Éire
“May you always have walls for the winds,
a roof for the rain, tea beside the fire,
laughter to cheer you, those you love near you,
and all your heart might desire.” – Irish proverb
I’m always bemused when I talk to someone who thinks St Patrick’s Day is lame. Or stupid. Or just an excuse to wear their only green shirt and ingest Budweiser with food coloring. Stumbling around red-faced from one sports bar to the next with a carelessness that’s often annoyingly belligerent. Look, I enjoy having a good time, knocking back a few beers and celebrating life. But when I find a welcome barstool and a hand-draught pint beckoning on March 17, my thoughts turn green…
…and I recall a perfect day, riding through the rolling, lush Irish countryside in an unseasonably and uncharacteristically warm and sunny climate. Clambering over a rock wall and looking out upon an expanse of windblown grasses and the waves beating rocks and sand back from the beach. Cut back to Dublin, and yet another perfect day touring Christ Church Cathedral, wandering about the maze of alleyways and bus routes, gazing upon St. James’s Gate, peering at yellowed pages at the Writers Museum, popping into a cozy pub, chatting with friendly and lively locals, listening to an army of fans singing aloud with a thick brogue while Ben Folds plays on stage, then back to the pub to wind down. The sight of nearly a hundred pints poured on the bar at last call. Tea and soda bread. Stew and Guinness. Whiskey and songs. Laughing at Thin Lizzy graffiti while the bus shuttles me into the city. Feeling my emotions pull at me as the plane leaves the gate to take me home.
There’s no place like home, but the comfort, joy, fearlessness and reverence my trip to Ireland gave me was a gift. Sláinte!
a roof for the rain, tea beside the fire,
laughter to cheer you, those you love near you,
and all your heart might desire.” – Irish proverb
I’m always bemused when I talk to someone who thinks St Patrick’s Day is lame. Or stupid. Or just an excuse to wear their only green shirt and ingest Budweiser with food coloring. Stumbling around red-faced from one sports bar to the next with a carelessness that’s often annoyingly belligerent. Look, I enjoy having a good time, knocking back a few beers and celebrating life. But when I find a welcome barstool and a hand-draught pint beckoning on March 17, my thoughts turn green…
…and I recall a perfect day, riding through the rolling, lush Irish countryside in an unseasonably and uncharacteristically warm and sunny climate. Clambering over a rock wall and looking out upon an expanse of windblown grasses and the waves beating rocks and sand back from the beach. Cut back to Dublin, and yet another perfect day touring Christ Church Cathedral, wandering about the maze of alleyways and bus routes, gazing upon St. James’s Gate, peering at yellowed pages at the Writers Museum, popping into a cozy pub, chatting with friendly and lively locals, listening to an army of fans singing aloud with a thick brogue while Ben Folds plays on stage, then back to the pub to wind down. The sight of nearly a hundred pints poured on the bar at last call. Tea and soda bread. Stew and Guinness. Whiskey and songs. Laughing at Thin Lizzy graffiti while the bus shuttles me into the city. Feeling my emotions pull at me as the plane leaves the gate to take me home.
There’s no place like home, but the comfort, joy, fearlessness and reverence my trip to Ireland gave me was a gift. Sláinte!
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