Ireland | Dare Boldly

I’m seated at a writer’s desk that once beloned to the grandfather of Pippa, the owner of the Half Door Writer’s Cottage, my temporary Irish abode.

Earlier today, I ventured into Nenagh, the largest town nearby that has a delightful town centre, a 1200 year old castle and a TESCO, Ireland’s supermarket chain. On the main street I spotted a store named with the same surname as Pippa. I wonder if it’s linked to her grandfather’s desk? I’ll need to ask her once we meet. Currently, she’s in Greece, navigating roads she described via WhatsApp as even more narrow and exciting than Ireland’s.

Switching driving sides is a mutual adventure for both Pippa and me. I commend myself for adapting rather quickly, save for a single blunder. One car had to flash its lights to alert me of my lane mistake! Now, I constantly remind myself, “My right shoulder is closest to the white line in the middle of the road.”

Yesterday evening, after settling into the cottage and the friendly feline Mr. Baggins, I headed to Gerrykennedy, a quaint lakeside village just a few minutes away. At Larkin’s Pub, I treated myself to delectable fish and chips on their patio and nursed a glass of Pinot Grigio as I wrote in my journal.

Things I’ve observed while travelling alone:

Talking aloud, especially when fatigue sets in. It’s a way to remain alert, especially after an exhausting transatlantic flight. And it’s a great way to give myself pep talks as I try to navigate the standard transmissions, driving on the opposite side of the road and a foreign landscape.
I’m more open to seeking assistance. Take the incident with my rental car’s non-existent ignition button for example. Accustomed to just pushing the button to start my car at home, I searched for the same facility on my rental car until I gave up searching and asked the lovely young attendant for help. He was very kind in showing me how the key just pops out of the fob and where to insert it on the steering whell. 😊
Balancing ego and self-awareness is vital. While ego nudges me to appear infallible, curiosity prompts questions about my presence and awareness.
The joy of unplanned detours, despite Siri’s insistence on sticking to the route.
The comforting presence of my inner voice, guiding me towards mindfulness.

Solo travels have been insightful:

It’s made me delve deeper into the essence of solitary journeys and heighten my self-awareness.
I’ve discovered the importance of relishing my own presence.
The conveniences of modern tech, like Google Maps and phone-to-car syncing, are deeply appreciated.
Staying connected with loved ones is just a call, text, or email away, reinforcing that we’re intrinsically linked irrespective of distances.

Traveling solo doesn’t equate to loneliness. It’s an enriching experience heightened by the omnipresent interconnectedness and the deep love that binds me inextricably where ever in the world I am.

A normal driving road when off the motorways. There are little lay-bys so that drivers can pull over to let approaching cars pass. Coming around curves is rather scary! That and the fact the posted speedlimit is usually 80 KMs per hour!

Sitting at the airport in one of my favourite restaurants. Vin Room opened here at the International Terminal at the very beginning of Covid lockdowns.

The worry was, it wouldn’t make it. Believe me. It’s thriving.

I am too.

Despite…. well why worry about the despites or in spite ofs or the if only this was that way or that way.

The fact is, life is as it is and I am on my way to Ireland for 10 days of respite, restoration and respiration. Breath comes deep as I anticipate 10 days of aloneness, writing time, wandering time, and just pure delight time.

This is my for me, by me, with me 70th birthday gift to me.

It appeared as if it was spontaneous but the fact is, I’d been deliberating, wondering, contemplating this trip for quite some time.

I wanted to go but concern for my beloved, wanting to do something with my daughters, just wanting to ensure the rest of the world was okay before I took off on some unknown destination kind of trip, caused me to falter and wait, and consider and wait some more.

And then, one morning in September, I just did it. I booked a flight. didn’t really think about dates — do you know Canadian Thanksgiving is on the 9th and I don’t return until the 10th? Yeah. Like. Who’s going to do the big dinner and all that jazz?

But I digress. There I was, sitting at my desk in my studio, writing a strategic plan for the not-for-profit I’m working for when a voice inside my head whispered… Just Do It!

And so I did. Just do it.

I picked up my phone, opened my Westjet app and check on flights to Dublin. And booked one.

I had no idea what I’d do once I got there. No plan. No idea of where to go, what to see, what to do. All I knew was I was flying to Dublin on Saturday, September 30. End of story.

I’m a little more prepared now. I have a car booked at the airport for when I arrive tomorrow morning. I’ll drive two and a half hours west towards the ocean. When I reach my destination at the Half Door Writer’s Retreat, I’ll park my car, unload my luggage (one bag) and ensconse myself for a beautiful sojourn on the shore of Lough Derg, just beyond the town of Nenagh. There, I’ll write, and wander, drive and tour, write some more and ponder life, love, and the beauty of being immersed in the Irish countryside.

My father is Irish. His father and brother immigrated to Canada in the 1920s but never left their homeland behind. It always lived in their hearts, his Uncle Pat’s Irish brough never softening.

My grandfather returned to the Emerald Isle a lot, eventually, settling in London where my father was born.

It’s a long convuluted journey. My paternal grandmother was Jewish. The union did not last and if I read the letters she wrote to a sister correctly, their differeing faith had lots to do with it. When my grandparents divorced when my father was 8, they shipped him off to boarding school from London to Gravelbourg Saskatchewan which on a certain level explains his enchantment with my French speaking mother. Gravelbourg is a small enclave of French culture deep in the wheatfields of prairie bound south eastern Saskatchewan.

And still, I digress.

It must be the wine. I’m hoping it will put me to sleep on my flight so that when I arrive in Dublin at 11am tomorrow morning Dublin time, I’ll be refreshed and rejuvenated. Ready to take on this adventure.

Wish me luck.

I’m off!