Ireland
Dark clouds raced across the sky. Our black wool Salvation Army coats comforted us as we huddled in the car rental parking lot, waiting for the attendant to finish his inventory. As I looked up at the threatening sky, I realized I would need the overpriced Stuart Weitzman suede shoes in Dublin like a fish needs rain boots. No way would I risk water spots on those beauties, so they’d have to stay in storage for now. The fellow handed over the keys. As Tim maneuvered the second duffel into the micro trunk, I heard him grouse, “Crud! This is the smallest car yet. I’ll bet sewing machines have bigger engines.”
He slammed the trunk. The car was so light it nearly came off the ground!
But wouldn’t you know, the tiny black Nissan became one of our favorites. It was small enough for Tim to negotiate narrow Irish lanes, and we could park it almost anywhere. We quickly discovered Tim’s driving experience with the fast but orderly Brits had been good practice for driving on the opposite side of the road, but the Irish’s quixotic habits required a new skill set. They were zippy and unpredictable, which required Tim to be extremely nimble. At least the Irish didn’t seem to be as given to tailgating as the Italians or the French!
I hadn’t been in Ireland for well over twenty years. My late husband Guy and I lived in Dublin for two years while he worked in visual development for a U.S. film company, and during that time, I fell in love with the country. Tim had heard so many stories about my great experiences that he agreed to go. His Irish heritage added to his enthusiasm for a visit, and I was excited about showing him a country I had come to love.
As Tim and I set out for Galway, about 125 miles away on the west coast, I was amazed to see the superhighway and the super traffic. Things had definitely changed since the Irish ascendancy in the mid-nineties. When I lived there in the early part of that decade, the road to Galway was two lanes wide. Traffic lights operated in the hamlets near their village greens, giving travelers a chance to pause and see a town’s pubs, church, shops, and tidy cottages. The trip from Dublin to Galway took half a day then; we covered it in less than three hours this time, even though hard rain and wind challenged our little black car to stay on the road. The landscape was as lush as ever, punctuated by the ruins of twelfth-century churches and tumbled-down monasteries, the moody remnants of Oliver Cromwell’s rampage in the mid-seventeenth century when he brutally decimated much of the country and certainly its churches and monasteries in the name of the Church of England. Although the road was efficient, I missed seeing the country towns since we sped and splashed directly across the middle of the island on the big highway.
When we arrived in Galway, we settled into a modern, chic apartment hotel in the city center, which lacked charm but offered incredible views of the city and the sea, across the port. It was a good location for seeing the city and the surrounding area. Later that evening, when we were seated for dinner in a nearby pub, Tim leaned across the table and said, sotto voce, “I can’t believe it. What you’ve told me all these years is true. Everyone is speaking as if the KGB has bugs in all the saltshakers.”
He had a point. Despite being full of diners, the buzz in the low-ceilinged, dark-paneled restaurant was even quieter than those famously refined tiny French bistros where everything, including the clink of cutlery, was muted. The Irish seemed conspiratorial to me, I had told Tim before we arrived, and their closely held conversation in pubs and restaurants had always fascinated me. The Irish are a superstitious lot, and native friends have confessed that a true Irishman is convinced that the fairies are always listening. Not all fairies are sweet like Tinker Bell, they tell me. They do have a vengeful side, especially toward those who brag about their good fortune. Of course, the cause could be something far less fanciful, such as leftover paranoia from the days when the IRA was a fact of everyday life.
Yet another typical Irish dining peculiarity arrived with our dinner, which made me smile. Fluffy mashed potatoes accompanied our beautifully grilled fresh fish—right next to a big pile of crisp, oven-baked spuds. Double starch is standard fare in almost every restaurant in Ireland and Britain. For example, in many pubs, lasagna is served with mashed potatoes right alongside the pasta dish! I have no idea what the origins of this culinary oddity might be, but it certainly isn’t a slenderizing combo.
We gave Tim a break from driving the next day by taking a bus tour along the Burren, one of the largest rock landscapes in Europe. We continued onto the Cliffs of Moher, Ireland’s most-visited, dramatic sight. The cliffs rise seven hundred feet above the crashing Atlantic waves. The wind and its chilly rain blasted us so furiously that we could hardly stagger up to the viewing point. Things only went downhill from there. The tour guide droned on, sharing too much information. At each stop, we waited in the car park for people too selfish to return to the bus on time. Those moments, along with the dull lunch spot into which we were herded, reminded us of all the reasons why we don’t take tours as a rule. But our reward consisted of views we will never forget, and Tim was able to enjoy the scenery for once. That evening, chilled and tired, we were very happy to return to Galway. We spent a pleasant evening in a convivial pub, eating two kinds of potatoes among diners who whispered their secrets to each other.
The cold winds and icy rain of the Cliffs of Moher did not help a nasty little cold that had started to overtake me when we arrived in Ireland. It increased in intensity as we worked our way down the Irish coast. Tim booked a room at The Lodge, a charming B&B near the center of Kenmare, in County Kerry. The owner, Rosemary Quinn, an attractive young woman whose family lived in a large wing of the lovingly maintained old building, greeted us and showed us to our comfortable room. I snuffled and coughed, feeling miserable. “You’ll be needing a little help with that cold. Have a seat and I’ll be back in a minute with just the thing,” she said.
I felt so rotten that I obeyed and watched while Tim unpacked our essentials. Soon, Rosemary returned with a small silver tray. I knew immediately what she had in mind: a pot of hot water, a plate with a slice of clove-studded lemon, and a flowered china bowl holding dainty silver tongs and sugar cubes sat on the tray. The business end of this graceful presentation contained a man-size tumbler with a big slug of Jameson Irish Whiskey! She quickly combined two sugar cubes, the lemon slice with cloves, and the whiskey, and poured in hot water to the brim. “This will fix you right up,” she said. “You’ve lived in Ireland, so surely you’re familiar with good old-fashioned hot whiskey! Sláinte.” She handed me the potion.
I certainly remembered that Ireland’s wild, wet weather made frequent stops for a hot whiskey a necessary part of any walking expedition. A pub was never hard to find. I’m not so sure about the concoction’s actual curative powers, but once the Jameson’s hit its target, I didn’t really care that I was sick. The Irish cure for cold weather and sniffles is much more fun than NyQuil.
Now, where were we on the other side of my personal fog? Oh yes, Kenmare. This picturesque village sits close to the Ring of Kerry and the Ring of Beara, roads that trace the edges of massive peninsulas that protrude into the Atlantic, two of Ireland’s many natural wonders. Kenmare is also known for its gourmet food and live Irish music, but because I felt a little peaked, we limited our touring to a short driving trip to the Gap of Dunloe, a narrow pass between craggy peaks featuring five lakes and stunning scenery. Our drive through the gap and a plowman’s lunch in the local pub sapped my energy for the day, and Nurse Tim made sure to tuck away his patient after several doses of Rosemary’s magic brew that night.
The next morning, we headed to Kinsale, a seaside town once the hub of Ireland’s fancy food movement. We chose a large modern hotel outside of the village, which offered spectacular views of emerald fields and dazzling lakes. People held wedding receptions and company banquets in hotels like these, so while it seemed short on warmth, it was long on dependable services. It was just what two bedraggled travelers needed: a big free parking lot, a huge bathroom, plenty of heat, great beds with fluffy duvets, a built-in clothesline in the shower, and a helpful staff. Sometimes, one must forsake charm for laundry facilities and easy parking!
Meanwhile, my Wall Street Journal article was due to appear very soon, in the third week of October. I thought I had wrapped the project before we left England, but when I fired up my Mac, I found a request for additional photos. They wanted a shot of us with our suitcases. “Wow! This is going to be tricky,” I said, staring at the screen. “I mean, we don’t know a soul here. How will we take a picture of the two of us?”
“Hang on a minute. I’ll be right back.” Tim disappeared.
Ten minutes later he returned, smiling. “I asked the desk clerk if I could hire someone to help us, and of course she agreed. Come on, let’s go scout some locations.”
We went looking for likely spots, clicking and checking them with our iPhone cameras. When we chose some options, we scampered upstairs to smarten ourselves up for our photo session.
As we entered the room, I almost ran into Tim. He stopped dead in front of me and turned around, looking grim. “Hey, wait a minute, I just realized something. I’ll have to shave my goatee!” he said, pulling a sad face. Tim was very fond of the impressive pelt he grew in England. Not my favorite look, mind you, but I didn’t want to spoil his fun. “What do you mean, honey? It surely wouldn’t make any difference to anyone that you’d grown a beard. You look very handsome,” I said dutifully.
“Think about it. In the other pictures we’ve sent the paper, I’m clean-shaven. I doubt they’d want you to have two different versions of me in your pictures—one bearded, one not,” he replied, looking a little glum. Before I could say anything, though, off he went to make the ultimate manly sacrifice for my budding career! He appeared a few minutes later with a face that matched his Parisian mug. I can’t say I wasn’t secretly pleased to see his great-looking face reemerge.
The patient clerk shot a series of pictures: inside, outside, single, and double, all for a mere twenty euros. I received the photos I needed, plus a clean-shaven husband. Lucky me.
***
Photo session complete, we looked around the little tourist village and enjoyed a pleasant lunch by the harbor. Then we headed back up the middle of the country toward Dublin. We were tired, damp, and ready to settle in after a week on the road. As we drove along, Tim said, “You know, we said we’d talk about the way we organize our travels after we got to Ireland, and I think we’ve learned what we need to know. I mean, look at us. You’re still half sick, and I’m awfully tired of driving and then dragging our entire luggage into a new place every couple of nights.”
“I’m afraid I have to agree with you,” I said while gazing at the ruin of an Irish castle perched on a high point in the middle of a farmer’s field. “I think that planning a driving trip when we arrive in a country sounded like a great plan, but in every case—Italy, England, and now here—we have arrived at our final destination exhausted and hauling a pile of dirty laundry! I hate saying this, but I think we’ve got to start considering our ages and give ourselves as many breaks as we can.”
As we continued the conversation, we agreed that in the future, we’d head directly to our headquarters in whatever country we were visiting, establish our “home,” and then make short trips. By doing so, we would only haul a few days’ worth of clothes and other needs, and then come “home” to our roost, just as regular tourists do. Or residents when they take short holidays. Our new method would cost more because we’d be paying rent on a headquarters, plus hotel rooms on our mini excursions, but we decided that it would be worth economizing in other areas, like skipping a few lunches and dinners out, to alleviate stress and the danger of burning ourselves out. We had been blazing a home-free trail for almost eighteen months and were beginning to distill our experience into routines and planning capabilities that would make our future adventures far easier.
We also began to realize we might now carry important knowledge and experiences to share with others. Almost everyone we had met along the way was fascinated with our lifestyle, and the Wall Street Journal assignment confirmed that we were on to something.
As we approached Dublin, I recognized no landmarks from twenty years before. The freeways, interchanges, and slip roads (on- and off-ramps) could just as easily have been in Los Angeles or Buenos Aires. Our trusty GPS, Victoria, prattled on, giving her wild interpretation of Irish lingo (for instance, Victoria would have pronounced our apartment manager’s name, Siobhan, as “sigh-o-bahn,” but the Irish say “Shiv-on,” which sounds like “chiffon”). We enjoyed her phonetic antics as she led us to our new apartment in Bray, a beach community a quick twenty-minute train ride south of the city. The town looked dilapidated, as many beach towns do off-season, but when we turned and drove up a hill, we began to see impressive homes and estates. When we reached a splendid pair of black iron gates accented in gold, Victoria told us to stop.
As the gates swung wide, we took our first look at Old Connaught House, the massive two-story Georgian mansion that would be our home for a month. (Yes, we were staying in a true mansion.) Tim discovered the place on VRBO.com, the site we use, along with HomeAway.com, for all of our rentals. I had suggested that we stay in one of the quiet beach communities so we wouldn’t have to fight Dublin traffic every day. The massive gray stone structure sat in the center of lavish lawns girdled by imposing stone walls. Tall paned windows shone in the afternoon sun. Behind the building, crops and horse pastures ran all the way down to the Irish Sea. What a thrill! We jumped out of the car, anxious to open the door (the property manager had already provided us with a key) and see what marvels awaited us inside.
It didn’t take long. Imperial red carpet stretched across the lobby, which had once been the mansion’s reception hall, with gorgeous paintings on its walls and a grand staircase with a polished banister sweeping down, all befitting the era. Plunket, the Lord Chief Justice of Ireland, built Old Connaught House in the late eighteenth century. Many of the trees on the property were over three hundred years old. Millions of moviegoers saw the house as well, in Daniel Day Lewis’s Oscar-winning film My Left Foot.
Old Connaught had been divided into ten apartments. The ones on the ends of the building had been combined to form larger units with views on three sides, two bathrooms, formal dining rooms, and larger kitchens. The middle units like ours were two bedrooms. All of them shared the entrance and lobby, with hallways leading to various units. They had each been sold as condominiums, so some, like ours, were vacation rentals, while others were occupied by their owners year-round.
Our pleasure increased when we saw the modern elevator in the corner. It meant one thing above all others: Tim wouldn’t have to lug our heavy black duffels up all those carpeted stairs! The elevator opened almost at our apartment door on the second floor. Once inside our new home, we found a nice big entry hall, a large bedroom with a comfortable king-size bed, a smaller bedroom just right for luggage, and a generous combination living room-dining room-kitchen. Every room featured the twelve-foot-high ceilings and tall, elegant windows reflective of that era. The main rooms faced lush fields and provided views of the Irish Sea. We had to tear ourselves away from the windows to begin the sorting procedure, figure out how to operate another cranky washing machine, and decorate the apartment with socks and underwear before setting off to buy items to stock up the kitchen.
When we drove down to the sea to reconnoiter, we saw clear evidence the place was packed all summer. Even on a chilly October day, the boardwalk filled up with walkers, dogs and their owners, baby buggies, and kids. Pubs, ice cream stores, small hotels, and touristy shops lined the road, facing the water. Many were already closed for the season, giving the beach a moody, melancholy feeling.
At the end of the beach we found the Harbour Bar, named The Best Bar in the World in 2010 by The Lonely Planet Guide. We needed to fortify ourselves before confronting a new grocery market experience. I celebrated my improved health with a perfectly drawn pint of Guinness stout.
It was easy to see why the Harbour Bar won such an honor. We felt as though we were sailing on a wonderful old boat on a very quiet afternoon. The ceiling, floors, and walls gleamed with the patina of the pub’s one-hundred-forty-year history. Nautical antiques and prints decorated every surface, and a peat fire glowed in the tile-framed hearth, its singular aroma distinctly Irish. Yes, we were really here. We sat down in worn but comfortable leather chairs near the fire. Soon, we struck up a conversation with Mike, a slight man with fine features and astute blue eyes who sat at the next table. He wore a flat tweed cap like the one Tim donned daily since he bought it at Cliffs of Moher’s tourist store on our tour of the west coast. “I pick up the shopping for the wife every day and stop in here to have a pint with Joseph,” he said, gesturing at the barkeep.
Our exchange drifted into politics, a conversational detour that happened often in Europe. It amazed us to realize how much Europeans knew about our government’s policies, as well as the way they followed American headline news. International media gives global coverage as a matter of course. The weather in Dubai, a riot in Brazil, or a strike in Paris are all mentioned in print and on TV, and we realize the paucity of that kind of information in our own country’s media vividly when we’ve been out in the world for a while. “So, how do ya tink it’ll go? I hear the Romney fella is gettin’ on purty well, but I tink Obama is the right man.” His view echoed the opinion of many Europeans to whom we’d talked about the subject. We discussed the coming election for a while, as well as the Irish economy. “Ah, it’s such a sad state of affairs that I prefer to just keep quiet about it all together,” said Mike. He pinched his thumb and forefinger together and mimicked a zipper closing his lips. His gesture was so completely Irish that all three of us exploded in laughter.
As we dragged ourselves away from the warmth and comfort of the Harbour Bar, Tim spotted a well-used dartboard in the corner. He paused, picked up a handful of darts, and sank one into the bull’s-eye on his third go. His expertise tickled me. “I didn’t know you could do that!”
He laughed. “I didn’t spend years in the music business hanging around bars in Santa Monica for nothing, you know.” He opened the door for me. The unlimited talents of my brilliant renaissance man never cease to amaze me.
Over the next few days, the weather improved greatly. The winds calmed down and the pelting rains slowed to a drizzle. It gave me the opportunity to show Tim some of the places I remembered vividly from the years I lived there. One old favorite was Powerscourt, a grand Palladian sixty-eight-room house built in the 1700s in the Wicklow Mountains, twenty minutes south of Dublin. Its acres of woodland walks and gardens, exquisite any time of year, looked especially stunning in the colors of autumn. When I last saw the mansion, it had not been restored from a devastating fire in 1974 that left only a shell. I was delighted to find that the building now houses Irish design shops, restaurants, and a visitor center. As well as a Ritz-Carlton Hotel, of all things, new to the property.
As we wandered through those gardens, it gave me great pleasure to see them in better repair than before. My gardener’s heart sang at the way the historic garden was cherished and properly tended. We stood at the top of the graceful stone staircase, absorbing the superb views of a two-and-a-half-century-old garden. We looked down the colorful terraced formal flower beds, across the man-made lake with its majestic fountain and abundant water lilies, and onto the Wicklow hills scored with dozens of small fields outlined with ancient handmade rock walls. “Well, just think, honey, we could be here looking at this glorious scene, or we could be at the Park Cinema in Paso Robles watching Bruce Willis blow something up. Tough call, huh?”
I laughed and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, I present my husband, the king of understatement! Tough call…not!”
On another lovely day, we drove farther into the Wicklow Mountains and Wicklow National Park to see Glendalough—in Irish, “the valley of the two lakes.” I had visited many times, but it thrilled me to see it again.
When one lives in an attractive destination like Ireland, it can stimulate a procession of visitors. When I lived here for a few years with my first husband, Guy, we had a large house and an acre of gardens, which was one of the reasons I enjoyed being there so much. Rarely a month passed without friends or even second-tier acquaintances showing up for a visit and a tour guide (except, of course, in the dead of winter, when we could have used some entertainment and diversion). My longtime friend Fran Morris came from Oklahoma, and she and I indulged our lifelong garden addictions with visits to Powerscourt and Mount Usher Gardens in Wicklow, the National Botanical Garden, and we strolled through countless nurseries in and around Dublin. A couple from our hometown, Cambria, California, stopped in for a few days, and our daughter Robin came and loved it so much that she took some time off from college to stay for nine months with us. Friends of Guy’s from Texas found their way to our house, and our well-used guest room sheltered two young friends of our daughters on their first trip abroad.
Indeed, during those days I traveled to Glendalough so many times that the woman running the visitor center would say, “Good afternoon, Mrs. Deel,” when I appeared, which would astonish whatever little flock I herded that day. It was nice to be back here again, so many years later, and see it with fresh eyes.
As we moved along, the natural beauty of the mountains, lakes, streams, and ancient forests enthralled my flock of one. St. Kevin, the hermit, founded a monastic settlement in the sixth century. It continued until the fourteenth century, when the English decimated it. The lovely twelfth-century ruins are one of the most viewed sights in the country. Hardier people than we hike above the upper of the two lakes to the place where St. Kevin lived. There, they also find a Bronze Age cave, one of the earliest works of man in Ireland.
We ambled along an easier route through the forest, where the trees are so thick with moss that it’s impossible not to believe that fairies live there. We wrapped up that lovely afternoon with a Sunday “joint” (here we go again) in a nearby pub, surrounded by Irish couples who brought along their children, dogs, and grandma for a jolly autumn outing. Not all Irish conversations are conspiratorial, and we enjoyed being among families enjoying one another on a beautiful day out. Ireland was definitely agreeing with us, and I was having a wonderful time sharing places I loved with my darling Tim.
Back in our Georgian apartment, we wrote most mornings and tried to balance our increasingly busy writers’ lives with outings, whenever we could get away. Tim searched for more blood spatter and clues as he wrote his crime novel, while I banged away at what would be the first chapters of this book about our experiences. I finally accepted the fact that I would give this writing thing a serious try, and Tim encouraged me every day to work at it. I was actually having fun telling our story, and writing felt good.
To sell it, though, I would need a book proposal. I had been fiddling with it for quite a while and wasn’t getting far. I bought several books of instruction about how to approach the project, but the result was utter confusion. Each writer had a different idea of how this essential tool should be created, and every time I tried to compose an element like a biography, a description of the book, or even a cover letter, I was disappointed and frustrated with the results. The task seemed insurmountable, and I began to doubt that I would ever pull together something good enough to submit to an agent. Tim sat at our little dining room table, and I had commandeered the coffee table for my desk. Neither of us could refrain from glancing through the tall Georgian windows to the view. Every morning, we watched the horses being led out to the field along the wall below our gardens, beyond which the Irish headland jutted into the sea. Autumn declared its presence more dramatically as vivid magentas, oranges, and reds enveloped the landscape. It was outrageously beautiful—which made it very hard to concentrate on our work!
One morning, after a long, fruitless session, I closed my computer. “Tim, I’m using five different book proposal textbooks, trying to pull the elements together into something an agent or a publisher would consider reading, but I’m really frustrated! Everything I do looks homemade and amateurish to me. I just can’t get a handle on it. Maybe we should consider getting some professional help. I don’t want to embarrass myself.”
He turned from his keyboard. “I think you’re right. If the article in the Wall Street Journal generates any interest, you should have a proposal ready to go. Things move fast in the publishing business, so we’d want to take advantage of the buzz.” As usual, Tim had a solution in mind. “Remember Bob Yehling, the guy who did such a good editing job on [the novel] Mental Hygiene for me? We could see if he has time to help you.”
A series of lucky breaks followed. First, Bob agreed to take on the project. He was a very busy man and a book author in his own right, but he understood our sense of urgency and agreed to plunge into it immediately. Bob would write the bio, the cover letter, and all the other parts of the proposal that would have taken months for us to do ourselves.
My wonderful, sweet muse also pitched in, doing research about other books in the genre of travel and retirement, and providing excellent fodder for Bob’s efforts.
Since I became so involved in chores like the table of contents and sketching out proposed chapters while providing other material Bob needed, Tim started to take over more of the household duties I had been performing. Later, Tim would joke that if we were both writing full time, we’d starve to death and go naked because no one would ever get to the market or wash our clothes.
After a few intense days, I responded as I always do when overwhelmed with a project: I ran away and made plans to do anything but the proposal! So many sights and experiences still awaited us in Dublin, and I couldn’t very well write a chapter about something we hadn’t done, could I? I found some interesting ways to procrastinate in the name of “book research.” It wasn’t too hard to persuade my darling spouse to play, since watching a person grind away at a computer keyboard isn’t very scintillating.
During my previous two years in Ireland, I made several good friends. One, Brooke Bremner, reared her children there. She had since moved back to the United States, but the charm of Ireland drew her across the pond again. Now, she and her husband, David Glueck, divided their time between Kenmare, Ireland, and their other home in Chicago. They were stopping in Dublin on their way home to Chicago, so we arranged to see them. It was wonderful to be with old friends after such a long time on the road. The four of us took a walking tour of locations made famous in the Easter Rising in 1916 and the Rebellion in 1921. We attended the Irish Theatre Festival to catch The Talk of the Town, a lovely play by Emma Donoghue, whose book, Room, we had all enjoyed. Irish poets, writers, artists, and composers enjoy the kind of financial and emotional encouragement that I wish we would emulate in our country. In Ireland, the earnings made by visual artists, composers of music, and writers are tax exempt. The country’s rich literary and musical history is evident everywhere! Tim and I later enjoyed two other performances at the festival, and we loved seeing the packed houses and intelligent audience responses.
We chose to stay in Bray because getting into the city was easy with the DART rail system’s convenient runs into the city. Once there, it was a quick walk from the main station to almost any Dublin destination. We found street parking near the station easily, a nice beginning to our pleasant twenty-minute commute. The train wound along the beach, and on every trip we saw something new—a tower or home we had missed, people playing on the sand, a storm moving across the Irish Sea en route to Britain, or clouds lit afire by the setting sun. Always something going on! Every ride in and out of the city was a joy to us, and watching Tim become enthralled with the country added to my pleasure.
Although Dublin is an ancient city and its historic monuments and landmarks remain the same, I noticed some dramatic changes. The National Gallery of Ireland had expanded from its intimate building on Merrion Square by adding an enormous space filled with a world-class collection. I was thrilled to see that the country had made such an investment during its economic growth! It was one more indication of its respect and appreciation for the arts. It made me proud. Grafton Street and its surrounding area, the shopping and street music hub of the city, looked almost the same, except for new trendy restaurants and brand-name stores we saw in all the big European cities we visited. Street musicians, many of them first-class entertainers, made music on every block. Flower stalls, mimes, and busy shoppers made the scene lively at all hours. Marks and Spencer’s downstairs food court marked the perfect place to pick up a tasty dinner for our return train ride home. I was happy to see that the worldwide economic downturns and the decline of what was called the “Irish Tiger,” the ascendency of the Irish economy in the nineties, had not diminished the city. If anything, it felt livelier and more cosmopolitan than I had remembered it being.
Aside from Brooke and David, we saw other old friends of mine who made us feel welcome, right at home again. We didn’t have to look far for new friends, either; it turned out they lived right next door to us in Old Connaught House. We met Alan Grainger one day while we were lugging grocery sacks into the building. With his neatly trimmed gray beard and natty sweater vest, he looked and sounded like the distinguished British gentleman one would imagine living in such an elegant manor. We took the elevator together, realized that we shared a small hallway, and talked about getting together during our stay. As we put away groceries, I said, “Oh, I hope Alan’s wife is as charming as he is. Wouldn’t it be great to know the neighbors? I’ll bet they know everything about this house and Ireland, for that matter!”
The next day, Tim had just settled at his “desk” to begin researching some facts Bob wanted when I said, “You know what, honey, the sun is shining and the forecast says it’s going to get rainy and cold tomorrow, so maybe we’d better go up to New Grange today. I don’t want you to miss it, and it would be lousy up there in the rain.”
He grinned at me. “Boy, are you transparent. You really don’t want to settle down and work on the table of contents, do you?” It seemed as if he was taking his new role seriously.
“I’m working on it,” I lied. I tapped my head and continued, “It’s all ticking away in there, and when I sit down to do it, it will just flow right out.” In all honesty, I did hope my little white lie would prove to be true.
“Oh, come on then, kid, we’ll go up there, but tomorrow, you really need to knuckle down and get on with it. The article comes out next Monday, and we have to get that proposal in shape, just in case!”
Naturally, the rain arrived earlier than the weather forecast predicted, leaving poor Tim to again dodge oncoming traffic on sloppy, slippery two-lane country roads. It was my penance for procrastinating once again. As we sloshed along, I filled him in on Newgrange. “The thing that knocks me out is that it was built in 3200 BC as a burial site, which makes it older than Stonehenge and the pyramids in Egypt,” I said. “When we get there, you’ll see that it’s a long passageway dug into a huge circular grassy mound with white stones covering the outside. When you look at the mound, you have no idea what’s inside. The outside facing looks like a bad 1970s imitation stone fireplace, but it was really how the Neolithic people covered the outside wall of the hill. Those white stones had all fallen off and the archaeologists found them around the mound and put them back!
“I’m a little concerned about your going into the passageway,” I continued. “It’s pretty tight, and there will probably be a lot of other people there.” Tim nodded silently and then swerved hard to avoid a pothole.
When we arrived, about twenty people waited at the entrance, staring up at the space above the opening where the sun enters. It shines straight through and strikes the middle of the chamber precisely at dawn every December 21, the winter solstice. After three thousand years of the planet’s slight course changes, it’s moved a bit, but it’s still on target. Every year a select group is privileged to witness the event. We waited until everyone else had moved ahead, so Tim was able to enjoy the reenactment of the solstice performance before we hustled down the narrow passageway to the drizzly October day outside.
When we returned, we saw a note underneath our door. “Please come for cocktails at 6 p.m.” It was signed, “Maureen and Alan, the people next door.”
We searched our pitifully small stock of outfits to wear for the occasion. Tim’s ancient black wool Pendleton shirt (which we call his “wubie” because he wears it all the time like a little kid wearing his security blanket around him) was just the thing. Maureen and Alan saw me in a long sweater and tights, the bottle of wine in my hand my most significant accessory.
Maureen is one of those mature women whose features are so beautiful that you know she was drop-dead gorgeous in her youth. She was still stunning. Her silver bun was arranged perfectly, and her wide blue eyes were full of intelligence and mischief. We all talked at once, crowding into the entry hall in an immediate lively conversation that, to our subsequent delight, never stopped the entire time we lived next door.
Their place was a different world from ours. They had combined two spaces at the end of the building, so the lofty Georgian windows ushered in light from three sides. An interesting variety of excellently framed paintings decorated the pale green walls, and the etched French doors to the dining room brought in even more light. The carpets were luxurious, and double silk drapes framed the windows. Deep crown molding and formal lintels over the doors brought the rooms together, while the fireplace was a welcome sight on a chilly evening. Family pictures glimmered in their polished silver frames as they sat atop the mantel and several inlaid tables. The sitting room and dining room comprised the entire depth of the building and gave Maureen and Alan an even more exciting view of the woods, fields, and Irish Sea than we enjoyed.
And they had an abundance of our favorite commodity on earth—furniture! Tim and I hesitated before sitting down, not wanting our new friends to think us piggish. When Alan and Maureen gravitated to what were clearly “their” chairs facing the fireplace, we gleefully took up residence in two cushiony velvet wing backs with matching tufted footstools. Heaven.
Travel was an obvious topic we could connect over. We enjoyed stories of their exciting journeys around the world. They, like so many people we had met, had been avid travelers all their lives. “Our health doesn’t let us take on challenging trips anymore,” Alan said, “so having that rental apartment next door has been a joy to us! We get to sit tight and enjoy people from all over the world who come to stay there. It’s a great way to travel—no packing, and it’s free, too!” he laughed. We were delighted to once again find kindred spirits, people who were always on the lookout for expanding their world view and found ways to keep learning and experiencing new places, even from those armchairs!
We would spend many more evenings enjoying good wine and conversation (craic, as the Irish call it) in that appealing room. Maureen, who was Irish, and Alan, a British transplant, had three daughters and many grandchildren. Alan was a writer, with twelve books to his credit, and he was working on his latest, Blood on the Stones, a spy thriller with its roots in the Holocaust. Alan shared Tim’s facility for remembering absolutely everything. He proved a bountiful resource for historical fact, legends, and hilarious tales. After a little wine, the dignified Maureen, who at first appeared to be rather formal, told some righteously funny stories, too, mostly about the colorful branch of her Anglo-Irish family who rattle around in a three-hundred-year-old castle in the wilds of western Ireland with muddy dogs and crazy farmers tracking dirt all over exquisite Irish stone floors and ancient oriental carpets. As we left their house, I said, “We have had a marvelous time and we’re so happy you invited us! We would love to reciprocate, but as you know, our apartment has terrible furniture. Could we possibly bring the food and wine to your house and pretend that we’re returning your hospitality?” The plan worked out well, so we were able to spend time with them without feeling like bounders.
We had such a good time that we were over-stayers, and stumbled the five feet to our house too late to cook dinner. We settled for canned soup, crackers, and a re-hash of the evening’s most entertaining moments. We congratulated ourselves on our good fortune. Who could imagine finding intelligent, hilarious neighbors who were willing to make friends with itinerant souls like the Martins! What a country.
Several days later, Maureen and Alan invited us to join them for a luncheon party that would include the father-in-law of one of their daughters, who lived in the wilds of Scotland. Like his hosts, he had many tales to tell. He had climbed mountains and seen sights we loved hearing about. We rolled into high gear as we ordered wine in a sophisticated restaurant we would never have discovered on our own. As the decorous waiter distributed menus, I looked across the autumn flower arrangement that echoed the colors in the china. Maureen extracted a gold-framed monocle from a small leather case in her purse. She popped it into her eye socket and began to peruse the menu. I had never before, except in the movies, seen a person use a monocle! It was imperative that I not make eye contact with Tim, whom I could tell was also choking back a chuckle, or the game would have been up. After she made her choice, Maureen slipped the glass back into its holder and daintily tucked it into her pale leather clutch bag, and I could finally exhale. We didn’t embarrass ourselves at all.
Later that afternoon, I started working again on the book proposal. Bob had sent several pages for review, and I wanted to get them back to him as soon as I could because the next day the Wall Street Journal article was to publish my first article. We had no idea what would happen when it came out.
We were so excited that concentration was difficult, so we tried to relax with some mindless TV. “Well, sweetie, I think it’s time for bed,” Tim said, switching off the set as he headed to the kitchen to make coffee for the next morning.
“I’ll just check my emails,” I said. California time is eight hours behind Irish time, so we often received messages from home late in the evening. When I opened my email account, I squealed. Embarrassing, but yes, I squealed.
“What is it?” Tim asked.
At first I was alarmed at the sheer number of messages in my box. “I don’t have any idea, but there are about twenty new emails here from addresses I don’t recognize. Do you think I’ve been hacked?”
“Wait a minute.” He dropped a towel on the counter and hurried over. He looked at the entries and started laughing. “You know what this is? These aren’t hackers…these are readers, honey! Look—there aren’t any suspicious attachments and their names look normal. They must be Wall Street Journal readers. The online edition must have broken already! Open one and see what it says,” he said excitedly.
“‘Inspiring’ is the subject line?!” I croaked, almost too excited to read. “Dear Lynne and Tim, I just read your article and I want you to know that you are my inspiration, my heroes! You’re proving that people really can do anything if they have the courage. Keep on traveling. Bob.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Tim said. “Go on, open another one.”
“Listen to this,” I said, getting more and more excited. “‘Just finished reading the article in the WSJ. How I envy you! Look forward to following your blog and your book. How do you manage the language barrier? I’m so attached to our home. Been here forty-five years! I’m sure I’ll find all the answers as I read past blogs. You have inspired us! Keep writing! Julie.’”
Letters continued to flood my inbox as they were routed from our website contact page, and I eagerly opened them all, soaking in the thrilling notion that perhaps our story, our life, had actually touched other people’s. Finally, sometime after 1:00 a.m., we forced ourselves to quit reading and get to bed, but we were so stimulated that we both read our Kindle books for a long time before we slept.
The next morning, we dashed to the computer. Almost two hundred emails sat in my inbox. “Check the subscriber list on your website,” Tim said. Aye, aye, sir! Readership had jumped from thirty to a hundred and ten overnight.
We didn’t need Tim’s strong coffee that morning. Our hearts already pounded.
I read the emails. “Tim, I have to answer these folks. They’re saying things that deserve a response, and almost all of them have questions about repositioning cruises or house rentals or something.”
“You’re right,” he said. “If it gets to be too much for you, I can help.”
I laughed. “Sure…I can just see you writing my kind of prattle: ‘Dear George, thanks a billion for writing to me. I’ve attached five hundred articles about repositioning cruises, plus instructions about how to get a passport. Give my love to your wife and entire family. I will love you forever, your best friend, Lynne.’” (If you can’t tell by now, I am a very enthusiastic person.)
He did have to help me, though. He still does. He doesn’t prattle but is definitely the expert on practical matters. We committed to answering every email, and we still do that, but there were so many that it sometimes took us quite a while to get back to people.
As the day continued, the flood of mail only intensified. We both hunched over our computers for hours at a time, responding to good wishes and encouragement, answering questions about all aspects of our life on the road. We were ecstatic that people found our story inspirational, that we were on the verge of really making a difference, and that so many people were interested in us. It was an unbelievable experience. As we typed, we brought each other finger food when we thought about it, things we could munch on without missing a beat. It was an emotional whirlwind, and we couldn’t help ourselves. Each email filled us with delight and awe.
Suddenly, Tim gasped and then sputtered. “Oh my God! Get over here. This is unbelievable!”
I raced to his side. On the computer screen, I saw the front page of Yahoo. Across the five-story crawl at the top, there were the Martins, grinning with the serene roses of Notre Dame Cathedral’s garden blooming in the background, the caption “How One Retired Couple Travels the World” emblazoned beneath us! The crawl moved us right along, sandwiched between an article about China and another about a football player’s special gift. Neither of us had ever dreamed that Yahoo would pick up our story. “This is the wildest thing I have ever seen,” he exclaimed.
We were amazed that our grinning faces continued to appear on the crawl for the next three days. Our website readership and email list subscriber numbers went through the roof, a result that had never even occurred to us. When the online version of the Wall Street Journal appeared, most comments were positive, but there were some heated debates. We stayed out of it and let those folks talk among themselves.
We answered every one of the emails. Apparently, we had delivered a message to which people could relate. From the responses we got, it seemed that those close to retirement saw our idea as a fresh way to approach the last third or half of their lives. Some told us that they had felt trapped, and our notion gave them the push they needed to begin thinking of their future in a different way, to seek a plan that would allow them to move beyond predictable behavior. People who couldn’t travel for health or other reasons said they enjoyed hearing about our plan and looked forward to more blogs and a book. (My first reaction to that was “Wow!” followed quickly by “Eek!” when I remembered the state of my book proposal.) A surprisingly large percentage of our correspondents were young people, some of whom traveled while in their twenties but were now involved in raising families. It tickled us that people our children’s ages found our story of value, too. Many told us we gave them hope that they would be able to travel again once they fulfilled their obligations to their children. Others requested more specific information about the nuts and bolts of Tim’s massive planning, and we were happy to comply. Readers called us “inspirational,” “heroic,” and “brave.” Not a single person was insulting or negative. And that was inspiring to us as well.
Something else arrived on our email: requests for interviews by bloggers, newspapers, magazines, and television. Each query caused a flutter of excitement between us, followed immediately by terrified discussions about how to proceed. I was in the “don’t do anything until you have something (like a book) to sell” camp, because that had always been a guideline when I was in the PR business years before. Tim bivouacked in the “strike while the iron is hot” sector. Late one night, after a particularly intense debate over how to respond to these, he said, “Now, don’t get defensive about what I’m going to say, but Rick Riccobono suggested that we call Sarah McMullen. As you know, she’s a moxie public relations person, and I’m sure she’d have some good advice for us.” Rick, who is one of Tim’s dearest friends, and owner of the comfortable leather chairs we so enjoyed in London, is a digital media rights expert and works internationally in the music industry. He was a wonderful source of information and encouragement for us as we stumbled through this new experience, and we’d already had several phone conversations with him about what was happening to us. His suggestion was good enough for me!
“Hmmm…that’s a good idea. I know she’s so smart. You’ve told me in the past that she worked with Elton John for all those years. She’s not only talented, but she’s gotta be one tough cookie to have survived that.”
We phoned her and laid out our quandary for her. “Oh, y’all,” she said from her office in Houston, “I think Lynne’s right. For the most part, saving the big interview shows for later, when you’ve got a book coming out, is a better strategy.”
I fell for Sarah during that conversation, not because she said I was right, but because she proved to be all the things I knew and imagined: smart, funny, sweet, and generous. We have become such great pals that Tim leaves the room, shaking his head, when she and I get into serious BFF conversations about hair and shoes! Her guidance and sincere excitement over our newfound notoriety made our fifteen minutes of fame even more fun. Both she and Rick made themselves available to us, serving as our cheerleaders and offering sagacious advice when we asked for it. They were our lifeboats in a sea of uncharted waters, and we will be forever grateful to both of them. Over the next few days, we were so involved in answering emails that we barely spoke to one another, except to read aloud particularly touching or amusing messages. Of course, we sent a link to the article to our friends and family, so we enjoyed a flurry of communication on Skype and FaceTime. We hardly slept and procrastinated about showering until late in the day. Our obsession grew so intense that we resented stepping out for groceries.
One afternoon, I looked around our littered living room and burst into crazy laughter. Tim slowly tore his eyes from his screen. “Yeeesssssss? What is it?” Along with his two-day growth of beard, he obviously had not checked his hair in the mirror that morning. I looked even worse. We both were still in our jammies at 11:00 a.m.
“Look at this frat house! We’re messy all the time, but we have sunk to a new low. We’ve gotta stop and clean up this joint!” I exclaimed.
Let me illustrate my point. My coffee table “desk” held not only my computer and notes, but also a half-finished peanut butter jar with a knife standing straight up in it, cracker crumbs littering the paper towel under it, and a browning apple core on a saucer. Several empty Coke cans, a flat non-alcohol beer and an abandoned wineglass were scattered around the room. Soaking in the sink, waiting for someone to deal with it, sat a saucepan that had been used for heating canned soup.
“Oops…you’re right. Just let me finish these three from yesterday and we’ll get on it,” Tim said sheepishly.
We spent the next few hours cleaning up our home and ourselves. When we returned from the grocery store, we found another note from Alan and Maureen. “Haven’t seen you in days. Time for a break. 6 p.m.! Sláinte [cheers in Irish], A and M.”
It was just the nudge we needed. Alan and Maureen became our ballast as we plowed through the waves of excitement that washed over us. For several days, they were the only respite we gave ourselves. They greeted us at their door with hugs and kisses, and ushered us to our red chairs in their beautiful sitting room. Alan poured Tim his drink and handed me a hefty glass of red wine, and they listened indulgently to our latest tales of neophytes awash in the current of sudden media attention. The fire snapped and sputtered and the wind swirled around Old Connaught House that night. We could see that immense changes would occur in our lives, not all of them easy to navigate. Our advisors, Bob, Rick, and Sarah, kept talking about books, TV, interviews, a future that looked terrifying from where we sat in our little apartment in Ireland.
That night, after our refreshing evening with Alan and Maureen, we managed to put together another bowl of soup with crackers. In the next couple of days, as the torrent of letters continued, I was asked by the Wall Street Journal if I would write a short piece, answering some of the most-asked questions readers had posed. I was thrilled to accept their invitation.
***
The pressure of making decisions mounted as our days in Ireland came to an end. Several agents had expressed interest in representing me, and a major news program contributor had made overtures about featuring us in a segment. Every day brought some new challenge that needed to be addressed, and our team of advisors became more valuable with each volley. We tried to keep food in the house, make our living space sanitary, and clean our clothes for traveling while simultaneously thumping away on our computers and talking on the phone late into the nights. The eight-hour time difference to California suddenly became a real problem because just as we would end a long, hard-working day, the people there would be just starting theirs, ready to talk, ask questions, and make plans. The days evaporated.
So did our wiggle room. We had none. Our reservations for a week in Marrakech, Morocco, were nonrefundable, so we had to take this show on the road without knowing what our Internet situation would be. Our repositioning cruise, which sailed from Barcelona, was an immutable climax for our travels, a deadline that could not be postponed because of all the reservations and plans made around it. We woke up early and went to bed late, both of us exhausted from stress and excitement. As we prepared to leave Ireland, we left those coats with a friend and donated other cold-weather gear to a local charity shop. And I signed a contract with Dana Newman, an effective, enthusiastic literary agent and attorney with a solid track record of success with nonfiction authors. It was a moment I never could have imagined when we printed those cards in Mexico!
We left Ireland for Africa just before winter roared in from the Atlantic. And as we did, even more publishing mayhem rumbled into our lives, as furious as the Irish Sea in October.