My Dear Old Friend -- Emly, Ireland

Skin is pale in Ireland. That is certainly one preconception to which I’ll grant a grain of truth. My mentor and friend, Roger McCoy would love to paint the locals because of the color that shows through the melanin-free skin. Olive tone is rare. Copper tone is rare. Auburn freckles abound. There are a few farmers who make me think of a beetroot that’s been sunbathing. In the most extreme cases, skin is the color of the high quality pastured milk the Irish are fortunate to drink, with blood granting it a pinkish/purplish hue, as the sun behind clouds changes to color of the sky.

Which is generally the case in Ireland. Sun behind the clouds. But I’ve been in this infamously rainy country for four days now, have felt nary a drop of rain, and have enjoyed seeing the sun from 4:30 in the morning until nearly 11:00 at night. 

So. Preconception about constant nasty rain = busted. I had certainly not anticipated such pleasant weather from the Emerald Isle, but I will not complain.

Besides, it’s supposed to rain tomorrow.

As you may have gathered from my previous post, I did decide to stay with George. I left Lochlann’s (with a grateful hug to my host) on the 16:30 bus to Limerick and then from Limerick to Tipperary.

Finally, a simple ride with no mishaps. However, I was far too anxious to enjoy it. My entire body was still tight with stress and I kept hitting the replay button over and over again, thinking about what I did wrong and how narrow my escape had been. 

Even though the bus ride brimmed of self-derogation, I remained resolved to treat this experience, not as a failure with a foreboding foreshadowing for the rest of my trip, but as a sign that I have the passion and tenacity to get through very stressful situations (I do need to work on the common sense bit, though), and even immigration officers think my life project is worth believing in.

It is not work that I do here – I live with George as his friend. Which is what we’ve been planning for over a year. I feed the three dogs (Leon, the barrel-like lab, Tubby the dignified 17-year-old terrier, and Kiki, the energetic puppy who terrorizes Leon and Tubby with her incorrigible desire to play ALL THE TIME), cook the occasional meal, and give the mares and foals their evening grain.

George greeted me at the station with open arms. My dear old friend. I tumbled into his embrace, ecstatic to finally be in Ireland vis George.