ireland's gift to the world is the pub.
where a beer should be like a meal, a pint of guinness should be had in 3 gulps and bulmers enjoyed on ice. we ate roasted chicken and potatoes straight from the county clare farms of shane and mervin, abby's friends from university college corcaigh. we met a college soccer team from letterfrack celebrating their championship win and drank murphy's stout straight out of their trophy cup, singing "whiskey in the jar" and dancing to spoons, fiddles and beer in taffee's pub, galway. (and we decided that falling off the cliffs of moher wouldn't really be all that bad).
good people, good music, and good beer. perfectly simply. especially the people. i am going to name my first child flannery, because it's a beautiful name.
if you play the part of the place you go
eventually it will not be an act anymore.
i found a lambswool tam in galway to wear
and there were kisses on the cheek more times than i can count.
ireland is candidly simplistic, raggedly beautiful
and celebratory of everything.
i crave a heritage like this. how ireland assigns you to find it. i crave a land to pay homage to. i want the ground beneath my feet to speak stronger words than i can speak for myself. i want space only filled with grass and limestone pourous enough to absorb more than my brain can absorb.
the fire that stirs about her, when she stirs. -w.b. yeats (ireland, 1920's)
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