A Love Letter to Ireland…of sorts.
We have all felt it; the doldrums, the melancholy, the gloom you experience after returning from a long-awaited getaway. It’s commonly referred to as “post-vacation blues” and I’ve got ’em bad!
Don’t get me wrong, I adore my hometown. So much so, I’ve even made a career out of convincing other people they should love it too. I also cherish the opportunity to explore the world, absorb different cultures and marvel at the scenery but often times with a keen desire to return to the familiar. With all that said, this strangely strong post-vacay malaise has caught me a bit off guard. This overwhelming “off-ness” has forced me to take a step back and do what I do best, over-analyze and obsess ad nauseam. After a several-weeks-long journey of self-discovery, here’s what I’ve figured out. It’s Ireland’s fault! Please allow me to explain.
I blame the people. Folks like Johnny, the Killarney National Park jaunting car driver; with his well-worn tam, straight outta central casting looks, quick-witted humor and thick Irish brogue. His unrelenting insistence on my husband and I using his red plaid woolen blankets to shield ourselves against the crisp gale of an October morning and seemingly genuine interest in whether we were enjoying our time there. All that sincerity and charm…the nerve!
I fault those views. Waking up to the most dramatic of vistas, punctuated in greens that even Crayola has yet to imagine; stretching on in every direction as far as the eye can see. Devious!
I point the finger at the music. The lilting sounds of pure joy, trickling out of every pub doorway, rolling down the alleyways and pulsing in the streets. The audible sound of merriment around, beneath and from within you everywhere we ventured. Diabolical!
The food was complicit. All of those scrumptious meals crafted as if they could have been lonvingly prepared by my very own apron-clad granny (given that she were a little more “fish & chips” and a little less “shrimp & grits”)
*To be noted: my husband, with no actual training or basis for his determination, but with (let’s be honest) a pretty sizable sampling pool has declared the Guinness served in the bar at The Brehon hotel in Killarney to be the best in all of Ireland. I’m certain, thanks in no small part, to those darn people again. Crafty!
Even though you’ve put me in this quite difficult position, I choose to forgive you, Ireland. Perhaps, once I’ve had some time to heal, I will even visit again… and, again.
So now that you’re reading this, consider yourself duly warned. If you choose to make the foolhardy decision to visit the glorious Emerald Isle, be prepared to deal with the beautiful aftermath.