I threw my fifty dollar watch off of the 100 meter cliffs at Dun Aengus in an attempt to suggest some sort of unhinged mental freedom. At the time, it seemed like the last thoughtless decision I would ever make. My entire existence was altered after that moment as I watched it hover for less than a second and plunge into the teal spray from the waves of the Atlantic Ocean. Embarrassingly enough It occurred to me that spending sixteen hundred dollars on Guinness would leave me bank-broke when I returned back to the United States. Perhaps next time I will throw my thirteen dollar (American) pack of Camel Lights into the ocean tinge when I feel the innocuous desire to purge myself of material existence. The other members of the summer study abroad group were speechless at my novel act.
In order to experience the majesty of the cliffs, the traveling troupe and I ferried from Galway to the Aaron Islands. majesty of the cliffs, the study abroad group I traveled with ferried from Galway to the Aaron Islands. The boats could fit up to seventy five visitors if twenty of them crowded to the rear deck by the engine. We got to the shore (instantly doubling the population of the Island) and boarded up on bantam tour buses which were lined up and ready for the days venture. The paths are too threadlike for two of them heading in opposite directions to pass each other safely. One of them would politely wave to the other conductor and pull over, nearly grazing the ancient stone wall borders.
The Islanders at Arron were proud of their recently constructed hospital, the one school and six pubs. They live in strategically placed (or at least it seemed that way) cottages which can be seen spotting the road every half mile or so; straw roof lumber-ranchers straight from Americanized fairy tales. Watch dogs guard the clotheslines, washboards and water-logged waders awaiting the mornings undoubted trudge-and-fish excursion. If you don’t enjoy fish and chips for breakfast lunch and dinner, you could starve to death.
The bus trek to Sligo in Northern Ireland was a solid four hours. Most of us read through James Joyce’s “Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man” until our eyes bled so we could spend the evening at a local pub. We arrived at the Sligo Hotel in the small city laden with looming metal structures promising large-scale renovations for generations to come. Just down the street, the Kings Head pub serves frothy Guinness and salty Carlsberg brews. Jolly citizens supporting thick bellies find ample time to welcome tourists in the short pauses taken between convivial Irish sing-a-longs. All the rumors seemed to be true and the most important lesson I learned in Sligo was that Irishmen were not concerned about pointing out failing American politics.
The head chaperone of our summer excursion, Professor Bill Johnson, had a personal friend in the area who had cheerfully agreed to speak with visiting students for the past thirteen years. The man was absolutely delightful. As you enter through the clandestine doorway to his odd little wood carving shop, you can not help but ask yourself where in the hell you are supposed to stand. Perhaps, atop the gnarled, half chiseled tree stumps or maybe try to watch him work in the pile of saw dust debris obstructing his work table. Once we squeezed ourselves in however, the lack of comfort was forgotten, overshadowed by his fascinating stories. He chipped away constantly at blocks of wood as he led us through the murky history of Ireland by way of myth and magic. He described haughty horsemen fleeing from grotesque land serpents and the sea voyages of captains and saints. He illustrated his dark, often violent, tales with the baroque dioramas he carved into the oak.
After two weeks we finally reached Trinity College in Dublin where we would spend our remaining time. Professor Johnson gathered the group to make his pre-tour exclaimer, “Ill take you now to the Writing Center where we will get the opportunity to meet some acclaimed Irish authors during the course of our stay. However, I must warn you not to follow me when I cross the road as you might get hit by a large bus”. The cross walks are crowded with locals and its every man, women and gypsy for themselves.
One rainy Wednesday morning I awoke in my dorm with five minutes to get to a nine o’clock film showing at the Irish Film Center. I decided to try and get there via the Grafton pedestrian-walk shortcut. I exited out the side entrance of the Trinity campus and hit Nassau Street. From there, it was over to Grafton where I clambered through the tourist crowds and came to the intersection at College Green Avenue where five other streets meet. I took the median towards the institute until it was clear. At Aston Quay, I ran along the shoulder, the IFC in sight, until I came to a stop: O’Connell. They say no ones ever beaten the deranged aggression of the drivers on O’Connell Street. Summoning the power of the Celtic God I dared to cross the uncross-able like Moses parting the Red Sea. I blew past the blinking “Don’t Walk” sign and hit the middle of the road where I was cut off by a Viking Tour “Ship”. They jeered as I halted and I finally gave up.
Despite the bustle and rain of Dublin, it was an exciting trip in a land embellished with traditional pubs and ancient cathedrals. The history and atmosphere left a lingering essence of intellect incomparable to anywhere else. It is said by many that ‘if you throw a rock at a short story writer, you may miss and hit a poet’. John Millington Synge, William Butler Yeats and James Joyce settled permanently into my sphere of influence. It was here where my instinctual inclination to write prose was nurtured and out grew my body. There was a personal connection to my own erudition (one which I never knew I had); I developed knowledge of literature from real poets and authors, the most influential of which was Dermot Bolger. He produced a vision of fiction in my head which I will never forget, the notion that fiction is a parallel universe in which things must make sense, as is not always the case in reality (hence chucking the watch). When I think back on my trip, it becomes a fiction story in my head and the rolling hills, a parallel universe where, for at least those six weeks, materials of the physical did not hold significance.