The Emerald Isle is so known for its lovely scenery, to be sure, but certainly the mystique of Ireland travels much further and deeper than mere rolling green hills dotted with sheep and crumbling stone castles. It is music, the Craic, the drinks, namely Guinness and whiskey, the food, mostly hearty but delicately made, and the friendliness of the kind albeit sarcastic people. Ireland so mesmerized me I returned time and again, a total of five trips across the pond from American soil.

My family, once, long ago, hailed from Ireland. This phrase can be repeated by most Americans, with so many donning Irish last names or at least laying claim to Irish roots each St. Patrick’s Day. My father raised me with Irish folk songs that to this day I still hum to myself, and I proudly carry the last name that at least briefly dawdled in The Republic.

So, at 25 I set out on my first adventure into the wilds of Ireland, looking for some fantasy of Ireland. Yet, all my fantasies came true, fantasies I still cannot replicate except by story.
I came to Ireland by way of Wales, and Wales by way of Stratford Upon Avon, and there by way of a train from Kings Cross. I stepped from the ferry onto Republic soil to find a bustling Dublin not much different from middle sized American cities. Luckily, even before visiting the Blarney Stone, I was given the gift of gab, and soon made close friends at a random pub, all who excitedly proposed to show me about the country. Note I did not say city- it was true that I was introduced to the width and height of Ireland in that trip and several to follow.

The lessons and experiences run deep in my memory now. Inexperienced in international travel, I excitedly tried a shot of aged Irish whiskey that is not imported to any country. Foolishly, I chugged it all, like any brazen American would, only to look into my new friends’ eyes of sheer horror. “Our whiskey,” one said after a painful group silence, “is for respectfully sipping.” I never made the mistake again. And in truth, whiskey never tasted so good as when I took my time to really smell it, feel it roll over the tongue, absorb into my taste buds.

On we went, now on a quest for the traditional culture. While Dublin was surreal, it was also too modern. I wanted the Ireland my father’s folklore described and my friends were happy to oblige. We happened into the country then by cramming six adults into what felt like a four person car, to some small town near the Cliffs of Mohr, and that’s when it happened.

I found Ireland.

The “real” Ireland. An older man in a cap dutifully playing his music to the audience of a stone castle.

I lingered to listen, but was soon whisked away to a “local” to have fresh fish stew and an artisian cheese plate.

Later still, we sat for a local dance company of young folk dancing traditional reels.

I thought my friends, all Irish but for one relocated Frenchman, would be bored of the old fashioned show, much like Americans are too often tired of the replications of the Civil War. But they weren’t. In fact, they were beaming in a “this is my heritage” kind of way. They were relieved that I’d enjoyed it, too.

After the dancing, it was still early enough that pubs were brimming with cheerful drinking locals. We wandered in to almost immediately find what I’d only read about: the Craic. The influence of the phrase “what’s crackin?” this was the rarest cultural event, so I was told. A circle of locals of varying ages took over the center of the pub to play unpracticed folksongs together, just for fun. They only took breaks when their beer glasses were empty.

The next morning, after an Irish breakfast of grilled tomatoes, eggs, toast, and tea, I ventured to revisit the nearby castle.

There was the immediate feeling of age, and not age in the American sense, which is so negative. But age as in how this culture has evolved, survived, held fast. There is no other place I have ever felt so at peace, both culturally and personally. This first trip lit within me a fire to revisit time and again, but also a furious love for other cultures and the art of travel itself. I still dream of Ireland and cannot wait to return.

I travel not to escape, but to better know my place as a human on this great earth.