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Not Just a Place- the Emerald Isle

It’s not just a place, but a way of living life and perceiving the world.

I dreamed of going to Ireland for as long as I could remember. Then, it seems, as if through a miracle, I was there, breathing in the sweet, chilled air, and gazing at the land full of colors you’d only expect to see at maximum vibrancy on Photoshop. Time seems to pass in a different, more peaceful and spirited, manner, the people were kind and inviting, and the earth itself packed with hidden jewels that just beg to be discovered and adored

I’d never been so far from home for so long before. I’d never felt so immediately comfortable in a place I’d never before visited. I quickly figured out the laid back rhythm of life in the Emerald Isle, had a routine, a community, and a discount pass for the rail and bus system. I was still me, but equally was I changing into someone new. That person was stronger, more confident, self-reliant; she was who she wanted to be without the fear of judgment from anyone, since everyone she knew was thousands of miles away. She had an insatiable sense of wanderlust that led her to travel, to do and see and experience life in a way unlike any she’d realized was possible.

I will never forget how I felt when I took my first trip along the Northern coast. For someone who had read fairytales, and then grown up to devote so much time poring over histories long past, seeing Dunluce Castle was a dream come true; it clings to the cliffs in ruins that to hold ancient secrets.The Giant’s Causeway, is like nothing you’ve ever seen; volcanic rocks cut and fitted together like a stone honeycomb, inspiring myths and legends as the waves of the Atlantic crash against it and further shape it to its whim.

The Mountains of Mourne are mysterious and spectacular. When wandering through the woods at their base, I expected at any moment to hear elves singing, and at the top felt like I could conquer the world- after a good long rest.

I’d also never truly felt a deep and real love for a place before I set eyes on Galway. A paradise of sea, stone, and rolling green hills, it bound my heart to it with so much ease I wasn’t sure what hit me at first.

Ireland, both the Northern portion and the Republic, is incredible in its scenery, in its national pride, and in its histories and the museums that tell those stories. Belfast proudly boasts a museum for the world’s most famous nautical tragedy, claiming vehemently that “Irishmen built the Titanic, but an Englishman sunk it.” Weather the fervor is really warranted is debatable, but the excellence of their highly interactive exhibits is not.Dublin’s National Archaeology museum contains things preserved over several thousands of years, that remain in relatively good condition; I’m not sure it’s possible to see it and not gape like a fish for a few moments before attempting to compose one’s self.

I felt a renewed inspiration in my passion for history and for writing; it’s as if you can step right into the past, and just breathing the air makes it obvious why so many stories have stemmed from Ireland’s shores.

I felt independent, yes, that I was growing in ways I’d not expected, living and learning so much, in a country that handed its magnificent self to me, challenging me to discover all it has to offer.

Ireland is outrageously beautiful, with a simple yet vivacious spirit. It has a magic all its own, and will forever contain parts of my heart and my soul.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Amber Freeman is a history and creative writing major going into her senior year of college. She loves living in Lancaster, PA, but feels the British Isles calling after spending a semester abroad in the North of Ireland. She wants to go on to get her masters in History and go into museum work while meanwhile writing whenever she has a spare moment and working towards writing a longer work. She feels outrageously blessed in her life, and the way to her heart is paved with Peanut Butter Kit-Kats.

Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter the Independence Travel Writing competition and tell your story.

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Dancers of the deep

Dancers of the deep

By Alison Sollars

22 June 2014

With perfectly trimmed sails the yacht rides comfortably through towering seas. Swells over five, maybe seven metres, raise our small sloop only to pass beneath on their endless journey to nowhere. Almost stalled, Blue Heeler yaws in the deep trough, only to pick up speed as the swell rises seconds later. It’s now seven days since we left Chagos on our way to Mauritius and the wind is strong and consistent. Sailing across the Indian Ocean is slow as distances are vast. I’m with my husband. I’m not scared. There’s no reason to feel scared. We are free.

A confused sea appears on the horizon. With gloved hands I shield my eyes from the sun’s glare. I squint through polarised sunglasses searching for dangerous currents or whirlpools ahead. The hot sun emerges from behind fluffy white clouds warming my cheeks, but I shiver. As we close in on the swirling waters, a mass of activity encircles the slow moving vessel. Shapes appear. Dark shapes. Fins. Flukes.

“Dolphins!” I shriek. My bespectacled husband barely raises an eyebrow. He’s engrossed in Jimmy Cornell’s book of World Cruising Routes.

In one fluid movement I grab the Olympus Tough waterproof camera from its home on the binnacle, clip into the safety line secured along the deck and step quickly to the bow careful not to stub the toes of my bare feet.

A huge pod of bottle-nose dolphins gleefully surround our sloop like children outside a cake shop after school. Glistening shapes surf the bow wave, warm-blooded bodies pirouette from the cold ocean before diving down. I wave to them inviting them closer. “Hello dolphins, hello dolphins!”, the high pitch of my voice is shrill, like that of a neighbour calling across a bordering fence.

In sports mode, the camera clicks. One shot, then another. I try hard to capture that perfect shot. I step to port, then to starboard. They’re too fast! Camera flicks to movie mode. All of a sudden they disappear.

“Dolphins? Where are you?” I cry out. An explosion from the depths a large but elegant dolphin whirls high in the air before landing on his side with a big splash. Did he just wink at me? Dancing around the boat they waltz with the sea and each other. Our delicate depth sounder wildly fluctuates as dolphins frolic ahead of our keel.

Strong winds ease to a breeze. Captured memories set aside in the now exhausted camera. I sit dangling my legs over the gunwales, my hands gripping the safety rail. The sun is warmer now. Bare feet and brown legs are chilled by cold seawater.

I study the dolphins from the starboard bow. Smooth, grey skin. Shiny, dark eyes. A familiar grin curves at the corners much like a human. Calves swimming in complete unison with their mothers. Their strong yet fluid movements have the grace of a ballerina. Gliding along sideways they eyeball me. I gasp in wonderment, while watery eyes scrutinise me from below.

I’m in a different world. Oblivious to everything except the swoosh of the boat through waves and the sound of unintelligible yet cheerful whistles and clicks from the gentle creatures below. They are free. They are happy. I hold my breath as I sit and watch. I am also free. I am happy. I smile swinging my legs like an infant on a high-chair.

I look aft at my husband and he’s grinning. He knows I’m happy. Sailing the vessel single-handed he allows me this moment of unadulterated freedom.

The seas moderate. I hear the voices below. I expect them to grab my foot and coax me into their playful world. I want them to, but they don’t.

It’s getting dark now. My time is over. The afterglow of my intimate interaction warms me as the evening approaches. I leave the foredeck and return to the safety of the cockpit, while shapes of fins and flukes gracefully meld into the orange sunset. I hug my husband.

Plugged into power my camera glows with life. I click though the photos from that afternoon. Digital images are unfaithful, emotionless and cold. I place the camera down to prepare dinner.

I lean over a large pot on the compact gas stove. The spicy aroma of simmering curry fills my senses triggering my hunger. As I stir I hear familiar clicks, squeaks and whistles outside the hull in the cold depths. They’re still here. As I am. Free. I shiver. I smile.

Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter the Independence Travel Writing competition and tell your story.

 

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Freedom on the Mother Road

We emerged from the train station onto a busy Chicago Street, the sky scrapers looming overhead and the clouds threatening rain. People were dashing home from work along the narrow pavements, holding coffee-on-the-go and trying to cheat the pedestrian crossings. The architecture was incredible and there was a buzz to the place. That’s the thing about a city – it’s alive, exciting, inspiring.

But our minds were elsewhere. We were headed off down Route 66 the next day – the open road, full of hope and promise, and not a hint of hurry. And that’s the thing about the road. Freedom! No reminders of the life you’ve left behind you, only the unknown ahead. What will we see? Who will we meet? As Jack Kerouac said in his road-tripping masterpiece, “Nothing behind me, everything ahead of me. As is ever so on the road.” The possibilities stretched out ahead of us as far as the road itself, and we were filled with anticipation – our only direction, ‘West’.

There really is nothing quite like a road trip in the USA. And Route 66 offers the epitome of freedom – leaving the Interstate behind where your journey is dictated to by mileage signs and junction numbers – it’s just us, the car and mile upon mile of empty space, long ribbons of tarmac cutting the landscape into two and threading around the mountains. Every now and then, the road offers up some light refreshment in the form of a small town with great people, or a welcome café where you can rest and gather your thoughts (and ingest some much needed caffeine of course). Service is slow but friendly – there’s nothing to rush for. Stop, rest awhile, reflect on where you’ve been and where you’re going next. It is so liberating.

At times on the road, you’re almost on autopilot. The path is so straight, the surroundings so uniform – and then suddenly a gorge, a huge lake, a quirky roadside attraction stirs up your imagination and you stop off, spontaneously. Because you can. Because you’re free. There’s no schedule, there are no ties.

When you stop, you can fully engage in the beauty of a place, immerse yourself in the history, meet people you have never met before and will never see again. You are at complete liberty to be who you really are. No one to impress, no one to seek approval from. You’re fully present because there’s no pressure to think about that next meeting, or the expectations of your boss. And that allows others to be fully present too. It’s amazing how open people are when they realise you’re not in a hurry. You’re free to hear their story and they are free to tell it. And when you’re ready to move on, get back on the road – you can – no sadness or feelings of loss or obligation. There will be more gorges and lakes and roadside attractions. There will be more people with their stories to tell, more opportunities to be inspired and heartened by the lives of those so distant from your own.

Ernest Hemingway once said, “It is good to have an end to journey toward; but it is the journey that matters, in the end.” How true that is. Our ultimate aim was Santa Monica Pier, the official end of Route 66. We stood on the end of the board walk looking out over the Pacific Ocean as the sun set, satisfied that we had reached our goal. Over two thousand miles of the Mother Road lay behind us, and whilst this moment was so precious – the colours in the sky, the smell of the ocean, the incredible sense of completion – it was the journey that had changed us. We were a little wiser, a little more aware of the small yet significant part we play in the world, a little more in tune with the people that we were. A little more free.

About the Author:

I’m a Brit who loves travelling in the US taking photographs and writing stories as I go. I have a passion for adventure, and have had the privilege of travelling thousands of miles across the USA. My goal is to one day visit every single State – 12 down, 38 to go!

Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter the Independence Travel Writing competition and tell your story.

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