Between Comfort and Chaos: Reflecting on War and Privilege

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I lie in the bath, my feet playfully peeking through the bubble-laden surface. Immediately, I’m reminded of my friend Lavern, who often shares photos of his feet relaxing against the backdrop of the sparkling Okanagan lake.

I snap a photo of my feet, but do not post it.

Two months ago, Lavern’s family summer home was consumed by the ravenous Adam’s Lake Fire in B.C. Years of dedication, sweat, and equity had turned their house into a cherished home. When the evacuation order came, they joined the convoy of desperate families fleeing the flames, their vehicles laden with memories, pets, and hope.

Lavern’s escape bore an extra layer of pathos. As part of the local volunteer fire brigade, he combatted the very inferno that razed his home.

This year, nature’s fury has felt unbridled—fires, floods, tornadoes, hurricanes—each disaster leaving scars on our landscapes and hearts. Yet, for many like Lavern, there’s solace in the knowledge that they can rebuild, even if the journey is long and tough.

There are so many million others in this hurting world whose journey is even tougher. The catastrophes they face are man-made—bombs, bullets, and wars that annihilate not just buildings but the spirit of communities. No fortress stands invincible to a missile, no hand can stop a bullet, just as no belief can truly justify the horror we inflict upon one another.

The world’s landscape is marred with unease. In our quest for territory and power, we seem to forget that peace cannot bloom from the soil of conflict. While some invoke divinity to defend violence, our shared humanity is overshadowed.

As I reclined in my bath this morning, insulated from the world’s chaos, I was hit with a profound realization: moments of peace, like this, are a privilege. And they’re not universal.

I took a photo of my feet sticking out of the bubbles in my bath this morning. Wrapped in the warmth of my home, my thoughts were distant from the cacophony of war, far from the dread of a bomb’s descent.

It’s moments like these that starkly remind me of the divide between safety and chaos, between peace and turmoil. Such simple, unassuming moments are luxuries that many in our world are denied. As I wrap myself in the comfort of my sheltered sanctuary, I’m enveloped by a deep gratitude for my safety, but also a profound sorrow for those living in the horrific reality of the dangers surrounding them.

Lest we forget, while some of us bask in comfort, countless others are engaged in a relentless fight for mere survival. As we sit blithely, passing judgments, laying blame, taking sides, or lashing out at commentators for dissenting views, there are mothers mourning as they pull the lifeless bodies of their children from ruins. Lost children wander amidst the chaos, their tiny hearts pounding, their trembling  bodies overwhelmed by hunger, thirst, and fear.

This is the harrowing face of war. After the deafening roars of guns have ceased and the final bombs have fallen, both victors and the vanquished are left with the somber task of laying their loved ones to rest. And long after the dust has settled, their hearts will continue to ache, bearing the weight of all that man’s conflicts have stolen.

If we are to make real peace with one another, let us not make it through war.

On faith and memory

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My Catholic roots are deeply intertwined with the tapestry of my childhood. Though I do not weave them through the warp and weft of my life today, they have always served as a solid foundation, enabling me to navigate life with a sense of peace, security, and boundless freedom.

I vividly recall the Friday evening Rosaries. The rhythmic clicking of the beads as they slipped through my mother’s fingers echoed the cadence of her whispered prayers. With each Hail Mary, I would impatiently await the end, yearning to run outside and play with my sister.

On Saturday afternoons, the serene ambiance of the church would embrace us as my sister and I assisted our mother with the flowers for the altar, ensuring their freshness for Sunday mass. While my sister had the honor of carrying the week-old vases, I was delegated the task of sorting. Perhaps my mother had her reasons to doubt my dexterity (or perhaps lack of attention) when carrying breakable objects.

These memories have left an indelible mark. Even today, discarding withered flower arrangements, as I had to do when I returned from my trip, feels almost sacrilegious. The wilted petals and stagnant water resonate with silent prayers, pleading to be left undisturbed.

In my child’s memory, Sunday morning masses were full of chaos and confusion. The whirlwind of preparing four children, adorned in their Sunday best with my mother always winning out on what I was to wear, contrasted sharply with the solemnity of the mass. But Easter Sunday was special. It wasn’t the prolonged service that captivated me but the excited of a new Sunday hat and dress, my shiny patent leather shoes, and delicate lace gloves.

The church’s aesthetics enthralled me. From the priest’s ornate gold rimmed robes to the grandeur of the statues, I would sit and stare until my mother poked me with a whispered, “Pay attention”. It is perhaps in the church where the seeds of my feminist nature were planted. Amidst all the allure, the gendered confines of the church stung. Why couldn’t girls, equally devout and capable, serve at the altar?” I would ask my mother, only to be hushed with a sharp retort to be quiet or stop asking questions.

My childhood was also marked by innocent transgressions and the subsequent confessions whispered into the darkness of a confessional booths screen behind which an unseen priest sat. I knew my litany of sins by hear and practiced them with my sister to ensure we didn’t sound exactly the same: bickering with my sister, disobeying my mother or father, and the unintentional swallowing of water before the mass in the days when eating or drinking anything before consuming the holy wafer was a big no-no.

Post-mass Sundays had their rituals too. Breakfast awaited, and my father’s culinary feats were nothing short of legendary. Invitations to join were frequent, and few could resist.

My recent journey to Ireland rekindled these poignant memories. The landscape is dotted with majestic cathedrals and humble churches, their spires reaching towards the heavens, silent witnesses to centuries of devout worship. It’s impossible not to feel the profound depth of Catholic faith imbued in the very heart of the Irish people. The ubiquity of crucifixes, gracing everything from homes to local stores, speaks volumes of a culture where the sacred and the secular seamlessly converge.

In this nation, where belief threads through every aspect of life, I found echoes of my past. The sanctity I witnessed in Ireland, in the daily lives of its people, reflected my own childhood filled with the mysticism of faith and the embrace of family.

These reminiscences emphasize the profound influence of my roots. Although I’ve distanced myself from the strict religious practices of my youth, the spiritual foundation laid during those years keeps me grounded. I firmly believe that life, with all its mysteries, wonders, and challenges, is divinely orchestrated. It’s a gift to be treasured, a journey to be celebrated with joy and love, no matter your spiritual beliefs or credo.

Baking scones at 4am

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Jetlag has a peculiar way of rearranging one’s schedule. It was 4 a.m., and there I was, wide awake, having been stirred from slumber at 2:30. Not having spent much time doing anything domestic while on my travels, the kitchen beckoned. Before I knew it, flour, sugar, and butter were sprawled across the island, with my hands deep in a bowl of flour, sugar and butter, crumbling butter into pea-sized morsels.

Doesn’t everyone bake scones at 4am?

Thankfully, my journey home had been uneventful — truly the best kind of flight.

Upon landing, my beloved was waiting, with our imitable Sheepadoodle, Beaumont, peeking out from the backseat. We were en route to a Thanksgiving dinner with dear friends; a quick stop at home wasn’t on the agenda.

I held onto my wakefulness as long as I could, staying alert till 7 p.m. — or what felt like 2 a.m. back in Dublin. But then, sleep’s sweet lure proved irresistible. A brief hour-long nap on a sofa later, I tried to rally, but by 9:30 p.m., I was soundly asleep in my bed.

Ahhh, the sweet comfort of one’s own bed and surroundings!

However, the early hours found me awake again.

Though an unconventional choice, baking seemed fitting. After all, I couldn’t very well unpack or start laundry, not with Beaumont and C.C. peacefully asleep beside me.

Post my baking escapade, I snatched a few more precious hours of sleep and, when morning broke, Beaumont and I headed out to wander the paths along along the riverbank, the landscape painted with the fiery hues of autumn.

The season of long shadows is upon us. The sun barely grazes the horizon, as though even it yearns for winter’s rest. The mornings greet us with a cool embrace, but by midday, warmth seeps in.

This is a time for introspection, for prepping home and soul for the impending icy gusts of a prairie winter.

For now, I cherish my walks by the river. Though its name might not resonate with the historical echoes of the Liffey, its melody is just as enchanting.

It’s the thing about rivers, no matter where in the world you go, the poetry of the river flows freely.

The River Liffey

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I walk along the banks of the River Liffey and whisper its name as if invoking the Celts and Vikings, the Tudors and the rebel Irish who walked these banks eons ago. It is a storied river whose name has slipped over the tongues of monks and knights and common folk with the same ease as the river flowing for centuries past.

I am entranced by its calm beauty slipping along through the centre of Dublin while traffic zooms and people walk and sit along the wide sidewalks that follow its course the centre of the city.

I drove into Dublin yesterday, well, not quite ‘into’, having chosen to return my car and book a hotel near the airport.

Taking the bus into the city centre that afternoon, gratitude swept over me for not having to drive. When I mentioned to the bus driver who was changing shifts as we reached the stop where I was to disembark that I was in awe of the fact that he and all the other drivers could navigate the narrow streets, particularly with a double decker.

He laughed and replied, slapping his replacement driver on the back, “We’re Dublin’s superheroes, aren’t we now Johnny?”

I think they are!

When I stpped off the bus, he stpped off as well and asked, “What are your plans for the evening in Dublin?”

“I don’t have any,” I replied. “I’m just going to let the streets take me where they take me.”

“Well then,” he says. “If it’s a Guiness and good Irish music, you must go to Camden Street. There’s some quiet local pubs that will give you an authentic listen.” And he points me where I need to go.

I thank him and he walks off in the opposite direction while I make my way towards Camden Street.

Except, a narrow street calls, a stepple, another one and suddenly, I have no idea where Camden street is.

I’ve mentioned I’ve very adept at losing my way, even with google maps guiding me. It’s an artform.

Lauging at my predictabity, and eager to find somewhere to sit, I turn back towards where I’ve come, I think, and begin walking. Fortunately, there are legible street signs when walking with lots of names I was familiar with. Following the arrows, I found my way back to the River Liffey, turned right along its banks until I found the coffee place I’d seen when I’d first set out – and thought it was a restaurant.

Not being a place I wanted to sit, I crossed over, went back down the opposite side of the street and entered The Arlington Restaurant and Pub in the Arlington Hotel at the O’Connell Bridge.

I’m so glad I did!

A delicious dinner while a football game played on the giant TV screen, fans cheering and then, as the game wound down, the sound of an accordion and fiddle began to rise up over the noise of the TV.

Enchanted, I moved closer to the music and ended up sitting in a window seat. On one side of sat two young men, on the other, a single woman about my age (I’d later discover she too was born in ’53, but hailed from Australia and was on a European tour to celebrate her 70th birthday).

The two young men chatted with me for awhile, they left and Linda, the Australian woman, and I began to talk, and talk, and talk while the music soared and the night grew darker.

At one point, a tall dark haired young man with a brilliant smile approached and asked if the chair across from me was open.

“Yes,” I replied, and he promptly sat down, his smile laughing and his eyes dancing.

He was actually meeting the couple who had sat the table beside me after the young men left but flirting, no matter the age of the woman, seemed to be an art form to him. He was delightful, regaling Linda and I with tales of his time in Dublin since leaving Brazil many years before.

When he left to join his friends Linda and I thanked him for his own unique brand of entertainment.

What a perfect ending to a perfect 10 days on the Emerald Isle!

________________________

And postscript… the first morning at the cottage, I realized I’d somewhere lost my wedding band in the bedroom of the cottage. It was the only jewellry I’d brought with me as along with getting lost, I’m adept at losing jewellry. I searched everywhere and couldn’t find it.

After I left, Pippa pulled the furniture away from the walls and scoured the rug in search of it. “It’s very much the colour of the rug, so hard to see,” she wrote in her note to tell me she’d found it!

How kind and thoughtful. She was concerned I would be worried all the way home and wanted to ensure I knew it was found and would be on its way back to me the next very next day.

A night at the Arlington

A castle tower concert. A poetry workshop. Magic and Wonder.

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A final glance at my sticky notes outlining the main theme of each chapter in the play I’m writing.

A final sit at Pippa’s father’s writing desk. A final write from the HalfDoor Cottage, a final visit from Mr Baggins. And I’m off.

Heading to Dublin today and then tomorrow, home.

It has been a wonderful journey. Full of adventure, getting lost, getting found, meeting new friends and learning new parts of me to befriend.

I’ve loved it all, from the curving, narrow shoulderless roads, driving with the gearshift on the left hand side of the steering wheel, and trying to find my way and losing myself with Google maps insistence she knows where I’m going even when I don’t.

And late yesterday afternoon was the piece de resistance!

Earlier that morning, I’d attended a poetry workshop at the Dromineer Yacht Club, with poet, Vona Groarke. While there, I heard about a sold out event with the Literary Festival that was being held within Nenagh Castle later that day. After checking if it was possible someone might have a ticket for sale at the last minute, I decided I’d risk it and turn up, just in case.

I spent the afternoon wandering town, grabbing a bite at Talbot’s Pub (that’s a story for another telling), sat inside the quiet of the majestic cathedral for half an hour and lit a candle for my mother, wandered the silence of the graveyard and along the streets of Nenagh. Outside Country Choice, I encountered Margaret, one of the volunteers who’d hosted that morning’s poetry writing workshop. When she heard I was hoping to buy a ticket to the evening’s Castle event, she promptly called a man she knew had an extra.

And that’s how I came to be sitting in the front row of hard plastic chairs placed beneath the giant circular light fixture suspended from the rafters far above.

It was an evening of magic, mystery and awe.

I was truly enchanted.

A harpist, Laura O’Sullivan, Irish songstress, Cathie Ryan, poet, Vona Groarke, who lead a rich and lively conversation with Robert O’Byrne, the author of Left without a Handkerchief.

As described on its website: “Left Without a Handkerchief will fill a gap in the national narrative, featuring the stories of ten houses and their owners. From Galway to Wexford, Mayo to Cork, it will give a voice to the dispossessed, to the people who thought they had a place in Ireland until, usually in the course of a single night, they were disabused of this belief. As the centenary of the onset of house burnings arrives, now is the time to tell their story.”

His account of the times of ‘the burnings’ and the ‘revolution’ and the years of discord and upheaval filled gaps in my knowledge, and opened many questions about this land of such beauty, friendliness and violence.

I’m off today for Dublin town.

I’ll be back.

Deliverance and Other Irish Adventures

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Believing deeply that getting lost often paves the path to self-discovery, my latest escapade began as many do: serendipitously. I had just dropped off a gratitude gift to the delightful Frank and Natalie, the host of the Irish Ladies’ Book Club, and the kind couple who assisted during my flat tire ordeal. After coffee and Frank’s glowing recommendation, I set off to explore the Millenium Cross.

True to form, I soon found myself bewilderingly off-course.

Instead of hiking towards the Cross, I stumbled upon the haunting site of The Graves of the Leinstermen. This is where, according to legend, early in the 11th Century, the King of Leinster was ambushed and killed en route to Kincora to woo King Boru’s daughter. King Boru’s wife, opposed to the union, had conspired his demise, ordering her husband’s men to set up an ambush on the trail.

Thinking I was walking towards the Cross, I set off with gusto and began an uphill trek into the Arras mountains. But between the foreboding clouds hinting at rain and the absence of my trusty knee brace, I soon had second thoughts. About 15 minutes in, on a slippery, mud-caked path, my instincts screamed for retreat.

I trudged back. At my car, I asked the guidance from a passerby. Did the road continue on and lead me back towards Portroe, where I needed to be by 5pm without having to take the road already travelled?

She reassured me it did and armed with her directions, I once again set off, forward. I thought I was following her directions but… what felt like the correct left turn soon turned into a narrow muddy and treacherous path leading downhill through dense woods. With my tires sliding precariously on the steep, muddy decline and my heart in mouth. I pulled on the handbrade and came to a stop.

I knew this couldn’t be the right road but I had few alternatives. The narrow forest-lined trail offered no exit, save to cautiously move forward. Easing off the clutch, shifting into first girl, I began to inch slowly forward.

Then, almost out of a scene from an old movie, a bend led me into a dead end leading to a decript yard littered with relics of old machines, children’s toys, furniture and other objects that had lost thier connection to whatever they may have been, complete with, a weather-beaten stone cottage.

It felt like I had been thrust into an eerie Irish rendition of “Deliverance”.

My intuition suggested caution, but the need to turn around urged me towards that timeworn cottage. Its gate moaned with age as I stepped through, and angry dogs could be heard growling and barking from beyond the door. The suspense was palpable as I knocked, half-expecting an ominous response. But silence, except for the incessant barking, filled the air.

Getting no response to my knocking, and urged on by my fear the dogs might break through the door, I raced back to the car, drove it into the yard, turned around. All the while, half expecting a grizzled face to suddenly appear at the driver’s winder, waving a double barrel shotgun, screaming at me to go away!

Heart pounding, adrenalin coursing, I sped away, as fast as the muddy track and steep incline would allow, grateful for the escape.

Over a delicious dinner prepared by my gracious host, Pippa of the Half Door Cottage, she later confirmed my unease about that mysterious place.

As I told her the story of the woods I’d become lost in, her eyes grew wide and she shuddered visibly. She knew exactly where I’d ended up. “You don’t want to be meeting with those folk,” she cautioned. And in hushed voice she added, “It’s rumoured there’s a lot of clandestine activity going on in those woods.”

The view through Pippa’s kitchen window

But here’s the thing, as thrilling as that experience was, my journey wasn’t all danger and suspense. That evening, after dinner, we headed to the opening of the Dromineer Nenagh Literary Festival. By sheer coincidence, my trip to Ireland and the Half Door Writer’s Retreat overlapped with this literary feast.

The readings, by Vona Groarke and Kit de Waal, felt transformative. It was as if a grand door to an entirely new literary adventure swung open before me.

Waiting for the authors

Life’s detours, both literal and literary, continue to prove enlightening. Whether finding ancient graves, narrowly escaping a Deliverance encounter in ominous woods, or being inspired by poetic readings, every twist and turn deepens my belief: “It doesn’t matter how or where adventure unfolds, when approached with optimism and arms wide open to the possibility of the best, every outcome is a blessing.

Country Choice and Musical Memories of My Father

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Nenagh Town Centre

I had never heard of Nenagh before I made the decision to travel to Ireland. And, probably never would have had I not found the Half Door Writer’s Cottage via a google search of “Writer retreats in Ireland”. But, after reading about Country Choice, a quaint store nestled on its main street and watching a delightful video depicting a day in the life of its owner, Peter Ward, my interest was piqued. Peter, alongside his wife Mary, has cherished and nurtured this establishment for almost three decades.

As a culinary enthusiast with a penchant for unique food experiences, imagine my disappointment when I realized that the store was closed on the very day I first visited Nenagh.

Determined, I prioritized Country Choice during my next visit, placing it even before Nenagh Castle and Prison on my itinerary.

On a wet morning, undeterred by rain-slicked roads, and unflinchingly passing speeding lorries on narrow lanes, I arrived at Country Choice. I was welcomed by an appetizing spread of vegetarian quiche complemented by three diverse salads. Over this delightful meal, Peter shared tales of the store’s in-house jams, locally-sourced cheeses, meats, fruits, and vegetables.

“What’s on the menu?” Peter chuckled. “That’s a mystery until our suppliers walk through the door, much like our guests.”

The ambiance was homey and warm. Peter boasted of their collection of fruits, vegetables, jams, and what he claims to be the world’s best chocolate.

During our chat, he curiously asked if I’d been born in Ireland before moving away.

“No,” I responded. “But my father was.”

“What was his name?”

On hearing my surname, “Gallagher,” which I self-consciously pronounced with a soft ‘g’ as native Irish would, he nodded his head sagely and say, “Aye. From Donegal. “Do you know Bridie Gallagher?”

“No,” I replied innocently. “But I don’t know anyone in Ireland.”

He gives his big warm smile and hearty laugh and tells me it would be unlikely I did. She passed many years ago. “But, she’s a fine Irish singer and has a song about Donegal you must hear.”

And he races off to the cash desk, grabs a piece of paper and writes down her name. “Find her on your music app and have a listen,” he says as I’m settling up. “You’ll be amazed.”

Ireland is a land of beauty, mystery and magic. Magic because… here’s the funny thing. My father was a huge music collector. Growing up, he accumulated over 2,000 LPs of music from all over the world. They lined the shelves of the big wooden ‘shrank’ which was the German word for the shelving unit that graced the entire wall of our living room in Germany. The entire collection was in alphabetical order by artist, cross-referenced to genre and country and woe the one who put an album back in its wrong place. Remember, this was in the days before personal computers. He’d type out his list on his manual Remington typewriter, retyping an entire page when a new LP was added.

Delicious! But I just couldn’t finish it all!

I was constantly in awe of his commitment and the dexterity of his big index fingers pounding away at the keys, creating their own special music.

Listening to Bridie sing The Heart of Donegal on my way back to the cottage took me back to my father’s love of everything Irish. I’m sure, if I scour my memory banks long enough, I’ll discover threads of Bridie’s voice woven through the hallways of my mind with my father’s voice calling out, “Listen to this!”

As I drove along with her voice and memories of my father’s Irish roots playing a love song through its music, I carried with me several choice Ward’s Kitchen jams and preserves that will travel back with me to Canada. I didn’t. However, carry memories of Nenagh Castle.

Though I didn’t use this parking spot, I thought it delightfully curious & appealing

Despite Google Maps best intentions, I still managed to lose my way.

With the rain pouring down and the challenges of navigating through the narrow streets lined with pedestrians and cars zipping around corners all while trying to read tiny, obscure, road signs posted at varying heights and unexpected places on each corner, I got flustered.

After three attempts to find the right turn to get to the castle – Did I mention it’s very big and visible? Somehow, however, with the mix of one way streets, traffic and rain still pouring down, I lost my nerve. When I found myself on a road leading out of town, I kept taking it until I found myself on what I knew to be my lane to the cottage.

The castle has witnessed over 1400 years. It certainly can wait another day.

The Unknown Path

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Before I left Calgary, a wise friend posed a provocative question that nudged at my preconceived notion of a “successful” trip.

My Writing Corner – the stickies are the setting for each act of the play I’m writing

“All I really want is to at least draft the first act of the play I’m working on,” I shared with her, the phone line bridging the distance between her in Ottawa and me in Calgary.

“But what if you don’t write a single word?” she mused. “What if all you do is follow your heart’s call in every moment? Isn’t that, in itself, success?”

It’s frustrating when someone highlights the glaringly obvious, particularly when it’s the exact thing I’ve been sidestepping.

So, what defines a successful trip? Or, extending that thought, a successful life? For me, it’s not merely about achievements but feeling truly fulfilled. It’s the profound joy of self-acceptance and an inner tranquility with who I am, right here, right now.

What if my ‘solo writer’s retreat’ yielded not a single penned word?

After the nerve-wracking drive yesterday that resulted in a flat tire, I decided to take a breather from the challenging narrow roads. A day for my frayed nerves and strained shoulders. And yes, a massage is top of the list when I’m back!

Instead, I wandered, read, napped, and yes, wrote. Surprisingly, I even wrapped up the first draft of Act 1. Yet, thanks to my friend’s piercing question, I wasn’t viewing this through a ‘success’ filter. This was about me showing up authentically, basking in every moment, every breath, as Greg McKeown explains in “Essentialism: The Disciplined Pursuit of Less”, it’s about my “highest level of contribution”.

Venturing into the quaint hamlet of Garrykennedy on the shores of Lough Derg, I nestled into a cozy chair at Larkin’s Pub, a comforting fire warding off the crisp Augumn air.With a glass of wine in hand and an amazingly delectable bowl of Seafood Chowder, I scribbled and penned thoughts into my journal, the bar’s mid-afternoon quiet punctuated by the murmurs of two other patrons.

Later, I meandered along the shoreline, letting the rain-kissed air envelop me, the stillness of the moment a pure embrace.

It was quintessentially Irish—a day where success wasn’t quantified by accomplishments but by my immersion in every little thing.

That said, if someone could please explain to me why the Irish, known for their unhurried approach to life, speed at 80/km on these sinuous single lanes, I’d be eternally grateful!

The Unknown Path
by Louise Gallagher

Someday, you will step onto a path
not knowing
where it will lead
following its winding ways
into the unknown
that awaits
when you let go
of having to know
paths not taken
before you walk them.

Someday, you'll discover
the answers you seek
lay beyond
the paths you know.

(The poem was written while sitting in Larkin’s Pub, warming myself by the fire)

The Irish Ladies’ Book Club

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The view from Arra Trail Lookout

The unmistakable sound took me back to a time when a blown transformer in our old neighborhood took out the electricity and resulted in a swarm of firetrucks and firefighters descending upon our community.

The blown transformer left every lightbulb in our neighbour’s home shattered while our damage resulted in a new stove and microwave and, as I discovered the next morning when I went to leave our garage, an inoperable garage door opening.

All of that chaos was bad enough, but the crescendo was yet to come. As I pushed up the now manual garage door and readied myself for the day ahead, my fingers became caught between its rolling slats. The pain was excruciating, but with a crucial meeting ahead, I had no choice but to press on. It was as I navigated the back lane that I was introduced to a noise I wouldn’t forget: Whump. Whump. Whump. The cause? A flat tire.

Talk about insult to injury!

I’d just passed Millenium Hill when ‘it’ happened

Fast forward to my drive towards Ballina. A day of exploring the towns and countryside. The winding lanes, the allure of adventure, and yet… there was that all-too-familiar sound again. The cause of this flat was clear: while making room for an oncoming truck on the narrow two-lane road, I hadn’t anticipated the lack of a shoulder, nor the sharpness of the road’s edge.

I pulled over to a grassy stretch of access road leading to a private driveway, got out and surveyed the damage.

Front tire Flat.

Mood. Deflated.

Tears. Imminent.

Soon, a good Samaritan stopped and, together, we discovered another unexpected twist: my trunk, or rather, “boot”, lacked both a spare tire and a jack.

The ensuing half hour felt like a comedy of errors.

The start of the laneway where I pulled over.

I am on the phone connecting with the emergency number provided by the car rental agency. The good Samaritan is surveying my flat tire. I finally reach someone on the phone who can help me. The good Sarmaritan admits defeat and drives off. Still standing on the roadside, phone in hand, a young woman drives up and pulls into the lane. She gets out of her car, asks if I’m okay – I am but I’m not really. I want to cry. I’m struggling to keep it all together. She lets me know she’s just driving down the lane to her parents’ home and should roadside assistance be too long, I should walk down the lane and join them for a cup of tea.

She drives off. I am still on the phone when, five minutes later, her father walks up the lane to see if he can help.

Now, picture this…

I am kneeling on the side of the road, squinting at the tire, phone in hand, attempting to discern the tire size. He realizes the issue, kneels down beside me in his freshly pressed khaki pants, loafers and green jacket over a rust colour sweater — very Irish country gentleman looking. The two of us begin to call out numbers, which, given neither of us have our reading glasses with us, is quite the struggle. Eventually, after tracing a number with my fingers, (I thought was a ‘9’) and letting the woman on the phone know it was actually a 3, she confirms she has all the information she needs, she promises to have someone there in about an hour.

“That’s an Irish hour,” the man tells me before inviting me to their home where his wife is hosting her book club and has made a wonderful cake. “You can enjoy it with your cup of tea,” he tells me with a kind smile..

I take him up on the offer. Who wouldn’t want to share tea and cake with an Irish Ladies’ Book Club in a beautiful home on the shores of Lough Derg?

Ten minutes later, when I told the gathered ladies about my flat and lack of devices to fix it, one of them piped up. “Wasn’t there a cannister in the boot? They put those there to inflate your tire enough to get you to a garage.”

Seriously?

I’d noticed the cannister when the first stranger and I inspected the boot. The only consolation was, he didn’t know what it was for either.

But seriously. I think my way worked better.

Mr. Baggins. My morning writing companion.

I could never have scripted this day – the unexpected turns, the chance encounters, and the invaluable lessons. By the end of it, not only was my tire repaired, but my belief reaffirmed: while detours might lead us astray, they also pave the way for the most memorable journeys.

Lesson Learned: Expect the unexpected and you’ll never be disappointed.

Life will always throw curveballs our way, often when least expected. Being prepared is key, but it’s also essential to embrace the unexpected with an open heart. You never know, your unplanned detour might just lead to your most cherished memory.

Irish Adventures in Getting Lost. Cow Patties and Parades.

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Yesterday morning, deciding to venture into Nenagh to buy provisions for my week at the cottage, the cheerful woman in the pharmacy informed me that the town’s top-rated coffee shop remains closed on Mondays. Interestingly, the next three top favorites, along with the iconic Country Store (known for its French cheeses and salamis), share the same schedule. “You know, the Country Store was the first to introduce salamis and foreign cheese to the region,” she told me with pride.

Walking by the Country Store, a sign affixed to its door informed passersby it’s also shut on Tuesdays. Which is why I decided to head to the Tesco (Ireland’s version of Superstor) to stock up on coffee, fruits, yogurt, and other essentials. Although the cottage is surrounded by inviting pubs within walking distance, navigating the one-lane roads at night, isn’t a task I’m eager to undertake.

Despite Google Maps being a reliable navigator, reaching Tesco was a mini-adventure. The challenge wasn’t the accuracy of the directions, but the speed at which I would spot the street signs. What should’ve been a 5-minute drive from downtown Nenagh ended up taking three times longer.

Embracing the Irish pace has become my new mantra. I’ve come to appreciate the slower timeline and my inadvertent detours—whether by car or foot.

Because even on foot, and with Google maps to direct me, I am as adept at getting lost as when I’m driving. A lovely stroll from my cottage towards Lough Derg early yesterday evening led me down an enticing ‘road’ (it was the prerequisite one lane-narrow) pointing towards Castlelough.

I walked (downhill) savouring the fresh evening air, forest aromas and all the cows munching grass in green, green pastures. Their big, curious eyes would briefly shift from the lush grasses to observe my passing. Surprisingly, though Ireland is known for its sheep, they have been markedly absent from the pastures all around. I was however, delighted to meet an amiable dog who accompanied me for a stretch before turning back towards home as I ambled on down the hill towards Castlelough.

Reaching the tranquil lake shore was rewarding. However, the uphill trek back, with Google Maps as a quasi-guide, had me second-guessing my route more than once. Ironically, my directionally-challenged stroll did lead me to a delightful sight: a farmer herding his cattle, their moos echoing in the crisp air.

As I walked (in the wrong direction) followed by a parade of cows, their gentle snuffles and mewls and the farmer’s calling out, “Hup. Hup.” to urge them along, a soft serenade that grew quieter as he shepherded them into a farmyard and I continued to walk in the wrong direction.

Eventually, my curiosity about why I was walking back down towards the lake convinced me I needed to  check Google maps again. That’s when I discovered ‘my big mistake’. My 8 minutes from the cottage when I’d last checked had become 18. If I carried on the way I was going, my walk would be another 35 minutes, in gathering dusk. Right. Turning the phone around to ensure you’re walking in the right direction is a fundamental navigational tool.

I turned around and began walking back up the hill, negotiating my way through the cow patties they’d left on their homeward journey.

Don’t you just love the smell of fresh manure? It has such a… memorable… aroma!

Settling into the cottage has been a learning curve. From mastering the basics of realizing I need to flip a light switch to turn on the water to the shower and kettle to familiarizing myself with local terms (it’s not a gas station, it’s a petrol station!), I’ve been absorbing it all. And apparently, a Euro coin is just… a coin.

Today, as the autumn chill lingers outside, I’m staying away from driving. I’ll take a couple of walks. Maybe even a nap. With Mr. Baggins, my feline companion, snoozing on the sofa and a warm fire crackling, I take a moment to relish my self-made coffee.

Indeed, life is grand.