MY EMERALD ISLE ADVENTURES (DEATH-DEFYING PRECIPICES, THOROUGHBREDS, & IRISH CHURCH LADIES)

They say everyone is Irish on St. Patrick's Day.  I'm lucky because I can claim the honor the other 364 days as well.  

Plus, I went to Boston College, and graduated with every Murphy, Sullivan, and O'Brien known to mankind.  My pedigree is undeniable.

Growing up, I never appreciated that seven of my eight great-grandparents came to America as famine Irish.  One day Duncan pointed it out to me (along with the fact that a brain-dead hamster could have figured it out years before), so we decided to visit my homeland.  Now I'm completely hooked on the Emerald Isle.  

On our first trip, Duncan and I drove the mandatory "Best of Ireland" circuit, hitting the Ring of Kerry, Cliffs of Moher, and Hill of Tara.  It was spectacular, despite witnessing a Darwinian display of natural selection when a group of teenagers mixed beer and acrobatics at the very edge of the Cliffs.  There was only the tiniest of margins between them, the precipice, and certain death.   I knew I was old because all I could think of was their parents.

On our next visit, we settled into a Tipperary stone farmhouse to experience the "real Ireland" with our oldest son, Ian.  We spent most of our time and energy trying to keep a peat fire alive so our toes didn't freeze.

Then we hit the mother lode.  A client set us up with a stay at the Four Seasons in Dublin, and Duncan and I ventured into the magical Wicklow Mountains.  To this day, I'm convinced that the monastery site, Glendalough, is home to a spellbinding mix of invisible cherubs and pixies, and that sometime, somehow, at least one of my ancestors lived there.  If it's not true, don't tell me.  Or I'll sic a demented leprechaun on you.  

On that same trip, Duncan planned a "mystery day of adventure" for the two of us.  He folded me into a taxi, talked to the driver in something close to pig latin (to ensure that our destination was kept a state secret), and somehow we ended up at the train station.  After 45 minutes rolling through the verdant Irish countryside, we disembarked in Kildare.  A bus came by marked "Village Outlet Shopping," but (thankfully) we didn't get on.  Duncan had bigger plans.  The National Stud.  

Of the equine variety.  For the next three hours, we meandered through green fields, nose to nose with some of Ireland's most prized racehorses.  At one point we happened upon the yearling paddock, and the young thoroughbreds were thrilled. They greeted us at the fence, and, once assured of our undivided attention, thundered off in a blaze of speed and fury.  As they charged back toward us at breakneck speed, I started to get more than a bit scared.  Duncan and I could feel the earth shake beneath out feet.  But then two incredible things happened.  First, they stopped, as a group, on a dime.  Inches from us.  Second, they smiled.  You might think I'm nuts, but they did.  They were incredibly proud of their physical prowess.  They knew they were special.  But more importantly, they wanted to be sure we knew it too.  

For some unfathomable reason, Duncan wouldn't let me buy him a National Stud t-shirt at the Visitor's Center.  We went home with a hot mitt instead.  Pathetic.    

Perhaps the most memorable trip that Duncan and I have had to Ireland, however, was last April.  We stayed in Enniscorthy, a small town in the southeast corner of the island, where no tourists venture unless they are hopelessly lost or trying to flee from the law.  I really don't remember why we chose it. I think it involved more than a map and a dart, but I can't be sure.  

We stayed at a small B&B, and each day at least one local stopped to ask us why in the world we were there.  Now that I think of it, they probably thought we were spies.   Or at least aliens.

"Do you have family here?"  "No."

"Did your ancestors live here?"  "No."

They almost fell over when we told them we were going to stay there for ten days, voluntarily. 

One morning, Duncan and I thought it would be quaint if we went to the monthly tea at the local rectory.  We expected to see all our new best friends from around town.  What we ran into, however, was a gaggle of twenty octogenarian ladies, stunned by our presence.    When we entered the room, all conversation stopped.  Everyone just stared at us.  Then one gracious woman broke from her trance, sat us down, and beckoned her compatriot with the teapot.  Cookies arrived.  We bought tickets to their fundraising "auction," and Duncan and I both won.  I have no doubt that it was rigged, but that's OK (even for a group of devout church ladies).  They wanted us to be happy.  I chose a yellow cotton dishtowel.  Duncan chose a box of chocolates.  

The next day, we flew home.  

This afternoon, I have to be in Probate Court.  Unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately), I don't have a kelly green business suit to wear; but I should be able to find a befitting purse.   Tonight, Duncan and I will indulge in a (few) Guinness while watching Waking Ned Devine.  At some point, I'll pull out my prized yellow dishtowel, weave it through my fingertips, and think of the delightful tea ladies, an ocean away.

Duncan and I have travelled to the extraordinary places in Ireland, and remember them fondly.  We've visited all the sites in the tour books and on TripAdvisor.  But it's the extraordinary people we've met in the ordinary places that stick with me.  I hope someday you have the chance to meet them too.  Over a pint of beer or a cup of tea.  Just promise me you'll skip the Blarney Stone.  You have to kiss it hanging upside down, it's smothered with germs, and it doesn't have a pulse.  So it can never kiss you back.