I don’t much feel like talking. I’m home, present and accounted for. Bags unpacked, laundry done, hiking shoes still sporting small clumps of Beara bog. Photos loaded on smugmug, receipts piled in a stack on my desk, a bottle of Connemara 12-year-old Peated Single Malt awaiting whiskey weather.
Yes, sure, and I’m here. But not here, so.
Where I am is there, in that land of soft rain and impossible greens, of peaches and cream sunrises and salmon-flesh sunsets, of wind and wind and wind.
Where I am is in the land of poetry and legends, of An Cailleach, Clan Ó Súilleabháin, St. Caitighearn; the land of sky and water where battles were fought on gorse-cloaked mountains and warriors marked their Ogham runes on tall pillars. I am where the ruined shadows of a British Coast Guard station destroyed by the IRA in 1920 pale against the shadows of history cast by circles of ancient altars—these slabs of stone sculpted by Bronze Age hands now scratching posts for the russet and inky-black flanks of Angus and Friesian.
I am walking through Eyeries village where rows of houses line up like Crayons and lace curtains flutter in open windows; in MacCarthy’s Bar, Castletown-Bearhaven, enjoying the craic with new friends, laughter stealing my breath.
I’m in a blue room, one wall lined in shelves bursting with novels. Tucked in bed, I watch the sun sink behind the Kerry peninsula; it is approaching 11:00 p.m. and I think I will lie awake as long as there is sunset, until suddenly it is morning again.
Where I am is high on a hillside peering into the green and blue infinity, sheep scattering in my wake, boots soaked through with bog, fingers wrapped around a trekking pole, pack cinched around my waist like a lover’s arms, and I am so happy I could explode from the very fullness of my heart.
I am inside a poem. Inside Eavan Boland’s Quarantine Inside W.S. Merwin’s Thanks Inside Seamus Heaney’s When All The Others Were Away At Mass Inside Sharon Olds’ The Race Inside W.B Yeats’s The Lake Isle of Innisfree I am inside the voice of poet Leanne O’Sullivan as she reads William Shakespeare’s Sonnet 116
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments.
I am inside my own head, hearing my own poetry. I am the pen scribbling on the page. I am the tears that flow.
Something happened to me out there, on the Beara, in the chorus of wind and waves, of birdsong and poemsong. As a writer, as a woman, I am changed. But I’m not ready to talk about it. I’m not ready to come back.
Ag dul síar ar m’aistear
Le solas mo chroí
Fann agus tuirseach
Go deireadh mo shlí
Going west on my journey
By the light of my heart.
Weary and tired
To the end of my road
Excerpted from Mise Raifteirí an File by Antoine Ó Raifteirí
New friend, native Corkonian and poet, Michael Pattwell, writes a weekly column for Cork’s The Evening Echo. Enjoy his lovely poetry and reflections on our workshop at Anam Cara with Leanne O’Sullivan: Finding My Poetry in the Wild West
This is so lovely, Julie. I’ve just gotten around to reading it after returning from my own wanderings. This is beautiful and makes me want to go back. You are fortunate to have spent your time on the Beara Peninsula. Cork pales in comparison, but I made it to Sheapshead and Mizen Peninsulas, the Dingle Peninsula, and Doolin and Inisheer. Next time, I’d like to do stay a while in one of these beautiful places to soak up the peaceful magic, as you did.
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Welcome home, Anne. I finally spent some time in Cork- one of the workshop participants lives just outside and he graciously hosted me and played tour guide. I loved the little city and could happily hang out there for a long spell. I’m so glad you were able to explore the back of beyond 🙂 For all the reasons, Ireland just captures me soul.
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Lovely prose and pictures – next best thing to being there
.
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Thank you, Cinda 🙂
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I need another trip back home. Did I just write home? Yes, it’s still home. Gorgeous photos by the way. I need one like that colourful street photo for my book cover because there’s a lilac B&B in my novel, doesn’t play a huge part but it would be perfect.
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Isn’t that the way of it? These places that touch us, move us, change us–they are our true homes. Warm wishes for your writing and thank you for the comment!
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Brilliant post, Julie. I’ve just returned from a week on my own in the wilderness of Scotland and I don’t want to ‘come back’ either. Let’s see if we can hang on to these special experiences somehow.
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I will have to pick your brain for Scotland ideas, Claudia; it’s high on the “must-visit” list. Yes. I know I must return, rejoin my quotidian life, return to the practicalities and demands, but the literal and figurative poetry of the experience will keep me there. I hope for you to remain in the wilderness, too.
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“I am inside a poem” Lovely.
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Laura, thank you.
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Hi Julie – or are you not quite back to being Julie, yet? Don’t rush back from the places where you are – the refreshment of your retreat is kind of misting off of your post and coating my own imagination! (grin)
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Dear Leslie! I’m trying to remain in my bubble as long as I can. Surrounding myself with poetry, trying to write some, soaking up all that I can. And hoping to hold onto this sense of peace and wonder. . .
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You are indeed inside a poem Julie, you are the poem.
What a beautiful dance of words and images, evoking so much beauty and appreciation. Your cup is full and not with Guinness!
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Oh Claire, what a gorgeous thing to say. Thank you.
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As you know, Julie, I was one of a fantastic group of 8. I was amazed how we bonded so well; 1 Spaniard, 5 Americans and just 2 Irish. It was the experience of a lifetime, not least because of your contributions. Your description above has me unsettled again and I WANT to be back there. As you know I had written very little poetry since my late wife became ill almost 3 years ago (and died over 2 years ago) but now I am thinking of nothing else, with several poems – not exactly completed – but under way.
Thanks for putting up the link for my Echo piece but I could never have put the feeling into it that you have.
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And here’s the power of our experience. You, writing. It’s such a beautiful thing, Michael. I will return in spirit, and in person before long. I expect to see you there 🙂
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I love following your travels and experience in Ireland. I pray the experience continues to shape you and your writing.
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What a beautiful sentiment, Les. Thank you so much. I feel the blessing.
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Travel transforms and changes me, too. Your photos are beautiful, I especially love the house lined street scene. I have felt that same kind of happiness. Sounds like an amazing trip, thanks for sharing it.
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Thank you, my friend. It is a singular kind of joy, isn’t it? I’m so grateful for the opportunity to feel this deeply. . .
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The closest I can come to feeling I am there too. Thank you for the beautiful view into your travels and writing journey.
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Thank you for the beautiful comment, Ellyn.
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I am transported, Julie. Beautiful travelogue, words and pictures. I hope you retain that Ireland-of-the-mind for a long, long time. I hope you indeed never come back.
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Eileen, thank you. It was a transformative experience. I am so grateful.
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