The year I was 32, I started feeling constrained by my life. Unmarried and childless, I held a very intensive job at a boarding school. I worked like crazy during the year, but I was lucky enough to have my summers off. I needed to be somewhere different. That summer I planned a six-week budget trip to Ireland, Scotland and England. I was by myself and knew only what the Let's Go travel guide told me. I budgeted $25 a day based on a friend's experience, not realizing the dollar had done poorly in the last year and this came out to about 20 pounds a day.
I flew into Shannon Airport and had my first financial shock when I realized the taxi into town would cost me seven pounds. As I stood there dithering, a RC priest bounded up, thrilled to meet someone from the United States. He was even happier to find out that I was from North Carolina, home of the great Jesse Helms. He had lots of questions about that fine man. I swallowed my pride and answered as kindly as I could. He offered to give me a ride and gave me my first piece of advice: "Don't bother with the cabs, hitchhike!" As I later told my skeptical parents, "But a priest told me to!"
Twenty-three years ago, Americans were loved in Ireland, and I had no trouble getting rides. I looked Irish enough that they were sure I must be related to some friend of theirs now living in the states and there were numerous inquiries about relatives in Boston and Georgia. I enjoyed those encounters because I knew no one. Being on my own was still new to me and I often hovered on the sidelines watching in pubs and towns. I quickly discovered the food wasn't good enough to waste my precious money on, so I subsisted on chips and warm Coke. I was lonely.
One morning I woke up in Doolin and decided to take the boat to the smallest of the Aran Islands, Inisheer, or in Irish, Inis Oírr. If you look for transportation to this island now, you will find several different ferry lines that go there, large boats that serve drinks and snacks. That option wasn't available then. I was told a small motor boat would be delivering a goat to Inisheer, and for a few pounds, I was welcome to go along. That seemed fair, so I climbed aboard and we set off over the choppy sea in windy conditions. There were four or five other travelers, all men, and they switched back and forth from English to Irish. The goat was absolutely cool with the trip and sat calmly on his seat. I was trying to be at least as cool as the goat, but it was becoming increasingly difficult as my stomach started heaving along with the waves. I consoled myself that the journey was under an hour and we would be there soon.
Then the boat stopped. The language switched entirely to Irish and became loud and excited. I became even more nauseated and anxious. Bobbing along in the Atlantic Ocean in a small nonworking motor boat with no radio was not a comfortable situation. The goat and I looked at each other. I tried to be as calm as he was, but as the discussion got louder, I found it hard. Several of the men held one by the belt as he leaned over the stern and looked at the propeller. He exclaimed loudly, and I gathered the problem had been discovered, but I had no idea what it could be. The others shouted advice and finally he was pulled back in the boat, clasping a plastic bread wrapper that had become entangled in the propeller. We all cheered except for the goat, whose expression never changed.
Twenty extra minutes on the ocean had not done my stomach any good, but I was not about to complain. We pulled up to the dock on Inisheer. It seemed like the whole town had turned out to greet the goat. I sat back, waiting for the honored guest to get off first, but the captain of the boat turned and bellowed, "Let the lass off first, she's about to puke!" I really couldn't argue with that, so I staggered off and sat until my stomach returned to normal.
There wasn't much on the island except rock walls. They are interesting because they are so individual that natives can tell you whose handiwork each wall is. But they aren't interesting for long, and so I found the only pub in town and went in. They looked at me pityingly, the wind-blown, green-faced, and homesick lass. I ordered a bowl of soup and sat down as the sounds of Irish surrounded me, both from the people in the pub and the radio that was playing. I had five and a half weeks to go on this trip and I wasn't sure I was going to make it.
As I sat there blinking back tears, suddenly the unmistakable beginning of Derek and the Dominoes' Layla blared from the radio. I sat up in surprise and then smiled. The people in the pub smiled back. And the world seemed a bit smaller and kinder.
