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Social distance diary – Day 142

August 6, 2020

More than 100 – yes, 100 – days ago, I set out to document this temporary, wild, overwhelming, memorable season of our lives. I never pledged to do it every day, but I certainly didn’t intend to go three months without a word. But things happen, or they don’t as the case may be in these quarantine times, and let’s be honest … there have been too many words out there lately. The internet and all of its limbs have been heavy with screaming and skepticism and rock hurling and I just couldn’t dip my toes into that boiling water. But here I am, ready to explain my absence and get all caught up in four reader-friendly sections. Here’s the scoop …  

The fever of an unknown origin

On April 18, about 12 days after my last post here, the weather broke. It was one of those days Midwesterners relish – the first after months spent chilled under an endless ash sky. The sun felt warm and beckoned us out past the safety of our cul-de-sac. We planned to go visit my mom, who we hadn’t seen in weeks. We were going to sit on the deck outside, masks on, and catch up sans the risk of a failed connection.

Out of an abundance of caution (the most tired phrase of 2020), I took the girls’ temperatures. All clear. I took my own. It was 99.7. “We’re not going,” I text her. “I just won’t take a chance.” Mind you, this was during what would now be considered the dawn of the pandemic. Fear was high and there were even more unknowns than there are now. My parents are both over 65, my father has heart disease, and I was determined to play my part in keeping them safe. I figured it was a fluke, anyway. I’d been working in my front room all day, there are lots of windows letting heat in, I’d been stressed. It would pass.

It didn’t pass. And, spoiler alert, it hasn’t passed.

Over the next 20+ days, I took my temperature at least twice a day, every day. It ranged from 99-100.3. The only constant was that it was constantly elevated. On day 26, I decided to email my family doctor. We did a video chat and she wasn’t quite sure what to do with me. On day 28, she referred me to the clinic where they were sending patients with COVID-19 symptoms. They did a urinalysis, bloodwork, mono test and a chest x-ray. Everything looked great. On day 32, I landed a then-elusive drive-thru COVID test. After 11 days of waiting, it came back negative. In the meantime, plot twist, Sloppy Joan also began running a low-grade fever. What in the actual hell?!

Eventually, they sent me to the land where they send all the misfit toys … Infectious Diseases. I had two visits, a vampire’s Thanksgiving feast worth of blood drawn and lots of rehashing the variables. On day 68, they diagnosed me with a “fever of an unknown origin” and told me to wait it out. As long as nothing changed, nothing had to change. And nothing has changed. They say it can take up to a year to resolve. I feel fine, really. I’ve embraced my role as the family furnace, and the chicks fight over who gets to cuddle up next to me on the couch. I wouldn’t say my temp twister was the key culprit in disappearing from the blog, but it was consuming on many levels for quite some time. I guess “being hot” isn’t as easy as everyone thinks.

The pressure to perform

I’m taking a big leap here in guessing that I wasn’t the only one penning an ambitious list of creative projects at the start of the pandemic. I was going to self-publish a children’s book, journal every morning and, let’s not forget, recommit to Desperately Seeking Superwoman on an at least twice-weekly basis. All of this “extra time” at home was going to be the gift I’d been waiting to unwrap as a writer for more than a decade. The words would pour from me like sugar from a lemonade stand. This was it. This was my time.

Oh, and my body! Let’s get into that. My plan was to start each morning with a gentle walk. To meet the sunrise and greet the day. Every day. I’d then pepper in daytime workouts to really get in there and chisel out those muscles that have eluded me all of my adult life. Exercise would be so convenient; I could do a dab of weights here and a sprinkle of cardio there. Give me a few months in this new arrangement and I’d be runway ready. In retrospect, it was kind of cute, really, and almost like COVID Courtney had never met actual Courtney before. I was fostering this quarantine-induced delusion about what life at home with a full-time job, three kids, a geriatric dog and a murder mystery fever could be like.

Then I came to one day over a plate of Totino’s pizza rolls and realized I hadn’t worn anything without elastic around the waistband in damn near 9 weeks. I was … squishy. Soft, at best. Sure, I’ve been working out consistently, but does that really matter if you’re over-creaming your coffee and partaking in Soy Delicious ice cream appetizers while dinner cooks? I’ve been trying to clean that mess up.

The apathy

Then the apathy set in. I don’t know if it was the e-learning or the constant close proximity to laundry, or the strange food limitations at the grocery store, or the increase in work, or only seeing friends and family in a box on a computer screen, or the email about the third summer concert that got canceled, or being a chronic snacker with a desk now exactly 10 paces from the pantry or the fact that, no matter when I ran it, the stupid, MF’in’ light on the dishwasher is always on. Telling me it’s ready to be emptied for the fifteen-hundredth time this week. In truth, it was all of those things and a million more I didn’t list here for the sake of brevity. The fantasy of my best COVID self, came crashing down before it ever got off the ground.

I wouldn’t say I’ve been in a full blown depression. There was a brief period in my adult life when I was there, and this isn’t that. It’s just this ache for the former, for the familiar comforts of February. For hugs and get-togethers and grasping a buffet spoon without descending into sheer panic. I feel less of all my favorite feelings. Less joy, less excitement, less fire in my belly. These days, it feels like existing, without any of the exclamation marks.

The grind

I know everyone compares the COVID era to the movie Groundhog’s Day, but isn’t it just so accurate? I am on a hamster wheel in a chaotic cage with untidy bedding and I’m just frantically moving my hands and feet to stay upright. Shower, work, make a meal, work, yell at the girls to get off their tablets, work, make a meal, work, work, yell at the girls to get off their tablets, work, switch the laundry, make a meal, clean, work, snuggle for a bit, threaten to throw away all of the tablets, go to bed. Repeat. I never leave the cage. I never get off the wheel.

I love my daughters more than a good non-dairy ice cream, I do. They are the coolest kids I know, and I grew them, and I love them and I want nothing but all the best things in the world for them, but heaven help me … between the bickering and the technology and the blatant disrespect for this house and the woman who has to clean it, it’s been A LOT. It’s been all of the normal parental grievances magnified by infinity.

My life used to exist in buckets – the work bucket, the wife bucket, the mom bucket, the house bucket. And sure, sometimes, on occasion, a little water would splash over from one bucket to the next. I’d spend my lunch hour frantically searching for gold coin chocolates for the class St. Patrick’s Day party or some such task, but in general, I had boundaries. Or at least pencil-drawn lines. In this climate, being a working parent means being available in all ways, at all times, and never running out of water. My buckets runneth over.  

Pre-COVID, I’d lined up a summer sitter. When that girl walked through the door in mid-June it was as if the gates parted and an angel flew into my entryway. Just to have another set of hands to make their bowls of ramen and pull them away from the screens for an afternoon was a blessing beyond measure. On her last day, I did all but get down on my hands and knees and beg her not to go. The moment the door shut, I cried. The girls just stood there and stared at me as I wept, so naïve to all the reasons her departure stung.

The “new normal”

So, that pretty much brings us to the present. I know I’m not the only parent who needs a bigger hat rack these days, and honestly I’m thankful that I still have a job and that my family is healthy. There are so many people who haven’t been as lucky, and that’s not lost on me. But there’s also something to be said for commiserating with your community. It’s been a long haul and I don’t see an end on the horizon. It would be a massive misrepresentation for me to pretend that I’m taking it all in stride and killing it over here, though some days that’s accurate. But not most days.

Most days I teeter somewhere between mild anxiety and bursts of rage, which I try to reserve for the category five catastrophes. Spilled bottles of paint, hair dye on the new flooring, etc. and so on. Most days I cry when silly things happen, like I discover the clean clothes I spent hours washing and sorting were thrown into the corner of my daughter’s closet, bags piled on top to cover up the crime. Most days I eat ice cream or chocolate, or chocolate on top of ice cream. Most days I use at least one of the following phrases, if not all: “Ah, you just have to laugh,” or “I’m not your maid,” or “I think I’m being Punk’d,” or “You guys act like we live in a dumpster.” Most days, by the time my husband gets home from work, it feels like I’ve lived three days.

But it isn’t all nail polish stains and Nutella fingerprints. This time has given me gifts as well. I haven’t worn makeup or done my hair in months, and with that extra 45 minutes to sleep in the morning, I feel more rested than I have in years. And more comfortable in my skin, which is pretty awesome, really. The chicks have memorized the entire Hamilton soundtrack, and I love hearing them upstairs screaming out the lyrics to “The Schuyler Sisters”, each with their own assigned role. (Sloppy Joan is Peggy, of course.)

What we knew about being a family has changed. The other day, JoJo looked up at me and said, “It’s just been too much togetherness.” And she was right. But my hope is that we come out of this with a deeper appreciation for the people and activities we took for granted, better communication skills and, perhaps, a renewed thirst for the opportunities that make us feel alive. For all the exclamation points.

Wellness

Livin la Vida Vegan Day 14 (food and gratitude)

September 30, 2017

Holy hot dogs made of carrots, batman! We made it to Day 14 of the Livin la Vida Vegan 14-Day Challenge. I doubt that anyone is half as excited as my husband and children, who are anxious to get the flour-coated gluten balls off their plates.

It’s an interesting day because it’s the day before race day and the last day of this crazy adventure. I’m very aware of my body today, I guess is what I’m saying. How does it feel … How will it feel in the morning … Was this smart … Will this pay off … Will I have enough gas in the tank come morning? I’m not quite sure what the ole’ girl has in ‘er.

7:30 a.m.
I gave myself a splash of the Califa this morning, against my better judgment, and went about blending up the same smoothie as yesterday. The spirulina gets less noticeable every day, but I need to find a way to get the chocolate protein powder completely out of the equation. Baby steps. I have to keep reminding myself that the work doesn’t end just because the jumpstart is over. Sunday can be vegan. Monday can be vegan. (Tomorrow is definitely not going to be vegan.)

12:30 p.m.
I picked up my race packet and grabbed lunch at an adorable diner downtown with a friend from work. There were so many vegan options, I was pleasantly surprised. I opted for this insane veggie panini (hold the havarti) and kettle chips. Big, meaty mushrooms and thin strips of zucchini and tomatoes … it was fire! The chips weren’t bad, either.

It’s interesting, you’d think it would be so hard to go out, but truly it’s just a matter of leaving off a few things here and there. And honestly, as heavy as they sauce and suffocate things with cheese these days, I find they actually taste better without all of the fixins on occasion.

5 p.m.
I ate celery and almond butter for no good reason.

6 p.m.
Every Friday night we have dinner with my folks, then come back to our house and play three hands of euchre. We have an ongoing tally: Boys: 204, Granny Panties 157. It’s always a big deal … Where are we going to go? What sounds good? It’s a tradition rooted in food and an ultra-competitive card game. Tonight we went to a local place with a huge menu. I assumed there would be something to bring us home on this thing.

There wasn’t much. Hank got a veggie wrap that looked less than awesome (and he reported tasted as such) and I got veggie tacos. They had a pound of black beans on each tortilla (blech) topped with a corn relish and sliced underripe avocadoes. It came with, what else, a side scoop of black beans. Not the coolest way to go out, but I did the job. We were fed.

I stared at my mom’s pulled pork sandwich like a little girl outside a bridal shop.

8 p.m.
A vegan everything cookie to silence my screaming internal sugar demon and some ginger kombucha. For the record, just so everyone is crystal clear on the matter, my father believes that the Standard American Diet, paired with exercise is really what people need … none of this microbiome, gut health mumbo jumbo the kids keep yapping about. Write it down, somebody. We’re all going to regret shooting apple cider vinegar and gagging down tubs of sauerkraut one day.

9:50 p.m.
I feel like a half an almond butter sandwich is a smart choice right now. I don’t think I got enough protein tonight and I’m nervous about my plant-powered 13 in the morning. I’m just going to sit here and think about it until I get up and make it.

It was the right call.

10 p.m.
So … final thoughts on this whole thing. I guess the most common thing people ask is, “Do you regret doing this?” No. I learn something every time I try one of these challenges, and I think that, even though I didn’t lose 20 pounds in 14 days, which, let’s be honest, I was secretly hoping would happen, I did change my mentality a bit. And big change often starts with “a bit”.

I’m sleeping like a dead man, my head fog is gone and I move easier when I exercise. In truth, I doubt 14 days is sufficient for something like this, though I suspect I knew that all along. It was a convenient, manageable chunk of time, but now, on the other side of it, the ending feels abrupt, premature. But I’m sitting here, fingers on the keys, focusing on all the wins.

I can remember, not that long ago, staring at my Pinterest boards for hours trying to come up with Meatless Monday ideas. I’ve known for some time that less meat, less dairy, less animal fat, is better, but I’ve really lagged on the execution. Now, I know that this house won’t crumble without a deep freezer full of the cast of Babe chillin’ in it. I know we will eat our tofu lettuce wraps and carry on.

Every day, for 14 days, more than 500 people stopped by to see what we ate, how it went over and how we were feeling about the whole thing. That just blows my mind. From your time here on these pages, whether you’d been to the blog before or not, I can only hope you garnered a laugh and an actionable takeaway. Maybe that was a product recommendation (likely from Costco, let’s be honest) or a recipe to try. Whatever it was, I pray that our experiment sparked one of your own.

If you’re a veteran vegan or a newbie or considering a change or just a supportive friend, I thank you for spending some of your day with me and, of course, I invite you to stick around for the regular DSS chatter on life, love and losing my shit on a daily basis. Your interest and advice has been one of the greatest pearls from this whole experience. Every text, every email, every instant message, every private message, every comment, every shared pin, every everything. Your kindness was an unexpected, beautiful byproduct of dipping our toes into the vegan pool. I feel humbled and encouraged.

As for us? Well, tomorrow is Vegas, not vegan. I plan to chase the half marathon with donuts and a tub of cookies, none of which I will apologize for. Then we have a fun dinner with friends on the books for the evening and I plan to wear maternity pants and just get into bed with all the foods. All of them.

But after that, we’ll see. I finished my meal plan for next week and it’s all meat- and dairy-free for me. These other yahoos will have to sort things out for themselves. Of course, I do 90 percent of the cooking, so it could get interesting.

Good night, sweet friends, old and new. It’s time for me to turn in. Tomorrow seems like a great day for a run, doesn’t it?

Wellness

The road to my 14-day vegan challenge

September 7, 2017

Oy … you guys, I could say, “Things have been crazy,” but that would need to be followed by “for the last 8 years,” right? You have a drawer full of big girl pants, too, so you get it. Let’s talk about this vegan challenge.

Oh, wait, two quick things since we haven’t chatted in a bit. No. 1, am I the only parent out there getting d-o-w-n to some Descendants 2 songs? Mel is basically Missy Elliott at this point in my life. It’s sad, but I’m leaning into it. So many ways to be wicked. And No. 2, Sloppy Joan pooped down her leg so bad the other day, it filled her rain boot. Like, to the brim. I have a picture, but I think just typing it is about all anyone can handle today.

Good, we’re all caught up.

So, sometimes I wonder if I’m some sort of masochist, ya know? When someone invited me – me! A woman who has spent hours googling phrases like, “Why do yoga arms evade me?” and “Can a person overdose on sugar?” and “painful upper leg jiggle” – to voluntarily lay down on a table and have an iDXA scan, where a machine runs down your person to reveal your actual body composition, I said, “Why yes! Yes, I would love to.”

Why would I do that? Let me just tell you this, now typing from the other side of the experience, there is no go-get-em TEDTalk, no healthy perspective podcast, or frightening food documentary, or humble blog post or Brene Brown-eque book to prepare you for seeing how much of your body is bone, how much is muscle and how much is straight up butcher shop lard.

None. Nothing. Nope.

So, first of all, they have you lay down on your back for the iDXA scan. You know what happens when you lay down on your back? Everything spreads and settles. Like a batch of thick pancake batter hittin’ the griddle, baby. Then, you can’t move for 7 minutes. Because I had to fast for the test, I hadn’t had a lick of caffeine. So, when they said, “Hold still, please,” I heard, “Now, go ahead and take a 7-minute power nap with your eyes open.” And I said, “OK then.”

After your scan is complete, they hand you four papers and send you down for a consult. This is the portion of the visit where you discuss what the colors and numbers you’re seeing around your silhouette – which resembles Baymax from Big Hero 6 – actually mean. They try to be positive, but it’s basically like being broken up with by a cute boy in high school. “You’re bone density is great, but …” “It’s not your lack of muscle mass, it’s your …”

I won’t drag this saga out, or keep you in suspense; my results showed that I am just slightly into the overweight category. This information, sobering as it was, was no Sixth Sense plot twist. It wasn’t like Rachel choosing Bryan after crying off an eyelash over Peter. Or any of the Game of Thrones murders all you dorks are always freaking out over. The news was just confirmation that the slight insecurity I’ve been silently wrestling is now a full blown enemy, and we must go to war. It’s not about vanity (OK, it’s a little about vanity), but it’s about my health and my mobility and my children.

I’m not morbidly obese, but I’m not in a good place, either, and that’s enough to get me motivated for change. I think we’re often an all-or-nothing culture. People are too thin or too fat. They’re too toned or too frail. They’re too obsessed with their body or entirely negligent. But there’s a whole bunch of people globbed together there in the middle. And that’s where I find myself at the moment.

The problem? I’ve kind of exhausted the familiar weapons in my arsenal. The Whole30s and the half marathon training and the calorie tracking. It’s not cutting the mustard, obviously. So, I’ve decided to try something drastic and new, because, you know what, you don’t know until you try, right?

Several months back, while doing an interview with a cardiologist, I asked him about his diet. He smirked shyly and looked down, as if replaying and reliving months of judgement from his peers. “Well, I’m actually vegan,” he said. “Really?” I inquired. “Yeah,” he said. “Of all the personal and professional research I’ve done, it’s the only thing that really makes sense. I cut things out in stages and now I’m almost entirely vegan. I feel great, I maintain a healthy weight and my cholesterol looks fantastic.”

That was the first time I considered the benefits of a vegan lifestyle.

Then, about a month ago, I got a weird bug. I felt a ton of pressure in my head and completely nauseous with stomach pains and just generally shitty. While hugging my internal organs and sweating profusely, I decided to watch, “What the Health” the trending new food documentary. (A little secret about me: I am obsessed with food documentaries.) As I listened to the testimonials and the research (some of which I’m not entirely sold on), I started to fear that there was some truth to the reports that my sizzling love affair with bacon might not be in my best interests.

That was the second time I considered the benefits of a vegan lifestyle.

And then I flipped through my planner and came across the images from my iDXA scan, tucked shamefully in the back behind a baby shower invitation. Holding them in my hands, I walked into my closet and looked up at the 8 neat stacks of pre-baby clothes taunting me just below the ceiling. I turned to the mirror and I thought about all of the excuses and do-overs and self-loathing I’d racked up over the past eight, likely more, years. And I started to get really angry.

That was last week. That was also the time I decided to try this vegan thing out. Now, before you get all Judy Judgey on me, realize that I’m not buying the Porsche. I’m just taking it out for a test drive for a few weeks.

There are claims out there that a vegan diet can:
Lower risk of cardiovascular disease
Lower risk of cancer
Improve kidney function
Help lose excess weight
Reduce inflammation
Improve bone health
Reduce your carbon footprint significantly

Gosh, if even one of those works out, I’d be pretty pumped. Of course I realize these benefits would take much longer than 14 days. I also realize there’s a good chance my affinity for the Hog Trough platter at my favorite local BBQ place might just crap all over the whole thing. It’s going to be real and it’s going to be tough, and it’s going to be really tough. But, if I can come out meatless even a few days a week after this little adventure, I’d throw a tally up in the win column.

I will start my animal-free experiment on September 16, and end the trial period on September 29. I might keep going. I might make some alterations. I might just take a nap and decide not to decide anything. In the meantime, I’m pinning my panties off and checking out every vegan cookbook the local library has to offer.

Do I think it’s a magic pill? Nah, I’m a little too old to buy into that fairy tale. But do I think it’s going to hurt anything to try it and see how I feel? Nope. Because it’s about the journey. It’s about trying different things and finding the personally tailored prescription that fits. I am certain I haven’t found that yet, so I’m going back to the drug store.

I’ve had this quote from an article I read for more than a year now. I came across it again last week. It’s from Christopher Sommer, a former men’s gymnastics national team coach, who said:

“Dealing with the temporary frustration of not making progress is an integral part of the path towards excellence. In fact, it is essential and something that every single elite athlete has had to learn to deal with. If the pursuit of excellence was easy, everyone would do it. In fact, this impatience in dealing with frustration is the primary reason that most people fail to achieve their goals. Unreasonable expectations time-wise, resulting in unnecessary frustration, due to a perceived feeling of failure. Achieving the extraordinary is not a linear process.

The secret is to show up, do the work, and go home.

A blue collar work ethic married to indomitable will. It is literally that simple. Nothing interferes. Nothing can sway you from your purpose. Once the decision is made, simply refuse to budge.

Refuse to compromise.

And accept that quality long-term results require quality long-term focus. No emotion. No drama. No beating yourself up over small bumps in the road. Learn to enjoy and appreciate the process. This is especially important because you are going to spend far more time on the actual journey than with those all too brief moments of triumph at the end.

Certainly celebrate the moments of triumph when they occur. More importantly, learn from defeats when they happen. In fact, if you are not encountering defeat on a fairly regular basis, you are not trying hard enough. And absolutely refuse to accept less than your best.

Throw out a timeline. It will take what it takes.

If the commitment is to a long-term goal and not to a series of smaller intermediate goals, then only one decision needs to be made and adhered to. Clear, simple, straightforward. Much easier to maintain than having to make small decision after small decision to stay the course when dealing with each step along the way. This provides far too many opportunities to inadvertently drift from your chosen goal. The single decision is one of the most powerful tools in the toolbox.”

The goal is to document every day of the 14 days, including recipes, noticeable changes and my feelings along the way. I’m sharing this now, in case any of you brave souls would like to follow along and try it as well. I promise I will not feel differently about you if you choose to sit back and take bets on my potential failure from afar. You gotta do you.

Wanderlust

Biscuits back on the AT, Miles 14.3-21.1

May 3, 2017

I gradually woke up, cozy and rested on the side o–

Oh, shoot. That’s a lie. There goes my silly mind, romanticizing things again. Let me stop here and throw ‘er in reverse.

I woke up to the adolescent cackles of Just Matt and The General tooting and talking about their high school buddies in the tent above us. None of nature’s alarm clocks – the rose-gold sun, or the prattling river, or the amorous birds – would gently rouse the ledge full of tuckered out travelers from their hard-earned slumber. These two idiots would. When those clowns were up, everyone was.

The best breakfast I had on our trip was the one I had on the side of that mountain. My Trader Joe’s instant coffee with cream and sugar and – what else – freeze-dried Biscuits and Gravy, combined and expanded like a warm sponge in my depleted body and warmed me up. I wanted more than my half.

I sat the Mountain House bag of milky remnants next to the tent and went about my minimal hygienic upkeep. I pulled my toothbrush out first. My hand shook as I forced the very last of my travel-size tube of toothpaste out onto the frozen, matted bristles. I stepped back to pace the trail as I lathered up my gums. Then, something stopped me. It felt like lukewarm vomit spreading out over my foot. But it wasn’t. It was the soupy white remnants rapidly escaping the blue Mountain House bag and saturating my last pair of clean hiking socks; sparing the fabric only where the straps of my Tevas crossed. Frickin great, man. Now my pack not only smelled like 3 days worth of butt, but dehydrated sausage juice as well.

We started up the trail for what would be our final day of hiking. You know when you go for a jog and sometimes you have it, and sometimes you don’t? Well, on this morning, on this section of dirt, I just didn’t have it. Gravy went up ahead of me, focused on reaching the privy at the Gooch Mountain Shelter, just over a mile ahead. Just Matt kept me in sight for a bit, but eventually his Sasquatch stride naturally separated us. I felt weak and weighted. Every step required more energy than it should have. I started pounding the Rx Bars and Snickers I’d stashed in my waist pack pockets. I sucked on an energy Blok and hoped for the best.

But then, I was reminded of a phrase uttered frequently on our first venture to the Appalachian Trail, and it ignited an important conversation with myself: Hike your own hike, Courtney. Look around you. What’s your hurry? By dinner, this will all be over and you’ll wish you were starting again. My body was sending me signals to slow down and enjoy the journey and I was trying to juice it up and speed things along. And why? So I could breeze past the white blazes I’d been looking forward to seeing for months? I had to listen in the quiet, not rage against the voice. I pried my eyes up off my feet and regarded the tendrils of rich emerald leaves. The birthmarks on the trunks to my left and to my right. The sounds of the forest starting its day and getting down to the business breathing, sprouting, spreading, creating new life.

We stopped at Gooch Gap for a snack. I’d created the perfect trail mix of granola, Traders Joe’s Omega Trek Mix and Simply Almonds, Cashews and Chocolate, and I was now hammering it like a savage by the filthy handful. An elderly couple came down the path behind us and crossed the road to pick up the AT on the other side. “Hey guys, I’m going to go ahead since I’m slower today,” I said. The truth was, I was just happy to see people whose pace I could certainly match. I imagined the stories they would tell me about their time on the trail, their past. Maybe this was their 10th time doing the whole thing. Maybe they were just out for a section.

But it was a story I’d never actually hear. Because, you guys, they dusted my ass. Those two old birds traversed the AT like a pair of mountain lions and I sniffed their burnt rubber for at least a mile. The trails take all sorts of travelers, and the great ones have legs they’ve earned on the backs of boulders and jagged peaks. I had to admit, I’d just been schooled by a set of septuagenarians on making assumptions and respect for those who’ve put in the mileage.

We had a lot of company that morning in Georgia. One gentleman, from Florida, stopped The General to review his map.

“He’ll never make it,” The General said, after the kid walked on. “I can tell you within 3 minutes of talking to these people which ones are going to pull it off, and which ones are out of their league.”

As I write this, nearly 3,500 hikers are en route to Katahdin, and about 500 are heading south to Springer Mountain. Statistics tell us about one-third of these ambitious men and women (and children) will actually make it. This guy seemed to be struggling to navigate both the elements and the route, both of which have the ability to bend you over their knee and break you like a bitch.

After a few brutal climbs, we came to an overlook at Ramrock Mountain. It was sunny, beautiful. A collection of thru-hikers had gathered to eat Clif bars and chat. I saw the guy in a kilt and the woman with a dog who thought I was the other woman with a dog from the day before, a pair of girls clearly just out of college, Just Matt, and the elderly couple from earlier.

“Man, I tried to keep up with you two, but you were too quick for me!” I said, playfully, like a granddaughter would.
And just like a grandmother would, the woman smiled sheepishly, first at her husband and then at me, and said, “Oh, honey, I’m sorry. We could have waited for you if you were looking for someone to walk with.”

In my mind, they laughed and high fived each other the second I turned away. Thrilled at the fact they’d straight smoked another unsuspecting youngin. I wanted them to be my grandparents so bad.

Just Matt was antsy, and mentioned he hadn’t eaten anything since 3 p.m. the day prior. The promise of real food, namely a cheeseburger, gave him the strength he needed in this moment to push on and persist up the mountain. Before I could put my pack back on, he was gone. Tank was waiting at Woody Gap just over a mile away. He was ready for the reunion, for the road, for the beef.

Gravy had arrived and agreed to wait for The General, so I could go ahead. Truth be told, I kind of liked walking alone for a change.

As a society, we are searching. We think if we meditate, if we unplug, if we administer a digital detox, if we journal, if we cut out sugar, or gluten, or dairy, or red meat, we will unlock the hidden temple of peace. Myself included. I am, perhaps, the deepest worshiper of these beliefs. But honestly, I think the answers we want are already in us – bouncing around somewhere in the landfill of our frantic minds. If you spend enough time digging around up there, if you wait around long enough, and let all the crap filter out, the things you really want to hear will settle at the bottom. They’ll come to you.

Walking does that. Walking gives us enough time.

Somewhere between Moana lyrics and organizing our new camper, unbelievable truths appeared to accompany me on the trail. All the shit that typically gets diluted in the noise of motherhood and my career were suddenly barefaced in the solitude of the woods. I had to listen. Really listen. But they were in there.

I’ve been standing at the edge of the water – Long as I can remember – Never really knowing why … I could pack the girls’ clothes in the collapsible laundry basket and then use it for dirty clothes, and then if I get that 31 tote … I need to challenge myself more. I can’t remember the last time I felt like this. Gosh, Courtney, remember when you used to set big goals? Where’d that girl go? … Every turn I take – every trail I track – every path I make – every road leads back, to the place I know – where I cannot go – Where I long to be … Ah! My ankle just turned. That hurt. OK, we’re good … What should I do next? I need to clean up my diet, that’s what I need to do … Am I a good mother? I wonder what my kids will say about me when they’re older … That girl has those cute pants like Lydia had. Ask her where she got them. Just ask her. Ask her. Ask her. Ugh! Great, now she’s gone and I’m going to have to spend an hour on Pinterest tracking these pants down.

Still wearing my down vest and pants, I was really starting to sweat in the 70-plus-degree heat. I knew I had to be nearing the end of the section, so I decided to stop at a small water source and wait for my husband and The General, so we could finish together. One by one, the thru-hikers came. First, the guy in the kilt and the gal with the dog. They slowed and eventually agreed they’d get water.

“Where are you guys stopping tonight?” the gentleman asked.
“Actually, we’re getting off just up here at Woody Gap.” I said.
“Oh, wow! So you’re really almost done then.” the gal commented.
“Yup! We like to do this for our spring break. Then it’s back to reality and kids and jobs and responsibility,” I whined.
“Yeah, I hear that. I’ve been missing my kids,” the guy said.
“You have kids?” the girl asked, surprised. Which surprised me because I assumed these two were trailmates and had likely already covered this territory. I was also admittedly surprised that a young guy like this who had walked the AT, he claimed, several times had a wife and a kid. I mean it takes the assemblage of a small army and a willing village for Gravy and I to take off and do this for 5 days. And that’s just 5 days. Again, I’d fallen into the pit of assumptions. I had more in common with kilt guy than I’d thought.

After what felt like 40 minutes, I gave up on the rest of my party showing up and decided to walk into Woody Gap alone. I tiptoed over a waterfall, jumped from boulder to boulder, came around a bend in the trail and there it was, the parking lot. I was heartsick that it was over, to be honest. All the preparation and the anticipation and the effort would quietly absorb into the stories I would tell of our time on the trail in just a few steps.

I came upon Just Matt, who’d changed into shorts and a T-shirt, sitting in Tank. The truck was running and he looked like he was ready to hit the gas at the first signal. Gravy and The General came up about 10 minutes after me. The General was quick to tell the story of his run in with the thru-hikers, at the same water source where I’d left them.

“They asked if Hank was your husband and said he’d just missed his wife. Then I said, ‘Who? Biscuits?!’ and they proceeded to tell us that your trail names were too easy, too basic.” I think he felt offended since The General had assigned those names to us about a year ago and a few hundred miles north (as a crow flies). I wasn’t offended. I smelled too bad to take offense to anything. The General went to the public restroom to bathe in baby wipes, and then we all climbed into Tank and started the vomit-inducing road out of the mountains. It was like an evil snake with no tail, you guys. It went on for years. I was green.

Eventually we came to a straight away where a Wendy’s, nestled inside a gas station, sat, waiting for my carnivorous brother. The Masters were on. Not a word was spoken. Just the sounds of bun and burger being shredded by teeth and jostled around between gums and dry lips. They were burgers 3 days in the making. This stop would be followed by dinner at a Big Boy outside of Cincinnati at 9:45 p.m. that night. Only at a greasy restaurant whose mascot is a tubby boy in checkered overalls is it acceptable to order a side of what I believe to be doctored up tartar sauce to dip your french fries in. And you bet your sweet ass I did.

As the space between my body and my typical life shrunk, I felt myself slipping back into my routine. I frantically returned to the 800 minuscule worries and tasks I’d set aside while walking. I sat, curled up in the back seat, watching light poles tick by and thinking about the ground I’d covered. I was smiling, longingly, like the way you smile when you see a new mom with a fresh little baby and you think about your own days of rocking and smelling and squeezing soft little butt cheeks.

My friends think I’m crazy. Acquaintances politely regard the hobby as “interesting”. But it’s so much more than privy pots on cold mornings and rodents. When I think about backpacking, I think about my comfort zone. I think about the reward that comes on the other side of obstacles and the way getting there changes me. Every time I do something that brings me off autopilot and forces me to reconnect with my instincts, I feel stronger, clearer, more awake in this life. When I’m counting my steps, working my way slowly up the side of a steep summit, I feel so aligned. I feel like my mind and body are communicating for the first time in months. Like I can hear the screams that are typically muffled by mundane responsibility and my own self doubt.

And again, there’s that word … perseverance.

I love the concept of perseverance. More than anything, I want my girls to know that they can, and should, always persevere over what hinders, haunts or hurts them. I – and they – have unimaginable strength sleeping just on the other side of fear. If it’s scary, that’s OK. If it hurts, all the better. Sometimes, it’s those feelings that surge in the pit of your stomach that signal it’s all going to be worth it. That’s what backpacking does for me. It frightens me just enough to stretch my limits and takes me to that uncomfortable place where change resides.

I have anxiety, right? And I think people who struggle with the constant dripping faucet of anxiety can understand when I say that a normal day, week, month, sometimes feels like walking through a rose bush. As lovely as the flowers can be, it also leaves hundreds of tiny little cuts. The journey often leaves me bleeding, aching and irritated, but the bouquet in the end keeps me coming back. Being out there, in the unadulterated air, with my thoughts and the crunch of my boots, smooths over the gashes. It heals me. It tastes like sun tea with honey and rose petals and feels like my oldest t-shirt. At least for a few days. It’s the same feeling I get when I put my ear to my daughter’s chest and listen to her heartbeat. Each thud sends purpose surging through me.

And it’s the culture of the trail, the people. To be frank, there are times it’s hard to be a human in this world in its current condition. I panic about our future and the abuse of basic rights I’ve taken for granted. But with no phone, no push notifications, no “breaking” anything, it all feels a lot simpler. The current events of the trail are related to weather conditions and record setters, not press conference blunders and cruel, unthinkable acts that my heart just can’t seem to process. I feel safe around this species. The people you pass (98 percent of them, at least) want to know how your journey is going, and help if you need it and encourage you and stand under the majesty of what God gave us with you. It’s the softer, more digestible version of humanity.

We’ve been off the AT for about a month now. The chicks ask about the mountains a lot, and tell us they can’t wait to join us on the Appalachian Trail, and every fiber of my being hopes that day comes. Nothing would make the path sweeter than having my daughters’ footprints beside my own and their fingers against the white bark of a blaze.

Until we meet the path again, I’ll go in search of smaller, closer trails, and that same revealing quiet. I want to thank everyone who asked about our small adventure and followed these posts. I hope it awakens your wanderlust and leads you to a corner of the world that heals what aches in you.

Read about Miles 6.2-14.3

Read about Miles 0-6.2

Read about Miles 28.3-30.7 + Springer Mountain

Wanderlust

Biscuits back on the AT, Miles 6.2 – 14.3

April 26, 2017

Morning came.

That’s right … By the grace of God, the sun rose sheepishly above the trees just beyond the pavilion and each of us had all of our limbs, and a pulse and a different theory about the headlights from the night before. It’s funny, in those startling moments when the lights crept in and filled the thin fabric walls of the tent, no one had uttered a word. But now, come dawn and the promise of another day, we were discovering that each of us had been awake. And each of us had entertained our own demented impending plot twist. (Granted, some more dramatic than others.)

After a few minutes of lingering in the sticky, sour-smelling warmth of our sleeping space, we emerged, one by one, out onto the cement carpet. When you’re frozen, everything feels hard, unyielding. I turned my face toward the morning sun, which was doing everything in its power to heat the pavilion where our dewy gear laid about on high picnic tables, and sipped my coffee. Maybe if I imagine a beach … if I focus on each stream of light, I can fabricate warmth, I thought.

My mind was weaker than my coffee.

History told us that movement is truly the only cure for numbness, and my lifeless extremities were screaming, demanding, I take my first steps. When we left Hickory Flats, we had just over 8 miles ahead of us. It was our third day on the trail and the first time we would walk without rain.

As our frigid, pathetic parade made its way down the path and past the white blazes, my fingers and toes slowly came back to me. I can’t say for sure, but it seems as if almost every morning on the AT begins with an incline. I see it as Mother Nature’s bitch slap to your lungs, heart and legs, and a great way to get the blood pumping. This ridiculously crisp morning was no different. As I put one heavy foot in front of the other, I felt my internal temperature rise and sweat start to gather under the lining of my wool cap. One extreme to the other. Perfect.

Not long into our walk, we came to a breath-taking babbling stream. It was the kind people write poems about. The current made the water twinkle and wink beneath my feet. I stood on a rock and looked down to chaperone the elements’ dance. As the guys went about attaching hoses and filling water bladders, I observed the incoming traffic. It was a busy morning at the stream, as thru-hikers who stayed at nearby Stover Creek Shelter came by in pairs to fill up.

A pair from South Africa stopped first. The one had just finished a temporary position as an auditor in New York and hit up his buddy, who was currently residing in Canada, to try the trail before he had to return. They’d made this plan just two weeks ago on a whim and the idea that it “looked neat”. My eyes were wide with astonishment and jealousy. Next came a cavalcade of lively, starry eyed youngsters. Most of them just two or three days into their attempt to cover the entire AT, optimism clung to their faces like shiny makeup. They were high on the newness of their endeavor … the buzz of this temporary and rugged minimalism. I got it. I was rooting for them. We indulged their chatter about breakfast and trail legs before parting.

The warmer I got, the more I relished this dry, sunny day. We came to a crossing with a wide log, and I decided to express the turn in my mood through the universal language of dance. I hopped up, Gravy and Just Matt behind me, The General already across, and started recreating one of my favorite scenes from the iconic, never-to-be-forgotten chick flick, Dirty Dancing. “Heeeeeeey, hey, baby! I wanna know-oh …”. I gingerly maneuvered back and forth with the necessary pep to really sell it. “Do you have your phone out, Matt? Are you getting this?” I asked, like a 6 year old attempting her first cartwheel. “No.” he said. Flame completely extinguished, I dismounted the log on the other side. “Dick.” I whispered to myself but also, I kind of thought, loud enough to reach The General’s ears. But the face I found when I looked up was not that of our dear old family friend, like I’d been expecting. It was a stranger. Dressed in neon yellow. A stranger who had been waiting for our group to cross and witnessed my Baby moment in all its glory.

The boys had a field day with that one.

Whatever. My performance was on point, and everybody knew it.

We stopped at The Hawk Mountain Shelter for breakfast. Hank and I whipped up some oatmeal while Just Matt raised the waterline in the privy. The General sipped on a mug of hazelnut instant coffee as we chatted about the logistics of ick spreading on the AT. See, hikers’ hygiene isn’t exactly a gold standard out there, and if one person gets sick, and they stay in a shelter, and what comes with a sickness comes out inside the three walls, chances are someone else is going to come into contact with that mess. Then they get sick and the gift goes on, and on and on. I remember talk of a nasty strain of the stomach flu going around the Tennessee and North Carolina sections when we went out last year. Nasty stuff. I stood down on the ground, out of the shelter that morning. I mean, I only had so much toilet paper and tolerance for bodily functions behind tree trunks.

It was windy, but a beautiful day to walk in the woods. The temperature seemed to rise with the mountains’ inclines, causing me to peel off layers, and drop as the wind whipped through, bringing my hood back up to intercept the chill. We stopped for lunch at a clearing along an access road called Coopers Gap. The strong breeze bullied my empty mayonnaise packets as I pulled my jacket up around my face to shield my skin.

The magical thing about being out on the AT is the diverse landscapes. You never know when you turn a corner or come to the top of a mountain what you’re going to find on the other side. After several miles of pretty-but-predictable mountainside woods, we came upon a Secret Garden-style labyrinth of lush greenery. The trunks of the trees twisted and jutted up against each other, flirting, mingling. The roots rose out of the ground, each set forming an enchanting wooden helix. The verdant leaves were a deeper hue than any of the growth we’d seen up to this point, drawing our eyes upward with their rich, emerald presence. The sunlight poked through keyhole openings of various shapes in the canopy covering this charming section.

We worked our way through the maze, admiring its intricacies, until we came upon a clearing. Below us, a stream rushed across perfectly distributed stones. It was picturesque, perfect. This was Justus Creek, where we would be camping tonight. It was a pleasant upgrade from the cement slab we merely tolerated the night before. We crossed the water and marched our way up a steep elevation to the campsites; six flattened planes on the side of the mountain. We picked our square and went about setting up. The sun was bathing us in luxurious heat now. A branch that died months, maybe years, ago cracked and fell about 4 feet from our spot on the ledge. A good sign, indeed.

I changed into my sandals, grabbed a mug full of red wine and my notebook, and ventured back down to the steps beside the stream. I sat to collect some thoughts, the comforting soundtrack of the stream in the background fueling my recollection. This, I thought, is why we do this. This is the prize.

I felt silent inside. Clear. Calm. For perhaps the first time in months.

“Where’s your dog?” an approaching thru-hiker inquired.
“Me? Oh, um … I don’t have a dog.”
“Oh, sorry! You look just like this other girl on the trail. She has a dog.”

I wish I was a thru-hiker out here with a disciplined, friendly pup, I thought to myself. But no. I am a suburban mom with a corporate job and an old bitch of a dog who whines at the wind and drags her butt on my carpet. Close, but not quite there. They moved on and I disappeared again into my stream of consciousness.

I loved to listen to the waves of wind crashing through the forest. The tops of the trees, still barren from winter, would rub together like a group of bucks locking antlers, generating the most peculiar sounds.

About 20 minutes later, a young woman and older gentleman approached the stream. She was wearing a blue raincoat and coaching her adorable little shepherd dog, Maggie, across the rocks.

“Hi there,” I greeted.
“Hi!”
“You must be the other me,” I joked. She just looked at me indulging my eye contact out of sheer kindness. “A couple that came along earlier mistaked me for you. We must look similar.”
“Oh!” she sighed, and smiled.
“You look tired. Come a long way today?”
“Kind of. We go pretty slow because my dad has bad knees. We stopped for breakfast at the Hickory Flats Cemetery, but didn’t linger.”
“We stayed there last night.”
“You did? Was there a young guy there?”
“Actually, yeah!”
“Well, he was still there. He kept packing and unpacking his gear.”
“He was doing that when we were there!”
“Yeah, I teach mentally challenged kids and that’s a huge sign that something’s going on. My instinct was to move on, and my instinct is usually pretty dead on.”

Oh. My. Lanta.

I knew it. I knew there was a Stephen King vibe coming off that lil fella. I would say 98 percent of the people you meet on the trail are a delight, but the other 2 percent are scary AF, my friends.

Biscuits No. 2 walked up the trail to the campsites, my mind like the exploding car behind the badass in an action film in her wake, still reeling at her observation. I sat for a few more minutes, until the sun touched the top of the treeline and threatened to disappear completely. I walked back up to have dinner with Gravy. And maybe two more mugs of wine. And maybe a chewable melatonin.

My entire body was a pool of content, peaceful jelly. I was on the side of a mountain with some of my favorite people on the planet, dulled by a few mild sedatives and downright jubilant. We sat, the four of us, chatting and giggling. Just Matt from his sleeping bag inside the tent. The General balancing in his squatty, collapsible chair. Gravy and I perched on a log dressed in an inch of dirt. Our faces were pink from wind and early spring rays, and the blush that comes from sipping a cheap red blend dispensed from a bladder that once lived inside a box.

The boys were having the same argument they’d been having for three days now: What do you call a group of bears. We’ll call it 45 bears, for good measure. We asked Ridgerunner Lydia, who guessed a pack. I, too, guessed a pack. Herd was thrown out there as a suggestion. Still, the debate raged on for the entirety of our time in Georgia, and via text all the way back to the Midwest. (The answer is actually a sloth, in case your curiosity is killing you.)

A tiny mouse scurried by and earned a huge reaction from our group. People always shudder when I mention the critters known to make their way into the shelters and campsites. But truth be told, they didn’t bother me much, because they weren’t much of a bother. This little guy was the first true wildlife we’d seen up close, and he was gone as fast as he’s arrived.

He was turning in and, after a walk down the trail for a potty break and tooth brushing, so were we. I nestled in next to my husband. “Do you hear the water?” he asked, a few minutes after we’d settled. I did. And that was the last thought I had before I drifted off.

Read about Springer Mountain + Miles 28.3-30.7

Read about Miles 0-6.2

Kids, Laughs

Sisters say what? (Vol. 10)

March 7, 2024


It’s been a minute since I cleared the Notes app on my phone and shared the memorable nuggets from the mouths of my babes. Here are some recents from the sissies.

“We’re working on compound words and contraptions.” – Sloppy Joan

“If I was death-spert I would just hide longer. But only if I was super, really death-spert.” – Sloppy Joan

“That is in-say-ying!” – Sloppy Joan


“That was the doctor’s appointment when they asked me about pubeder.” – Spike

“Any changes to your medical history?” – Doctor 
“My mom’s peeling from Turks and Caicos.” – Sloppy Joan 


“Their parents are probably so proud of them!” – Sloppy Joan after the AJR concert

“Ants weigh less than an inch.” – Sloppy Joan


“I think he got tiggers.” – Sloppy Joan, meaning chiggers

“My butt has been on so many toilets.” – Sloppy Joan


“Find a clean one. That’s my motto in public bathrooms.” – Sloppy Joan  

Husband comes home to Sloppy Joan playing her electric bass hooked up to the amp in the garage.
“Whatcha doin’?” – husband
“Makin’ some money!” – Sloppy Joan


“I can’t tell if he’s an old man or a dad.” – Sloppy Joan

“I might have gotten a 2-second butt rash, I think!” – Sloppy Joan


“I hope I get a good husband with good babies.” – Sloppy Joan

“We’ll meet you at Crackle Barrel” – Sloppy Joan

“What if he just ignored you because he thought you were a boomer?” – Sloppy Joan


“Yeah, the tortoises at the zoo are always doing it.” – Me
“Wait … I thought they were giving each other a ride.” – Spike

“I’m not very religious but his freckles and cross necklace just do something for me.” – Spike, crushin’

“These boots are too small.” – Spike
“It’s OK. You’ll get through it. Like the time I wore a bra to school.” – Sloppy Joan

“I haven’t had a Pepsi in a hot second. Like literally just a few seconds.” – Sloppy Joan

“Your breath stinks.” – Spike to JoJo before basketball practice
“It’s OK. It’s basketball, it’ll smell like sweat soon.” – Sloppy Joan

“She was born on Valentine’s Day.” – Me, sharing that friends welcomed a grandbaby on Feb. 14.
“Ohhhhhh … She’s gonna love sooo many people!” – Sloppy Joan

“Op, tomorrow’s spring 1st.” – Sloppy Joan

“I thought that bunny was laying babies.” – Spike


“The Office is like an adult show and a kid show combined, because it’s really funny, but also, they’re working.” – Sloppy Joan

“I’m so glad we aren’t super rich or anything cuz then I’d have to dress all fancy and look all nice. Plus, I couldn’t fart.” – Sloppy Joan

“I’m not getting a second load.” – Sloppy Joan
“You mean a refill?” – JoJo

“Aw, shoot! It’s the real Slim Shady.” – Me
“Mom, it’s Eminem.” – JoJo (annoyed)

“He’s the best drumist.” – Sloppy Joan

“I opened my belly button, the water ran into it, I folded the skin and when I lifted it, the water was gone!” – Sloppy Joan
“Where did it go?” – Me
“Into my belly. I drank through my belly button.” – Sloppy Joan
“Wow.” – Me
“Does your belly button ever get hungry?” – Sloppy Joan

“I left you a scent packet.” – Sloppy Joan, after tooting in my car

“We played zombie.apicklelips.” – Sloppy Joan

“If I wanna keep one good one I gotta stop farting.” – Sloppy Joan, referring to dating/marriage

“Maya Angelou was born in Ar-Kansas.” – Sloppy Joan
“Where?” – Me
“Ar-Kansas.” – Sloppy Joan
“Oh, Arkansas?” – Me 
“I guess!” – Sloppy Joan

“We’re going to The Empathy.” – Sloppy Joan, the day of her field trip to the Embassy

Wanderlust

Ireland adventure Day 6 – Dingle, Dunquin Pier and Galway

October 13, 2022

Please note: During our trip to Ireland, our priorities were hiking, the most beautiful scenery, pubs and live music. We also rented a car. You won’t find much in these posts about fine dining, shopping or the public transportation, though I’m confident there are great resources for these topics elsewhere online. I have also included some resources at the bottom if you’re planning a similar trip.

I fell asleep and woke up around 1 a.m. Ireland time to Hank trying to talk one of the kids off the ledge back home. I consoled her a bit and tried to fall back asleep. Our room was warm and the unrest an ocean away was weighing on me. It was hard to get comfortable.  

We had breakfast at the inn again, a delicious Belgian waffle for me dressed to perfection in powdered sugar. Then it was time to pack up and head out. Our next official stop was Galway, which was bittersweet since it was our last destination before circling back to Dublin, the bookend to our dream vacation.  

From the time we started having serious discussions about Ireland, I began telling people we were going to Dingle. My boss mentioned it to me years ago and, I don’t know, I just loved to say it. Up until the day we left Indiana, I declared to all who would listen that we were going to Dingle, even though we had confirmation emails for the entire trip and none of them mentioned Dingle. Even though I couldn’t point Dingle out on a map. Even though the only thing I really knew about Dingle was that there was a place there that made sea salt ice cream. Even still, we were going to Dingle. So, on our way to Galway, we decided to actually go to Dingle.

The drive into the town is phenomenal. You’ve got your wildflowers, you’ve got your verdant patchwork valleys, you’ve got your roadways that snake alongside cliffs over cobalt blue water. It was a visual feast of the country’s scenic staples.

We parked by the harbor, which was under construction, but still cool. I’d done some Instagram searching and seen images of Dunquin Pier, which I assumed was there by the harbor. A woman sitting on a bench noticed we looked like lost little Hoosiers and asked if we wanted a picture. We thanked her kindly.

“Do you happen to know where Dunquin Pier is?” I asked.

As was the case with nearly every single Irishman and woman we met, she was a wealth of recommendations. She suggested we take Slea Head Drive, which looped out to Dunquin Pier and back around, with cute little cafes and all the views. Turns out, she was also from The States. “I came to visit Ireland six years ago,” she said, “and that was it! Now I split my time between my home in Colorado and here.” Talk about having each foot on a fresh slab of paradise! It reminded me of my friend, Kim, and her recent move to Portugal. Bravery is carving out the life of your dreams.

Since we were there, we walked around the town a bit. It was charming, with the colorful shops and cafes we’d come to expect, and a towering cathedral. We shipped some gifts home and putzed around.

Then we were onto the main event for the day – Dunquin Pier. I know I say every day was my favorite day, and every hike was special, but as far as views go, Dunquin Pier is in my top two for our entire visit. First of all, the drive there felt like getting dropped into a postcard. Perfect army and spring green camouflage pastures, the sun beaming down over the swaying grasses, peppy poppies peppered across the fields … and then you see the ocean.

As you approach, the mountains and pointed peaks present in the distance, erupting from the tranquil blue water beneath them. The closer you get, the more the indescribable beauty of the Wild Atlantic Way reveals itself. The closest thing to heaven on earth.

The western end of Slea Head is basically the Hollywood of Ireland. You probably know it. I might be one of three people on this planet who hasn’t seen Star Wars, but for those who covet the films, the scenery here should be familiar. It served as Luke Skywalker’s bachelor pad … or something like that. Don’t quote me. In addition to appearing in a galaxy far, far away, this is where they filmed the movie Far and Away, as well as Ryan’s Daughter.

To take it all in from above, I can only describe it as otherworldly. It was like nothing I’d seen before. I was transfixed by the tint of the water and the protruding natural pyramids, both close by and on the horizon.

We parked and walked down toward the path. The thing about cliffs is, you don’t know what’s below until you get right up to the edge. As I peered down over the grassy ledge, the view stole the air right out of my lungs. I sat down as close as I could without scaring myself and Facetimed my sister. Some sights are just too much to keep to yourself. If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it on here a thousand times, I can describe the cliffs of Ireland with every combination of adjectives there is, but you can’t understand until you’re perched on top of a worn ridge of earth, covered in beautiful moss and grasses, with the white seagulls swooping against the slate backdrop. Water crashing at the base. It is pure nirvana.

We took the winding path down by the shoreline. There was this pocket of light turquoise water with a single boat floating in it. Like it was staged to be September in an upcoming wall calendar.

We got brave and scampered down to some rocks below. I mean how often can you say you played at the base of a cliff in Ireland? The tide was down, and the bed of smooth stones were lovely hues of pink, blue, green and gray. I stepped into some deep ocean floor mush and fell. Hank was collecting Dunquin keepsakes for the kids and barely noticed.

I could have stayed there by that cliff with my husband forever. It was like the day we stepped into the ocean. Ireland brought me back to life, as dramatic as that reads. It helped me remember that adventure and exploring are the embers that fuel my passion for life. The air felt different. The sun was warmer. Everything sparked a sense of awe and I realized how long it had been since I’d stood in awe of anything. I love that feeling.  

How long is long enough to soak in something so magnanimous? What is the time limit on admiring Mother Nature’s masterpieces? When is it committed to memory? Imprinted on your brain and your heart? I don’t know if there’s ever enough time.

But we were hungry.

We climbed up from the cliff and drove on to Kruger’s Bar. I ordered a Carlsberg and goat cheese bruschetta drizzled in balsamic that checked every box. We sat outside with the jagged rocks out over the hillside. Sheep were talking and tempting me just over the fence. I could see why Luke Skywalker chose the area. Very serene and zen-inducing.

We dropped our bags at Harbour Hotel Galway around dinnertime and I gasped. Air conditioning! We had actual cool air blowing down from a heavenly box above the bed. I instantly loved this place.

It was just a short walk to town. I adore the ambiance in Irish cities at night. Flags draped between colorful buildings. Live music at every intersection. It’s so vibrant, and Galway was perhaps the liveliest of our stops yet.

We ducked into The Kings Head for dinner. I had the Seafood Chowder and Lobster and Chips, which was work! I hadn’t cracked into a crustacean in quite some time, and it showed. Hank was taken by the building’s history, which dated back to the 13th century. Of particular interest to my History major husband was the fireplace, which was built in 1612.

According to their website, “For over 400 years the fireplace in the Mayor’s House (Front Bar) has kept generations of Galwegians warm. The fireplace is dated 1612 and features an ornate ‘Marriage Stone’ which carries the Coats of Arms of the Bodkin, Martin and Ffrench families. History aside it’s a great place to lean against while enjoying a pint!” Which people were doing, in 2022, while we were there.

Once we were done eating, we went into the adjoining bar where a band was getting the crowd hype with some trad. I have to hand it to them. They were wearing wool sweaters in a packed bar with no air just thrashing their instruments. I would have needed an IV, at the very least. Listening to trad is an experience. There’s an energy that builds. First people clap, then the clapping gets faster, then there’s some hooting and eventually dancing. The crowd, as a cohesive ball of vitality, reaches a crescendo that just carries you away. When the song’s over, the balloon deflates, and it starts all over again. It’s so contagious.

We chatted on the short walk back to the hotel, passing people with half-gone lagers and pilsners in varying copper tones, in deep discussion. It was another beautiful night and I couldn’t wait to turn the air down, snuggle up and do it all again.  

Quick reference details for those planning a trip to Ireland

Travel agent – We worked with Maria Lieb at Discovering Ireland. We were given her name by an acquaintance who took a very similar trip to ours. Maria helped us narrow down locations, the duration of our stay in each town, selected and booked all of our hotel and inn rooms, reserved our car and insurance, and provided travel guides. You can reach her by emailing maria@discoveringireland.com. 

Transportation – We opted to rent a car so we had flexibility each day. We did the full insurance, including tires, and rented the GPS navigation. In Ireland, compared to the United States, the steering wheel is on the other side of the car, and they drive on the other side of the road, which can be confusing, but you catch on. Also, be prepared … some of the roads are very narrow.

Dates of our trip – While most people go to Ireland in June, July and early August, we were there August 26 – September 5, in an effort to still get decent weather but avoid some of the crowds.

Weather – We were spoiled with the weather while we were there! Temperatures were typically mid- to low-70s during the day and the 60s at night. We only had rain two days.

Money – We primarily used our credit card, which was very easy. They will often ask you if you want to pay in euros or dollars. It’s best to select euros. We also used local ATM machines to get cash, which came in handy for cabs and snacks. In our experience, ATMs were better than exchanging currency at the airport.

Things I packed and didn’t need –

  • Hair straightener (couldn’t use in any of the outlets)
  • Jewelry (wore a necklace one night)
  • Jeans (heavy and unnecessary)
  • Big suitcase (I’ll pack smarter next time)
  • Makeup (nobody cared, and I barely used it)

Things I didn’t pack that I wish I had –

Things I was so glad I packed –

  • Versatile weatherproof pants (linked above)
  • Hats (I rarely did my hair)
  • A buff for my neck or wrist
  • Good hiking boots and trail shoes (I took these and loved them)
  • A light backpack for hiking
  • Crossbody purse (or hip bag) for evenings and days out
  • Sunglasses
  • Raincoat
  • Umbrella
  • Moisture-wicking layers (tanks, ts and long-sleeve)
  • Small bottles of hand sanitizer
  • Hair ties (my hair was in a pony or braided most days)
  • Good socks
  • Dramamine (If you get motion sickness, this is life in Ireland)
  • Notes app or a journal
  • Fitbit charger (we averaged 22k steps a day)
  • Phone charger
  • A mobile hotspot (we rented a wifi candy and picked ours up at the Dublin airport)
  • GPS

The flight – We flew out of Chicago, which is about two hours from our home. The hardest part was finding a place to park at O’Hare! We got there about three hours early and had plenty of time. The flight was direct to Dublin and took around seven hours – give or take – both ways. I thought Aer Lingus did a tremendous job of keeping everyone fed, comfortable and happy. Take a little something to help you sleep and you’ll be there before you know it! Our experience at the Dublin airport was incredibly positive. Quick and painless! 

Wanderlust

Ireland adventure Day 5 – Killarney and Torc Mountain  

October 6, 2022

Please note: During our trip to Ireland, our priorities were hiking, the most beautiful scenery, pubs and live music. We also rented a car. You won’t find much in these posts about fine dining, shopping or the public transportation, though I’m confident there are great resources for these topics elsewhere online. I have also included some resources at the bottom if you’re planning a similar trip.

I had a rough night of sleep. My body was starting to reject the influx of cider and late nights. We had breakfast at the inn and went back to the room to start strategizing the day’s plan. I have to hand it to Hank. I’m a great traveler in the sense that I’m typically up for anything. But I’m total shit when it comes to logistics. Completely dead weight, in the navigation department.  

After consulting his AllTrails, Hank landed on a hike to the summit of Torc Mountain, inside Killarney National Park. It was another gift of a day, low 70s and sunny as a Trader Joe’s checkout gal. We started at the lower carpark so we could see the Torc Waterfall. The parking area was packed with tourist groups, joking with their guides and busmates.

There’s something so mesmerizing about waterfalls. The sound of the water rushing and crashing, the white, tattered ribbon weaving around in rambunctious rapids, the lush green filling cracks and spreading out over bedrock and boulders. Brave souls were climbing the falls for the perfect picture, but we didn’t linger long. We had a mountain to meet.

We came to a cement bridge over Owengarriff River with a smaller waterfall and called the girls to check in for the morning. They were just getting ready to leave for school and couldn’t hear us well over the surprisingly boisterous cascade beneath us. 

After crossing the bridge, we went left and followed Old Kenmare Road to Torc Summit Path. (Hikers’ note: You can shorten the route and bypass the falls by parking at the Upper Torc carpark if waterfalls aren’t your thang.)

The trailhead to the summit of Torc Mountain was across from a picturesque stone-speckled stream. The path, which winds back and forth along the side of the mountain, varies between large, mostly flat rocks and railroad ties cleverly covered in chicken wire to minimize slipping. I sent up some gratitude for that fencing on more than one occasion during both our ascent and descent.

Each turn offered a different view of the ghostly blue mountains in the distance, the undulating grassy hillsides peppered with the prettiest yellow and purple wildflowers, and crystal pools on the horizon. It was both a demonstration in cardiovascular endurance and a scenic slideshow, two of my favorite things … and then we reached the top.

The summit of Torc Mountain is at an elevation of 1,755 feet (though Hank had data to suggest it was closer to 1,900), and it’s only when you reach the top that you get the 360-degree view of the county’s splendor. It was every lyric from every song that ever made me cherish this planet. We met a lovely local woman who pointed out landmarks like the lake where Killarnieans like to swim, the tallest peak in the park and our hotel. People in Ireland have a pride in and love for their land. It was evident throughout the trip, and it was evident on the top of Torc Mountain.

The entire route was 5.75 miles, and took us about three hours, from carpark to carpark. If you don’t mind covering some ground, it’s a perfect place to spend an afternoon and offers a bit of everything in the landscape department – mossy, fairy woodlands, roaring falls, rolling mountainsides and babbling brooks. Asking for much more would just be greedy!

Red-cheeked and weak-legged, we went back into town to refill our tummy tanks. When we pulled into a paid lot, a sweet woman gave us her parking ticket with an hour left on it. (Have I mentioned how amazing the people were?) We popped over to K-Town Bar and Grill and shared an order of loaded fries. When something is really indulgent, we like to say, “It’s so dirty!” which basically means it’s sinful and satisfying in all the best ways. Those fries were so dirty and damn delicious.

We went to the hotel and showered before driving back to town for the night. On our way, we saw a group of people walking somberly down the street. A funeral procession came right by us. The deceased must have been a coach or soccer enthusiast, because the men (and one woman) walking in two lines in front of the hearse were wearing jerseys.

We parked in the same lot across from our afternoon snack, which is free after 6:30 p.m. We strolled along the streets browsing menus and keepsakes, and eventually ended up at Bricín Restaurant and Irish Craft Shop on High Street for dinner. The fare is generally traditional Irish dishes, and I can tell you they’ve got them figured out. This was another one of my favorite meals on our trip. I had the pan-fried fish special and grilled veggies. We split Deep Fried Camembert at the front and a pavlova at the end, which neither of us had had before. It was like a giant marshmallow sent from heaven. I don’t think it’s on their regular lineup, so the angels were on our side that night.

After checking out the craft shop, we walked along High Street until we heard music. It was the pipes of Donal Lucey that eventually called us into the blue neon glow of Corkerys Sports Bar. Donal did a lot of Ed Sheeran, some Harry Styles and Coldplay. He used a looping station with foot pedals to repeat different sections of the song, which is so entertaining to watch.

One of the many things I love about the bar culture in Ireland is how animated the guys get. They were belting out love songs at the tops of their lungs and hollering ballad requests. Donal did an amazing job taking it all in, throwing in some friendly banter and accepting compliments without breaking stride or missing a pedal push. A man would come back from the bathroom, located in a hallway beside the stage, and, still zipping his fly, give the artist a thumb’s up. “You’re doing great, lad.” The country is a [sometimes sloppy] celebration of beer and music and joy and I was there for all of it.

I thought people were staring at us until I realized there was a giant flat screen beside our table. The Liverpool home soccer game was on and believe me when I tell you that, when they scored the winning goal, that small pub just about came up off the ground.

As 11 p.m. approached, the bartender started encouraging everyone to go down to The Grand, the bar we’d been at the night before. We had a key to the front door of the hotel and decided to call it a night. We walked to the car, past men having deep conversations over smokes on the patio of a closed restaurant, and couples loose lipped from Guiness and Stonewell. I liked the city at night. I never felt unsafe. There was a slight chill in the dark and the sweet, sticky remnants of memories being made everywhere you looked. Killarney had been good to us.  

Quick reference details for those planning a trip to Ireland

Travel agent – We worked with Maria Lieb at Discovering Ireland. We were given her name by an acquaintance who took a very similar trip to ours. Maria helped us narrow down locations, the duration of our stay in each town, selected and booked all of our hotel and inn rooms, reserved our car and insurance, and provided travel guides. You can reach her by emailing maria@discoveringireland.com. 

Transportation – We opted to rent a car so we had flexibility each day. We did the full insurance, including tires, and rented the GPS navigation. In Ireland, compared to the United States, the steering wheel is on the other side of the car, and they drive on the other side of the road, which can be confusing, but you catch on. Also, be prepared … some of the roads are very narrow.

Dates of our trip – While most people go to Ireland in June, July and early August, we were there August 26 – September 5, in an effort to still get decent weather but avoid some of the crowds.

Weather – We were spoiled with the weather while we were there! Temperatures were typically mid- to low-70s during the day and the 60s at night. We only had rain two days.

Money – We primarily used our credit card, which was very easy. They will often ask you if you want to pay in euros or dollars. It’s best to select euros. We also used local ATM machines to get cash, which came in handy for cabs and snacks. In our experience, ATMs were better than exchanging currency at the airport.

Things I packed and didn’t need –

  • Hair straightener (couldn’t use in any of the outlets)
  • Jewelry (wore a necklace one night)
  • Jeans (heavy and unnecessary)
  • Big suitcase (I’ll pack smarter next time)
  • Makeup (nobody cared, and I barely used it)

Things I didn’t pack that I wish I had –

Things I was so glad I packed –

  • Versatile weatherproof pants (linked above)
  • Hats (I rarely did my hair)
  • A buff for my neck or wrist
  • Good hiking boots and trail shoes (I took these and loved them)
  • A light backpack for hiking
  • Crossbody purse (or hip bag) for evenings and days out
  • Sunglasses
  • Raincoat
  • Umbrella
  • Moisture-wicking layers (tanks, ts and long-sleeve)
  • Small bottles of hand sanitizer
  • Hair ties (my hair was in a pony or braided most days)
  • Good socks
  • Dramamine (If you get motion sickness, this is life in Ireland)
  • Notes app or a journal
  • Fitbit charger (we averaged 22k steps a day)
  • Phone charger
  • A mobile hotspot (we rented a wifi candy and picked ours up at the Dublin airport)
  • GPS

The flight – We flew out of Chicago, which is about two hours from our home. The hardest part was finding a place to park at O’Hare! We got there about three hours early and had plenty of time. The flight was direct to Dublin and took around seven hours – give or take – both ways. I thought Aer Lingus did a tremendous job of keeping everyone fed, comfortable and happy. Take a little something to help you sleep and you’ll be there before you know it! Our experience at the Dublin airport was incredibly positive. Quick and painless! 

Uncategorized

Ireland adventure Day 4 – Baltimore to Mizen Head to Killarney

October 2, 2022

Please note: During our trip to Ireland, our priorities were hiking, the most beautiful scenery, pubs and live music. We also rented a car. You won’t find much in these posts about fine dining, shopping or the public transportation, though I’m confident there are great resources for these topics elsewhere online. I have also included some resources at the bottom if you’re planning a similar trip.

I had another great night of sleep in our cozy second floor room at Rolf’s. It’s interesting, there aren’t any screens in the windows in Ireland, but I never saw any bugs. We had a perfect breeze, and everything was so comfortable. This was probably my favorite of all the places we stayed. We woke up, enjoyed another great breakfast in the restaurant and packed up to head to our next stop on the trip: Killarney.  

On our way, we decided to go see Mizen Head Signal Station (pronounced by locals with a short “i,” or with a ridiculous long “i” if you’re a silly American), the most southwesterly point in Ireland. We passed through cute towns like Skibbereen, with charming brightly colored buildings, and drove by land and seascapes that took my breath away. Particularly as you get closer to the point, the oceanfront scenes are exceptional. Of course, you endure a matrix of insanely narrow roads to get there, so as I’d say, “Oh my God, just look at that!” Hank would just smile out of the side of his mouth, his hands gripping at 10 and 2.

Our afternoon at Mizen Head is one I’ll never forget. People told us it was like the Cliffs of Moher on a smaller scale, and I would agree with that, but I would also say that the entire experience was closer … more humbling.

There are so many ramps and steps, that you can walk as much or as little as you like. We started by going out over the bridge toward the station. Suspended over water, Hank looked down and spotted a seal living his best life in the small inlet under the bridge, a long, playful body moving in a natural teal pool.

There were look out points pointing you toward jagged peninsulas, with the Wild Atlantic as far as the eye could see. I suppose some lucky folks have spotted whales off the shoreline. The wind pounded against my ears and lifted my hat as I put my life in the hands of an iron fence and ventured down the planks hovering in the air.

As we went the other way, down by the main cliffs, I was amazed at all of the intricacies layered into these shale and sandstone faces. Within the profiles of the cliffs, there are inlets and coves and caves for exploring. I stood at the closest point, with the sun riding the tops of the ocean’s ripples and tried to commit the scene to memory. A magnificent marbled silhouette, limbs outstretched into the diamond-studded water, trimmed in the lace of the waves connecting with ragtag earth. We were observing a poem in motion.

There is a café and nice gift shop on site. As we were leaving, a family was passing around a teapot at a picnic table overlooking the cliffs and it made me smile. We drove by a group of cows on the way out and Hank asked if I thought they knew what a great setup they had.

As we made our way back down the narrow roads that took us to the cliffs, Hank had a better view of the beaches. “We’re going down there,” he said. “We’re going to figure out how to get there and we’re getting in that water.”

And so, we did. We took a right over a one-lane bridge and parked at Barleycove. A short stroll down a boardwalk and over a floating bridge of plastic blocks, and our naked toes were pressing into the Ireland sand. 

I will tell you that there, on that beach with our pant legs rolled up and our shoes dangling from the crooks of our fingers, I felt parts of my spirit wake up. I felt more present, more connected, more in touch with this world than I have in years. I let myself get lost in the intoxicating spontaneity of it all and it felt like heaven soaked in salt water. I saw it in Hank, too. There were people bundled up, in wet suits, in bikinis … all grasping at the final feathers on the tails of Ireland’s warm season. The water was chilly and sensational, and if I could have bottled it all up, I would have.

We looked for a little pub in Goleen, but nothing was quite open yet. We grabbed lunch at Along the Way Café Goleen, two yummy pastrami sandwiches, and coffees and a piece of s’mores fudge to go. On our way to our car, we stopped into the visitor’s center, where a lovely woman told us the most scenic route to take to Killarney.  

I would be lying if I didn’t tell you there were moments when we, as a couple, doubted the instructions we were given, both by our friend in Goleen and the Polo’s GPS. We ended up on a less-than-one-car-wide lane through a nature preserve, kicking up rocks and dust. And then … without any warning at all, the route spit us out onto the top of the most beautiful valley I’d ever seen. The sun was shining down in streaks over the verdant green scene beside us. A sheep, escaped from the grass below, could have kissed our car as we passed. It was like coming out of the dark into a perfect panoramic portrait painted just for us, and we had no idea it was coming. I suppose no one can really prepare for beauty like that anyway.

We drove through three tunnels, came around a curve and pulled off at Molly Gallivans Cottage and Traditional Farm. This place was like stepping back in time. The second you get out of your car, under the watchful eye of a towering carved druid, you hear traditional Irish music echoing out over a rolling calendar-worthy hillscape.

The cottage is more than 200 years old. At one point, as a widowed woman with many mouths to feed, Molly turned it into an illegal pub. Eventually, she toned it down and started offering tired travelers tea and home cooking to make ends meet. According to the website, “Jeremiah Gallivan was the last of Molly’s descendants to live in the cottage. Jeremiah, a bachelor, farmed the land using the same traditional methods as his ancestors” until his death in 1997. If you saw the living quarters in this place, you would understand why I wanted to start that last sentence with, “Shockingly, …” Let’s just say I doubt Jeremiah was catching the latest Seinfeld when the rest of us were.

Molly’s has a surprisingly large shopping area, bathrooms and the most wonderful, sweet smoky smell. It’s worth the stop to catch your breath and soak up a little Neolithic vibe. If you are planning a visit, their website has more details about hikes, dining and shopping at the visitor’s center, so be sure to check it out.

We were riding a high as we drove into Killarney. Day 4 had been a feast for the eyes and the soul, Ireland was everything we could have dreamed it would be, the world was all pots of gold and rainbows and then … Bam! We almost died. I’m not even joking. Two older women turned right in front of us. Hank had to swerve and slam on the brakes and you guys, I’m telling you, that little VW Polo came through for us in a big way. Between his reaction time and that little car’s insane ability to stop on a dime, I lived to type these words. I needed new underwear, but I lived.

We were still a little shaken when we pulled into Loch Lein Country House after 5. Of all the places we stayed, this was probably one of the only ones I wouldn’t necessarily stay at if we went back. It was lovely, but if you like to walk, it’s just not convenient. Well, I guess that’s not really a good way to put it. It’s kind of perfect if you like to walk … far.

We cleaned up and did what we’d done in the other cities we’d been to, we decided to head out for dinner on foot. There was a place just up the road, but when we got there (after a roadside sheep spotting) it didn’t look very promising. “Let’s just keep walking toward town,” I said. Hank pulled out his phone to see what I was getting us into. While he had his face in the screen, my ankle rolled and Wham-o! I went down onto the gravel on the side of the road, cars driving by. I got up and clapped the dust off my hands. My husband didn’t miss a beat. (I’m a very graceful creature.)

The pads of my palms throbbing and peppered with pebble dents, we soldiered on. It was a not-so-brief 4km walk into town. Thankfully, Hank spotted a nature path across the street, and it made for a nice commute. We saw so many stags and an older couple told us they are all over the park. The wildlife certainly made the brisk walk go faster.

By the time we made it to the main strip in Killarney, our feet were screaming. We saw a cute place down an alley and went with it. Stonechat was yummy. Hank had Irish stew and I had fish and chips, of course, and an awesome strawberry lime cider. The host told us to go to Paddy Sheehan the Grand Bar and Niteclub for traditional Irish music, which is where I think they send everybody after the dinner hour.

There was a group playing traditional instruments and singing toward the front when we got there, so we sat at the modest ledge and small stools along the outside of the room. One thing you should know when you go to Ireland is that much like any venue in any town in any country, getting a table is a sport. A congenial sport, but still a sport. A table opened up and I moved in fast. A couple next to us leaned over and struck up a conversation, eventually joining us in our corner booth. They were from D.C. and going around Ireland for a few days before they headed to Scotland for a wedding and then wrapped up their trip in London. (They were actually there when the queen passed.)

A cover band came on at 11. I forgot how much I love a good cover band and a late night. There was a group of college-age students next to us, playing drinking games and dancing. Time is a funny thing. I can remember being that girl, clumsily moving toward the dance floor like a pinball on its way up to the top bumper. Stepping on strangers’ toes and flashing a drunken, crooked smile to imply it was all in good fun. Screaming every word to every song, which was my favorite song, every song. Dancing at the front, with new friends whose names I never quite got. It was both yesterday and a million years ago. We stayed until about 1 a.m. and caught a cab home, ears buzzing.

Quick reference details for those planning a trip to Ireland

Travel agent – We worked with Maria Lieb at Discovering Ireland. We were given her name by an acquaintance who took a very similar trip to ours. Maria helped us narrow down locations, the duration of our stay in each town, selected and booked all of our hotel and inn rooms, reserved our car and insurance, and provided travel guides. You can reach her by emailing maria@discoveringireland.com. 

Transportation – We opted to rent a car so we had flexibility each day. We did the full insurance, including tires, and rented the GPS navigation. In Ireland, compared to the United States, the steering wheel is on the other side of the car, and they drive on the other side of the road, which can be confusing, but you catch on. Also, be prepared … some of the roads are very narrow.

Dates of our trip – While most people go to Ireland in June, July and early August, we were there August 26 – September 5, in an effort to still get decent weather but avoid some of the crowds.

Weather – We were spoiled with the weather while we were there! Temperatures were typically mid- to low-70s during the day and the 60s at night. We only had rain two days.

Money – We primarily used our credit card, which was very easy. They will often ask you if you want to pay in euros or dollars. It’s best to select euros. We also used local ATM machines to get cash, which came in handy for cabs and snacks. In our experience, ATMs were better than exchanging currency at the airport.

Things I packed and didn’t need –

  • Hair straightener (couldn’t use in any of the outlets)
  • Jewelry (wore a necklace one night)
  • Jeans (heavy and unnecessary)
  • Big suitcase (I’ll pack smarter next time)
  • Makeup (nobody cared, and I barely used it)

Things I didn’t pack that I wish I had –

Things I was so glad I packed –

  • Versatile weatherproof pants (linked above)
  • Hats (I rarely did my hair)
  • A buff for my neck or wrist
  • Good hiking boots and trail shoes (I took these and loved them)
  • A light backpack for hiking
  • Crossbody purse (or hip bag) for evenings and days out
  • Sunglasses
  • Raincoat
  • Umbrella
  • Moisture-wicking layers (tanks, ts and long-sleeve)
  • Small bottles of hand sanitizer
  • Hair ties (my hair was in a pony or braided most days)
  • Good socks
  • Dramamine (If you get motion sickness, this is life in Ireland)
  • Notes app or a journal
  • Fitbit charger (we averaged 22k steps a day)
  • Phone charger
  • A mobile hotspot (we rented a wifi candy and picked ours up at the Dublin airport)
  • GPS

The flight – We flew out of Chicago, which is about two hours from our home. The hardest part was finding a place to park at O’Hare! We got there about three hours early and had plenty of time. The flight was direct to Dublin and took around seven hours – give or take – both ways. I thought Aer Lingus did a tremendous job of keeping everyone fed, comfortable and happy. Take a little something to help you sleep and you’ll be there before you know it! Our experience at the Dublin airport was incredibly positive. Quick and painless! 

Uncategorized

Ireland adventure Day 3 – Baltimore, Co. Cork and Sherkin Island

September 21, 2022

Please note: During our trip to Ireland, our priorities were hiking, the most beautiful scenery, pubs and live music. We also rented a car. You won’t find much in these posts about fine dining, shopping or the public transportation, though I’m confident there are great resources for these topics elsewhere online. I have also included some resources at the bottom if you’re planning a similar trip.

I woke up and felt like a new woman. It was the type of sleep where you don’t remember your dreams and you’re pretty certain you’re in the same position you fell asleep in. The Baltimore, Co. Cork air agreed with me. We went down to the restaurant for breakfast and slid into a cozy corner booth. Our table already had a tiered tower dressed in freshly baked breads and pastries, yogurt, cheese and homemade jam. I also ordered scrambled eggs and smoked salmon from the kitchen. The coffee was strong and welcome.

Based on my morning Google search, I discovered that whale watching is big in Baltimore. It was another gorgeous day, with sunny skies and a perfect breeze, so we decided to dress for an afternoon on the open ocean and head down to the harbor, which was wallpapered in posters for daily excursions. The first place we called wasn’t going out. The second didn’t have enough people. And the third said the swells were too dangerous.

There was a handful of people gathering around the area where the ferry came in. We learned that it was heading to Sherkin Island, and decided to hop on board, with no idea what was actually on Sherkin Island. Sometimes being a follower really pays off. (Please don’t tell my children I said that.)

Known to locals as The Island of the Arts, Sherkin is approximately three miles long and boasts a population of roughly 100 people. Also of note, it ended up being one of my absolute favorite places we went. It was a simple day, rich with simple pleasures, lots of steps and good conversation, and beauty everywhere you looked.  

When you get off the ferry, which basically just drives right up onto shore, you’re greeted by a mossy, stone and shell-covered beach. Everyone else just took off, like they knew exactly where they were going. But we, of course, had no agenda. Hank took a call, so I putzed around the beach for a while, picking up shells and smooth stones to take home to the girls. I loved all of the little limpets, or “boy nipples” as Hank called them, stuck to the sides of rocks.

We walked past the old friary and came to a fork in the road. A farmer, without much time for chitchat, told us to walk toward the beach and the café just beyond it, so we headed that way, down the one-lane road along a stone wall.

The first thing we came upon was the island library, where Sherkin Island resident and artist, Tina Reed, was hosting an exhibit. Her work was vibrant and textured and stunning. The walls were adorned with several pieces painted in Killarney (our next stop on our trip) and a number overlooking the ocean from the Sherkin Island shores. Tina, whose husband gives kayak tours around the island, agreed we should keep heading toward the beach and find the charming café by the water.

Tucked into hedges, tied to gates and secured into stonewalls, colorful tags with haiku poems are scattered all over the island. This is the handy work of The Sherkin Island Haiku Group, who has been meeting ever since 2013. There were too many to read them all, but here are two of my favorites:

When people said, “the beach,” it sounds silly, but we weren’t exactly sure what we were looking for. There were several areas that looked like they held varying depths of water throughout the year, and people could, technically, go sit next to these pools. And they were pretty. We kept walking, past lazy island dogs, rolling pastures and properties likely passed down through generations. And then, we came to the beach, and there was no mistaking it. When I tell you it was one of the most breath-taking sights I’ve ever seen, it’s an insulting understatement. I’ve never been privy to beauty like the points on this planet where the Atlantic meets the fractured fringe of Ireland and its supplementary islands. There’s just no describing it. You have to live it.

These were the first of several cliffs we would see during our time in the country, and you know what they say about your first time … You never forget it.

We walked straight down the rippled sand toward the water, like the tide was pulling us to it. It was unlike any beach I’d been on before. A football field of patterned sand sandwiched between dark, tiered cliffs, with a mountain out in the distance. I took a handful of videos but, when I watched them back later, I succumb to the reality that they just couldn’t convey the view.  

After a substantial period of standing in awe, we went back up the sand to the road. In just a few steps, we came upon a second beach and a cliff overlook. There were two tents in the grass near the road, and I joked about the gamble of stepping out for a midnight potty break in this precarious spot near the cliff. But what an amazing place to have your morning coffee.  

Tummy’s rumbling, we continued on to grab a bite at the café we’d heard so much about. Sherkin North Shore, located at the most southern point of Ireland’s Wild Atlantic Way, is a center offering lodging, meals and a creative space for group meetings and trainings. On the Monday we stopped by, the door was open, but no one was home.

We retraced our steps and, when we got back to the fork where we’d started, we went the other way and found The Jolly Roger. You could just smell the history in this dim pub. Short stools that didn’t even reach my knees scattered around sticky tables. Everything decked in a warm, blood red palette. We grabbed a pair of ham and cheese toasties, a Bulmer’s for me and beer for Hank and pulled a set of taller stools up to a barrel on the terrace, with the water in the distance. We let the wear of the walk soak in, talking about life and our kids, with red cheeks and the sun now burning our necks. It was here that Hank wrote his own haiku.

Sherkin Island treat.
Blisters on both of my feet.
Delicious toastie.   

Around 4 o’clock, we caught the ferry back to Baltimore and made the game day decision to do the short hike to Baltimore Beacon. The landmark is a cone-shaped “lighthouse” that actually doesn’t light up at all. Rather, it’s painted white as a warning for ships too close to the cliffs.

According to the website Atlas Obscura, “The beacon was constructed after the Irish Rebellion of 1798 at the orders of the British government. It was part of a whole system of lighthouses that peppered Ireland’s shores to form a coastal warning system.

The original lighthouse eventually fell into disrepair, so this current, conical version replaced it in the late 1840s. It’s become a beloved symbol of Baltimore, a small fishing village in County Cork. Locals call the weirdly shaped tower ‘Lot’s Wife,’ after the Biblical woman who was turned into a pillar of salt. Walking around the beacon rewards visitors with stunning views of both the green landscape and rolling sea.” So, there ya go.

It was 3.3 km from the Baltimore Pier to the beacon, and I can tell you, it was worth every step. Every day, we would say, it can’t get any prettier than this. And then, inevitably, it would. There were wildflowers everywhere, little pops of yellow and purple. When we got to the top, I was gob smacked. Across the way, you could see the cliffs on the outer perimeter of Sherkin Island. Look down, and you see that you are also perched on top of a cliff, with water that’s the most lovely, indescribable shade of blue flooding the space between the two.

I Facetimed my mom, who was going through some things at home, and shared the view with her, hoping it would make her smile. What’s amazing is, I don’t like heights. I have nightmares, often, right before I drift off to sleep, where I am falling, or one of my kids is falling. But there, I sat right on the edge of that cliff and felt more alive and less afraid than I ever have. I closed my eyes and listened to the waves and the birds. I felt the sun on my eyelids. I was so at peace.

I smiled the rest of the way back down. When we reached town, we grabbed a table in The Square overlooking the harbor and got menus from La Jolie Brise. We both got pizza and split some chips (French fries). Of course, more cider and beer. I will tell you that this meal did not blow me away, but the view as the sun set out over the water was everything.

A table of girlfriends were in my eye line, and I couldn’t help watching them. They reminded me of me and my friends at that age. Some things are universal, like the way the women in your life will always listen, get excited for you and laugh at the tough bits (particularly those related to the men in your life).  

We split a perfect warm apple tart before calling it a night and I felt so full of joy as we made the walk back up the slanted streets to Rolf’s.  

Quick reference details for those planning a trip to Ireland

Travel agent – We worked with Maria Lieb at Discovering Ireland. We were given her name by an acquaintance who took a very similar trip to ours. Maria helped us narrow down locations, the duration of our stay in each town, selected and booked all of our hotel and inn rooms, reserved our car and insurance, and provided travel guides. You can reach her by emailing maria@discoveringireland.com. 

Transportation – We opted to rent a car so we had flexibility each day. We did the full insurance, including tires, and rented the GPS navigation. In Ireland, compared to the United States, the steering wheel is on the other side of the car, and they drive on the other side of the road, which can be confusing, but you catch on. Also, be prepared … some of the roads are very narrow.

Dates of our trip – While most people go to Ireland in June, July and early August, we were there August 26 – September 5, in an effort to still get decent weather but avoid some of the crowds.

Weather – We were spoiled with the weather while we were there! Temperatures were typically mid- to low-70s during the day and the 60s at night. We only had rain two days.

Money – We primarily used our credit card, which was very easy. They will often ask you if you want to pay in euros or dollars. It’s best to select euros. We also used local ATM machines to get cash, which came in handy for cabs and snacks. In our experience, ATMs were better than exchanging currency at the airport.

Things I packed and didn’t need –

  • Hair straightener (couldn’t use in any of the outlets)
  • Jewelry (wore a necklace one night)
  • Jeans (heavy and unnecessary)
  • Big suitcase (I’ll pack smarter next time)
  • Makeup (nobody cared, and I barely used it)

Things I didn’t pack that I wish I had –

Things I was so glad I packed –

  • Versatile weatherproof pants (linked above)
  • Hats (I rarely did my hair)
  • A buff for my neck or wrist
  • Good hiking boots and trail shoes (I took these and loved them)
  • A light backpack for hiking
  • Crossbody purse (or hip bag) for evenings and days out
  • Sunglasses
  • Raincoat
  • Umbrella
  • Moisture-wicking layers (tanks, ts and long-sleeve)
  • Small bottles of hand sanitizer
  • Hair ties (my hair was in a pony or braided most days)
  • Good socks
  • Dramamine (If you get motion sickness, this is life in Ireland)
  • Notes app or a journal
  • Fitbit charger (we averaged 22k steps a day)
  • Phone charger
  • A mobile hotspot (we rented a wifi candy and picked ours up at the Dublin airport)
  • GPS

The flight – We flew out of Chicago, which is about two hours from our home. The hardest part was finding a place to park at O’Hare! We got there about three hours early and had plenty of time. The flight was direct to Dublin and took around seven hours – give or take – both ways. I thought Aer Lingus did a tremendous job of keeping everyone fed, comfortable and happy. Take a little something to help you sleep and you’ll be there before you know it! Our experience at the Dublin airport was incredibly positive. Quick and painless!