A Traveler’s Imagination

On the day before St. Patrick's Day, on a train from Dublin to Doolin, a kind woman walked down the aisle and handed out sheets of paper to the passengers. She was conducting a satisfaction survey for the railway. When she reached my sister and me, she showed us the warm Irish hospitality that greeted us around every turn. She asked us about our travel plans. She asked us to take her survey.

As she made her way further down the aisle, I heard her comment on how nice it was that so many people agreed to take the survey.

“The spirit of Saint Patrick is upon me,” She mused, partly in fun, but partly, it seemed, in all seriousness (perhaps highlighted by her soft, southern Irish accent).

It struck me as quite the romantic thing to overhear. It made the train ride seem like the beginning to a fairy-story or an adventure.

On the next day in Doolin, County Clare, the St. Patrick's Day Parade was canceled. The floats could not bear up under an uncanny amount of inclement weather. We asked our shuttle bus driver whether such weather was common. His response became the second charming, mysterious phrase of our fairy-story.

"Sometimes it rains, sometimes it's windy, and sometimes it's foggy. But it's never all three at once."

Earlier in the day, when the storm had not yet risen, we set out for the Cliffs of Moher. The day before, upon our arrival, we visited the cliffs in the sunlight. We trudged about with our suitcases, up and down scores of steps. The cumbersome task was well worth it for the magnificent sight of the cliffs in the brilliance of the sun.

There seemed to be no hope of sun that following day — or no curse of sun, I should say. Our family often jokes about being "cursed" to bring sunshine wherever we go, even to Seattle, the Oregon Coast, San Francisco — and Ireland. But no, our sunshine curse gave way that day to the spirit of Saint Patrick.

It could be said that it was even more romantic than seeing them in the sunshine, the sight of the giant, looming Cliffs of Moher shrouded in fog, as we battled against a blasting wind, leaning with our entire weight in order to stay upright, wrapped up in wool headbands and raincoat hoods against the sharp rain. It was certainly more adventurous.

The wool headbands were a treasure we purchased from the warm shelter of the gift shop. We purchased many treasures there, but the prize of them all was a ukulele colored with the orange, white, and green stripes of the flag of Ireland. My sister played an Irish jig on the ukulele in the lee of the stone gift shop wall, a flag of Ireland on the instrument and one behind her, dancing to the jig in the violent wind.

The day ended with a long rest at a table in a pub, nursing a couple of pints of Guinness and listening to a group of kiddos playing a trad session (traditional Irish music) on penny whistles, fiddles, a keyboard, and a tiny drum set. They were led by a man (a music teacher, we guessed) with a bright, merry face and a fine skill with the flute. Every once in awhile, a woman with dark curly hair would sing an a cappella Irish ballad in a beautiful voice as strong and sharp as the storm.

Before we made our way back into town, however, and long before the respite of the pub, there was a moment I remember well, while we waited for the shuttle bus to arrive (still with hopes of going into town to see the parade), standing just inside the entrance to the Cliffs of Moher gift shop. A howling gust of wind blew the heavy doors open before us with a moan. The gust had such a character about it, it was so alive. I thought to myself, The spirit of Saint Patrick is upon us.

Perhaps thinking such things is a bit silly. But St. Patrick's Day in Doolin, when it was raining and windy and foggy all three at once, was one of our favorite days on the entire trip. Perhaps all good travels deserve a little embellishment of imagination.