The retreat was over. It was 4pm. A buzz in the air. People saying their goodbyes, exchanging emails, phone numbers. Arrangements noisily being made for getting home. Some were driving, some had their spouse or friend picking them up. I was feeling panicky. I had seven days until my next housesit job. Still nothing had come up. What to do? Didn’t really know where to go. This was unsettling.

Looking like I had somewhere to go just like everyone else, I got in my car, returned honks and waves, and turned right at the end of the driveway. About 20 minutes down the road I pulled over. Feeling weak, alone. I needed to dig deep, get strong, stop the tears. This was the perfect test for what I had been taught all weekend. To get out of your head, the spinning turmoil. On the in-breath, to bring your mind gently into your body, to your home. Mind, body, breath connected. Somewhere peaceful and safe even if just for that one in-breath. Mary O’Callaghan’s voice plays in my mind, her words of warmth and generosity. I see her cross-legged, the meditation cushion, scarf draped over her shoulders and across her chest. The teachings, the nourishment, the safety from that meditation room ran through me. I felt better. Definitely a new tool for my tool box. Spreading out the map on the passenger seat, I made a decision I set my sat nav to Ballyclare. I would drive the coast of Northern Ireland-the Causeway Coastal Route. I had seen pictures and heard great things. My little rental car was good on petrol and B and Bs must be cheap in the winter. All anxiety went away. I had somewhere to drive to and I had a plan.

I was very tired. It was late. I was almost there, just passed Belfast. A pitch black night. Visibility worsening due to the slashing rain. Wipers in fast mode. Straining, perched at the edge of my seat, peering through my windscreen, I see a blurring of yellow. A yellow door with a weathered B and B vacancy sign swinging to and fro. The haze of a dim yellow light bulb visible through the bevelled glass window. I rang the bell. ” Come on in dear. You are soaked”. She was so warm and friendly offering to make me a cup of tea. Her husband, a tall man with thick white hair and full beard took my case up the steep narrow staircase. Not the easiest task- my case was on the larger side and was heavy. I knew he had made it to the top once the groaning and creaking stopped. I was the only guest. They were amazed that I was travelling around by myself. My heart leapt as the man spoke to me. As soon as I heard the voice he was there. Paddy, my grandfather. It was the same way of talking, identical dialect, same twinkling eyes of genuine interest and concern, same deep lines across his forehead. So much time has passed since I was last with Paddy but yet I see him now so clearly. The same white hair. White beard. Stature. Way of dressing. I now knew and understood where he had come from.

Waking to the smell of bacon I came down to sit at the table set for one, promptly  presented with a huge breakfast of fried eggs, bacon, sausages, black pudding, fried tomatoes, baked beans, soda bread and marmalade. I was ready to head out into the unknown. Meeting this friendly couple had definitely been a good start. With hugs and handshakes, I heard “God bless” as I went out the door.

I covered miles and miles of narrow winding roads- over mountains, around lakes, along rivers, through bog land, along the coastal edge, traveling for many hours each day. Some roads were barely wide enough for two small cars. Hairpin turns. Steep descents. Speed limit 100km/hr!!! Not a soul anywhere- just the wind and the roar of the Atlantic sea coming through my window. Was it my imagination or did I actually hear a whinny being carried on the wind. I pull over. There on my left on the steep rock are a group of 4 or 5 wild Connemara ponies. Magical. On my right, the Aran Islands jut out of the sea. So many times driving up over a hill it was like I had arrived onto a painting. I would hear myself gasp. I would have to pull over. Turn off the engine. Get out and just stand there. The smell of seaweed, earth. Right in front of me, in one frame, was forest, field, rock, sea, mountains. Needed to be still, have a moment to absorb it. Painting after painting.

A beautiful sunny morning spent walking the beach. Only my footsteps. The first time since Jason died that I thought to myself I am happy to be alive. Right here, right now. One with nature. The breaking of the waves, so big and powerful, the sound of the crash upon the sand, the spray upon the rocks, the emerald green grass still glistening. Such dramatic landscape. Dark cliffs jutting out into the steel blue sea. Such a huge presence. Commanding respect. Slightly misted. Haunting.

The road dipped in and out of farm country. Picture book white country farmhouses dotted about. Maybe a red door. Clothes lines laden with colours flapping furiously in the wind. Fields, like a patchwork quilt, every shade of green. After a soft rain- a gift of a rainbow. Such sharp vivid colours. Only thought was possible with crayons. Pulling over to capture the wonder of the rainbow reflected on the house and trees. Gone by the time my eye was pressed to the camera.

You can never feel lonely for long in rural Ireland. A stranger’s wave, a nod, their warm genuine smile. Arriving into small quiet villages of pastel coloured houses. So clean and fresh. Down by the harbour a row of brightly painted storefronts. Most of the businesses were closed. Seasonal or economic reasons. I spot an open cafe, moisture running down the fogged up window. Backpack slung over my shoulder I step in. The smell of fried food mixed with coffee is poignant. Most chairs occupied. A lot of men look the same- white hair, beard, cap. A table of young people- more than likely unemployed. The loud noise of chatter momentarily ceasing as I walk in. Their curiousity about me once they heard my voice. I looked Irish they said. In this cafe I had wonderful conversation with the local people. Such dry humour mixed throughout. I loved it. They made me feel so welcome. I remember thinking I could just stay here. It was like stepping back in time. No Blackberrys. No iPhones. Just genuine interaction. Upon leaving, a room full of solid warm handshakes with a “God bless” was food for the soul. Feeling energized I set off. In my pocket a list of secret places, hidden gems, the local’s favourites. A great experience in an old cozy pub in Galway- low ceiling, smell of ale, dark wood, wide plank creaky floorboards. It was a chilly rainy night. Sitting by an open fire eating fresh fishcakes chatting with an elderly local man having a guiness I learn some of the life in this quaint seaside village. Asking him, “Where do the Irish retirees travel to?”  We had been talking about the British retiring in France, Spain. With his glass almost at his lips, he said, “The grave.” No change of expression. I almost lost my mouthful of beer. So funny!! This was classic dry Irish humour. Wonderful!

Stopping at a roadside restaurant, just three tables occupied. Two young priests. They nod to me, say hello. At another, a group of 8 school girls around 16 yrs old- giggling- all with a glow on their faces. Pushing their heads together, their arms extended, taking selfies. I look at them, their innocence, their laughs, wondering what lies ahead for them.  At another table a plainly dressed Irish couple came in to sit with this handsome Dutch man- strong accent. All I hear is the couple say, “you have to eventually go home.” It struck my heart. He was saying he was good here. I could tell they didn’t get it. She said, ” but your daughters are in Holland.- you have to go home- don’t you?” Of course I have no idea of what is going on in his life but I sensed some kind of big shift and he needed to be where he was. This was just my observation. A farmer type man came in. Sat down at the small table beside me. He told me he was waiting for his daughter who was having some day surgery. His daughter age 16 had gone through 20 surgeries for cleft plate and reconstruction of her mouth. I listened to his worries, his story. There was an intuition of trust. I could relate to his concerns. After answering his questions with a quick synopsis of my own story he responded, ” Take it slow, take your time on your own.” Our stories were shared with such honesty. Wishing each other well, we parted. Strangely I always felt I was in the right place, where I was supposed to be, meeting the right people.

My drive was coming to an end. On one hand I was relieved to not have the worry about where to sleep each night but on the other hand I was going to miss my constant companion, the sea. I was now heading to my housesit located in the midlands of Ireland. Mind you, an Irish person told me that at any given place in Ireland you are never far, never more than 60 miles from the sea.

This road trip was a soul searching soul nourishing experience. Definitely was an important player in the restructuring of this new life of mine. A few times I was really tested. There were some hairy drives such as driving the mountain gap and pass. Bad weather, driving rain, making the roads treacherous at times. Thinking of all the things that could go wrong- engine, tires. No one knows I am here. I was alone on these mountain roads. The little car tiresomely climbing the steep incline, engine whining, low gear, the smell of a hot engine, watching the heat gage. Resting at the top in a band of mist I felt on top of the world. I refused to let fear in. I felt unusually safe. Aware of some sort of guidance, a sensation of being looked after, supported. Visiting many churches, abbeys, sitting on a pew absorbed in the flame of the candle I lit for Jason. No other persons visible. On this trip I had a few extraordinary experiences. Fluffy white feather floating down in front of me. No sign of any birds. Walking towards a small old chapel I heard faint singing. I thought possibly a choir practising. This would be nice to sit and listen to. A quick observation of no cars. I open the large door it was empty. I walked to the end. What my eyes saw was all there was. Just this one big space.  I strained to hear and still I could faintly hear the angelic notes being sung. Back outside I walked around the building thinking maybe there is another building. Nothing, but yet I could still hear the singing. This stayed with me for days trying to sort out what had happened. Was it my mind playing tricks or was it a sign?

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