15 things I learned in Ireland - part 2

Last week, I gave you the first three in a series of 15 life lessons from my trip to Ireland and England. Here is part 2. 

4. I’m not the panicker I once was 

I flew Aer Lingus to Dublin on June 15 with a Heathrow-Dublin-Toronto route scheduled home on July 1. On June 17, Aer Lingus pilots announced plans to work to rule starting June 26, with a complete shutdown of all operations on June 29. The airline immediately set about cancelling flights.

A previous version of me would have responded as one of my fellow nine writing workshoppers did - immediate sleeplessness prompting a costly booking of a new route back to home, despite not knowing for certain if her flight would be cancelled. (I don’t believe it was, by the way) 

Instead, I put faith in the pilots’ union strategy to force the need for the Irish government (the airline is state-controlled) to acquiesce a bit to their demands. Given their action was timed to coincide with the beginning of the school holiday, it seemed likely. I monitored news reports and watched as management decided which flights to cancel to minimize disruption. As the week progressed, they prioritized getting North Americans home rather than forcing holiday-extensions that would prove costly to the airline. I continued to sleep like a baby. And I arrived home on July 1 as planned.

I did not let anxiety ruin my holiday, a major personal victory for me. I wish the parties well in their continued bargaining. 

5. Enya is from Donegal   

One of the Ireland experiences I’d hoped for was drumming out rhythms on a bar careful not to spill my Guinness as a couple of lads fiddled their way through a tune I would likely recognize from early exposure to Canada’s Rankin Family. I was disappointed by the musical acts in the pub in our hotel in Gweedore. No fiddling. Nothing I would consider “Irish,” although I did find myself dancing to a DJ’s selection of Abba hits one night.

I was pleased, however, when our retreat leaders took us for dinner and music at Leo’s Tavern, a 30 minute van-ride from our hotel. Leo’s is a local landmark, known best for being owned by a musical family made even more famous than our beloved Rankins because one of them - Enya - hit the big-time with her 1988 single, Orinoco Flow. Although I was always a bit scathing of Enya’s new-agey, rhythmless, and directionless tunes, I was nonetheless jazzed to imagine she might make a guest appearance. She didn’t. We did, however, have a father-daughter guitar duo who treated us to some ditties I knew, including, to my great pleasure, Tell my Ma, one of those Rankin hits I’d hoped for. They also took one of our writers onstage with them who demonstrated her artistic talent extends beyond the page - she belted out a few and became an instant Leo’s sensation. But I remained disappointed - no fiddler.

I had given up hope at being musically satisfied in Donegal, it being our last night, when a lad placed his chair on Leo’s stage and sat down with his uilleann pipes, Ireland’s answer to the Scottish bagpipes. This is a woodwind instrument with the air coming from a bellows under the player’s left arm. Different notes are achieved by stopping holes on the chanter - one of several pipes that best resemble clarinets that lie across the player’s lap. The others are drones and regulators, according to Wikipedia, although I didn’t quite figure out how they worked. I stood, near-transfixed watching him play, wishing I could discuss this with my father, as often happens when I see a new instrument or hear interesting music. Wishing too that, like Dad would have, I had questioned the player and examined the mechanics with a view to making one later. Regrettably, our bus was leaving so I missed that chance but I’m grateful Dad’s curiosity is something I will always carry with me.

I still don’t really like Enya, but her family bar was a good choice for dinner that night. 

6. Cold produces inspiration 

It’s no secret among those who know me that I’m not a sun-and-beach vacationer. Indeed, I may be the only Canadian who has never been to Florida or Mexico. As I prepared to travel to Donegal though, even I was a little disappointed to see that the predicted temperatures for the retreat-week were between 15 and 20 degrees cooler than were predicted in Toronto that week. Forecast high on one day was 13 degrees! Packing involving compiling things that could be layered without looking like the Michelin man and that would also work should there be a change in northern Donegal climes or if things were more summer-like for my more southern designations of Galway, Dublin, and ultimately, London. 

At the last minute, I tucked a wool hat and mitts into the corner of my suitcase, wiping mid-June heatwave sweat from my brow as I did so, I wondered if I might have gone over the top. 

I had not.  

The seven retreat days produced just half a day of sunshine warm enough to take my coat off. While it didn’t rain enough to warrant an umbrella, water hung in the air most of the time. I sat through several morning lectures in runners and socks wet from my post-breakfast ramble up the road towards the Atlantic. 

Many of the Irish apologized for the weather, saying you don’t go to Ireland for the weather. But I think I did. Grey skies against green windswept landscapes inspired introspection and creativity. 

(Photo above: a welcome Atlantic sunset after a long day of grey; below: the piper and one of Enya’s platinum albums at Leo’s; proof I took a winter hat; and rough seas that prompted writing)

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