County Clare, speed-walking capital of the world

The first thing I noticed as our taxi careened toward Trinity College were the large, square windows with no shutters staring out at us frankly from houses and apartments. I first interpreted this architectural peculiarity as a practical means
of trapping what little rays of sunlight might appear into bedrooms and dens (which would also explain all the roofless abbeys and chapels across the country), but soon realized that, despite a well-known tradition of pragmatism in Ireland, sunlight had as much to do with the big, trusting windows as the fact that we found three four-leaf clovers in Wicklow.

Not to say that the the Irish aren't obsessed with the weather. Everywhere we went - grocery store, pub, restroom, ruins of what was once a monastery, before the Vikings, English, and Irish got to it - we were greeted with a wide smile, a "Hi, how are ya?" and always, always, some reference to the lovely/desperate weather we were blessed with/enduring.

"Funny," I mused to Jean-Baptiste over yet another brobdingnagian breakfast, "the rain has been pelting Paris mercilessly all summer, too, but exactly zero cashiers at Monoprix have remarked on it, or, pfft! asked me how I was doing."

It took me a couple of brief exchanges with improbable conversationalists before it dawned on me that these mentions of clouds, patches of blue sky, and puddles weren't the usual meaningless chitter chatter meant to keep strangers at bay, but tentative invitations for full-blown conferences. What would start off as light-hearted sentiments about the summer drizzle quickly advanced to discussions on where you grew up, to how expensive dinner out is in Kilgorlin (astronomical, I tell you!), to why, if you scratch the surface a bit, elementary schools are bringing Gaelic back to the curriculum, and some British tourists still park their cars behind the bed and breakfast house.

One night, after an evening spent skipping stones and hunting for shamrocks on the Wicklow shores, we returned quietly to our B&B, prepared to tiptoe up the sinking staircase and indulge in a deep sleep only afforded by the silent of the countryside, when we were accosted by our German host in the antechamber. Offering sherry or whiskey, he laughingly obliged us to join him and another guest from South Africa in his salon; our "young European opinions were needed." For the next couple of hours, we tried in earnest to wrap our thoughts around the history of the island of Ireland, the attacks and occupations, the arts and the stories, the concerted memory of a group, and how distorted versions of history and the necessity of an apology still insinuate themselves in national discourse.






The big panes of unfettered glass absorb and refract the fickle rays that dance an irregular cadence over the inarable hills of The Burren. They testify to man's will to witness, to welcome, and to share what they've seen with strangers come to stay.