In Ireland your heart will find its home

The travel planning was making me nervous.

I hadn’t traveled internationally since COVID-19 hit. I had to dust off the suitcase that had been idle for four years.

This would be my seventh trip to Ireland; the first with my sister, Joan. My dad’s parents left the Emerald Isle as teenagers. They fled poverty for the hope that was, and is, America.

Part of me hated to leave home. It always feels a betrayal to those left behind, my husband, dog, kids and grandkids. My dad hated for us to travel. He knew he couldn’t keep us safe anywhere but home.

Dad only left America once, for the war. He flew 33 combat missions over Burma and never left the safety of America again.

We planned out the main stops: Cleveland to Dublin, stop at Newgrange, head to Galway, the Cliffs of Moher, Kilkee, Dingle, Killarney, Kinsale and Kilkenny.

I brought a poem to read every morning, to keep my heart open to joy. Eleven days later, I returned with endless moments that my heart needs no photos to remember.

Like the little boy in the soccer uniform with JACK in bold letters. The Galway boy couldn’t stop bouncing and jumping at every corner.

“You look like a soccer star,” I told him.

“I could kick your shoes off,” he said in his deepest fake soccer man voice.

“You better not,” I teased.

“I could kick your head off,” he growled, then giggled. We kept up the banter until he and his mum found his field, but his joyful bounce stayed with me all over Ireland.

The gritty Galway musicians brought back to life my dear talented nephew who died too young. One quiet street drew us into a store where every piece of art felt like a portal to another world.

After learning we missed the Northern Lights that lit up Galway while we slept, we left at 3 a.m. to reach the Cliffs of Moher. The Northern Lights teased us with pink cotton candy smears along the drive.

We had those massive cliffs all to ourselves. Then the fog rolled in and they vanished. Near Kilkee, we explored the Loop Head lighthouse and what it means to be a port in someone’s storm.

That’s what the writer of “The Last of the Light” was to his brother. The book called to me at a ferry crossing store. The shopkeeper told me the author, Marc O Riain, lives up the road.

“Lovely book,” he said, patting it gently. I read it in one night. Breathtaking.

We paused briefly in Tralee, which made a forever imprint. The bakery with the best strawberry tart. The Ugly Mug coffee shop with a fairy door painted on the wall. The restaurant with the Russian server who initially had no smile or patience for picky Americans who wanted this but not that in their salads.

Her heart surprised us both when she tenderly carried a radish over to the table to ask if we would like that in our salad. Later, we three laughed like old friends when she declined the offer to join us on our travels.

The bookstore in Dingle welcomed immigrants with this window sign: Ireland is not full. I can still hear the cacophony of accents from Russia, Ukraine, Italy, India, Poland, South Africa and Australia.

We climbed over a “Beware of bull” sign to enter a field and touch the grooved slashes where ancient fingers carved words into Ogham stones.

Our biggest challenge was the angry bouncer in Kinsale who stood guard at Kitty O’Shea’s pub. Was he Mafia? Marine? Former felon? He looked designed for danger, dressed in black with a rugged face built for action films.

When I told him we took bets that he never, ever smiles, he broke into a grin. I thanked him for being our protector, not that we needed one, but you never know.

We sang happy birthday to a stranger who turned 80 at Fishy Fishy restaurant. Later, she paused at our table and folded her warm wrinkled hands over ours to thank us.

There’s a lovely poem by Rumi called The Guest House that summed up our trip:

“This being human is a guest house. Every morning a new arrival.”

It goes on to say that every momentary awareness is an unexpected visitor to welcome and entertain.

“Be grateful for whoever comes, because each has been sent as a guide from beyond.”

Travel reminds you that we’re all the guides and we’re also the ones in need of guidance. And if you need a sign, you’ll find it, like the giant yellow letters in a harbor that spelled out HOPE.

Ireland offers hope, and proof, that everywhere you open your heart is home.