Cead Mile Failte — IRELAND, the Land of 100,000 Welcomes

I was in love with Ireland long before I arrived. Photos of verdant green fields, meandering stone fences, and majestic waves crashing against stately cliffs had intrigued me for decades. The love affair only grew as I traveled single-lane, winding roads and delighted in thick Irish brogues. My husband Ricky and I planned the twelve-day trip as a celebration at the end of a stressful business transition. Close friends, Ron and Jenny, traveled with us. They came straight from Ron’s mother’s funeral—no trip is easy to plan with all possible contingencies. Even though weary from busy lives, the foursome was off . . . to adventures in a magical land of history and heritage, to a “land of saints and scholars.”

As a first-time tour guide for our three days in historic Dublin, my itinerary included all the typical sites including a tour of the Guiness factory. We—tried—to drink the heavy ale even though none of us were fans. Jenny was the smart one, opting for the ice cream instead! On the darker side, we learned sobering facts about the country’s fierce nationalism while touring Kilmainham Jail, a former prison and execution site for Irish revolutionaries.

We left the city to tour the countryside and, for this longer leg of the journey, employed a guide to drive us along the often-treacherous winding roads. Liam O’Leary was a “true gentleman, scholar, and a judge of fine whiskey,” to quote a high Irish compliment. Eloquent in his wealth of ancient as well as trivial knowledge, Liam dispensed his wisdom and wit with irresistible charm. I learned to weigh the truth of what he said after catching him bending it a time or two. One morning after staying in a luxurious cliff-hanging hotel overlooking the sea, I asked how his night had been. “Ah, lass, I had to sleep in the van as no rooms were available to me.” I was horrified and felt so guilty as I thought of our accommodations. After I shared the story with Ricky, he started laughing. “Marjean, he was pulling your leg!’

No words can adequately describe the haunting beauty of the land: ancient monastic sites, rolling hills with lush greens, endless miles of zigzagging stone fences erected as property lines, colorful blue-and orange-marked sheep dotting the roadsides, the stately majesty of stone cathedrals, the grandeur of cliffs and crystalline hues of the Atlantic. As a response to it all, I asked Liam to sing, “When Irish Eyes are Shining.” With a cocked head and a twinkle in his eye he replied, “I believe ‘tis ‘When Irish Eyes are Smilin’, lass.”

The evidence of literary greatness was etched into buildings and monuments, from the beauty of Yeats poetry to the writings of Oscar Wilde. The Dublin Writers Museum was dedicated to this rich heritage. While there, we learned about the limerick, a five-lined poem originating in Limerick, Ireland. On a stroke of inspiration, I announced I had composed a limerick about someone my friends might recognize. With great anticipation, I quoted my rhyme:

I once knew a very good liar

His words added fuel to the fire.

He’d spin out his yarns

With humor and charm

Many rumors he thus did inspire.

Everyone laughed as they recognized Liam, who beamed with pride.

Our favorite site was the last one visited, the area known as Connemara. The romanticism of the rolling hills, the dappled colors on the mountains, the beauty of the sea and that of Kylemoor Abbey captured our imaginations and reinforced our desire to return to this country. “In Connemara by the sea, where I loved you and you loved me…” We had a love affair with Ireland and left wanting more. 

 As we said our goodbyes at the airport to our faithful guide, I said, “Liam, I only have one thing to say. My Irish eyes are SHINING.” To which he responded, “Aye, lass, and they were from the beginning. They were from the beginning.