On Inis Mór

In cleaning and crap-purging my soon-to-be-clay-studio basement, I found a paper case worth of photos.

Memories.

Now, I swear I’ve told this story before but I can’t find it anywhere. Forgive me if you’ve heard this one already! I took this trip, to Inis Mór, early on in my traveling days – pre-Jen. *GASP* YES, there was travel before I met Jen. Incredible, no?

I’d started the journey in Manchester, England and had trained, hitched, hiked and ferried from there to Dublin. From there I caught a bus to Galway and then another ferry over to Inis Mór.

The island is 8.7 miles long and I walked from end to end, exploring the ruins of two Iron Age forts, a few pubs (of course) and just taking in the magical, rocky landscape.

On my walk up to Dún Aonghasa I stopped at the most inviting, quiet little roadhouse to rest my dogs and have a pint. Though it was very early spring, the sun was out and the air was warm. I took my Guinness outside to a picnic table in the grass. It was lovely, contemplative.

I was soon joined by another solo traveler, a young bicycling German woman. I forget whatever it was we chatted about – travel? ancient civilizations? Dunno but it was nice, cheery. I was still new to solo travel. Being friendly and outgoing was NOT my first instinct BUT I understood that I had to get over that shit if I was gonna learn, grow and have a good time.

So I did.

I wish I could remember what we talked about. All I recall is this – Germany would def be the next stop on Donna's Big Adventures.

Never did the world make a queen of a girl who hides in houses and dreams without traveling.  ~ Roman Payne

Later, after wandering the forts, stopping to chat with the local sheepies (they are wickedly convivial and shit) and finding a random B&B (in true It’s a Small World After All fashion, the proprietess’s son lived – GET THIS – just one block behind my Boston, Comm. Ave. apartment), I went down to the tiny center of town. There was only one joint open as it was still early in the tourist season. Fine by me.

I thought I’d just mosey in, the pub would be near empty. I'd easily find a spot at the bar, stare at the walls, scribble in my sketch pad, mebbe get a bite and head back to the B&B. Quiet night. Nope! The place was jam packed and jumpin', not with tourists but Irishmen and women. Everyone seemed to know each other too. I must have looked particularly stunned as a wonderfully kind woman came over, took my arm, asked what I was drinking (and broke through the three deep crowd to order), then led me over to sit with her crew.

What I’d walked in on was a big gathering of street performers, all on one last holiday before their big working season began. They’d be heading off across Ireland, England, Scotland and on to Europe to hit festivals and other popular tourist spots.

Along with the usual jugglers, fire-eaters, minstrels and clowns, there were puppeteers. One of them manned a giant with a cage atop his head – the puppeteer was, somehow, the prisoner in this cage as he worked the giant’s legs. Man, I’d have liked to see that!

Fiddlers and singers seemed to, utterly spontaneously, spark up. This was now a full blown, on fire, amazing cèili and it was completely unexpected.

This is why I tend not to make plans. I go where I go. I have a few ideas but  nothing definite in mind. I like a good surprise and this SO was!

What is that feeling when you're driving away from people and they recede on the plain till you see their specks dispersing? - it's the too-huge world vaulting us, and it's good-bye. But we lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies.
~ Jack Kerouac, On the Road