse upon a green hill. (A gray and brown horse too.)
I did a little tiny bit of research for my next book. I’d like to write it in this sweet cottage.
Failing that, if I ever make the best seller’s list I’ll celebrate by staying at this country home, which I didn’t discover until my last day of the trip. Anyone care to join me?
It is presumptuous of me to question the Irish on matters of language, of course, but I’m disappointed they haven’t come up with a better term than “clotted cream” by now. As good-talking American will tell you, a “hot dog” tastes much better than ground-up-hog-parts-stuffed-into-intestines.
Perhaps in a place of such beauty it’s easy to overlook the occasional ugly name.
Regardless, I expect when you’re on the best-seller list and enjoying your thatched-roof country home, you will do your best to come up with a less literal name for that particular confectionery.
Has someone not had enough coffee today?
I’m working hard to contain my jealousy. I’ve always wanted to travel to Ireland, doubly so since taking the surname O’Hara.
You can put me down for either the cottage or the country home! Welcome back.
I think we should hold a writers’ retreat at one of them, at least! And I hope you get to visit someday soon, Jan.
I went in the spring of ’02. And since most of America stopped traveling for a time after 9/11, we pretty much had all of Ireland to ourselves. Loved Galway, and Killarney, and Waterford. My poetic codger story: Sitting at pub, having pint. Codger, complete with tweed coat, cap & cane, sits beside, introduces himself. While pint his pint is being properly drafted (in stages) he asks the barman, “Might I be having one of those small cigars,” pointing at a jar behind bar. Barman says yes and fishes one out and hands it over. His response on receiving it, “What a good fellow. I’ll tell you what, I’ll even buy it.” And he throws in a wink for my wife. 😉
I’d LOVE to go back. The whole place is like a portal to access that collective subconscious you mentioned over on my post. Writing retreat!
Judging by your description, Vaughn, I’d say we met the same man! And I second the need for a writing retreat.