Western Ireland
Years ago when I cared for infants in a Mexican orphanage I recall a baby, maybe eight months old, with a single desire in life: to look around. This baby was malcontent if left on the floor to play or even if held in arms overlooking the familiar nursery room. But lift her up to a window — any window — and she was instantly and apparently endlessly pacified. That’s how I feel here in Western Ireland. Even though I’ve read descriptions of this place (always words like windswept, rugged, wild), I wasn’t prepared for my emotional reaction to the landscape. All I want to do is look. And look and look.
I gulp at the landscape. I am ravenous to simply look around. It’s like I’ll never be full of this place.
Fortunately, that’s pretty much all there is to do here — walk around and look — so it works.
Well — maybe looking isn’t exactly the only thing to do. One evening after putting the kids into their hostel bunks, Brian and I walked down the road a bit to a small pub where we drank Guinness and whiskey (him) and Australian chardonnay (me). There at the bar, a few Irish men were chatting. We were eager to trot out our tiny bit of knowledge about Irish football, so we struck up a conversation. In doing so, we learned that County Mayo — where we stayed last week and this — is favored to win the all-Irish championship on 11 September. Apparently the team hasn’t taken home the trophy since 1951 on account of a curse (tip: pronounced course). Our new bar friends explained this situation without a hint of irony; it seems back in 1951 the Mayo players passed in front of a funeral procession without proper respectful deference and a curse was placed on the team either by the attending priest or the grieving widow (accounts vary). Fortunately, continued the barflies, the entire cursed team is now dead, opening the possibility that County Mayo will win this year, finally. Oddly, this seemingly easily provable fact is disputed: other hostel friends thought perhaps one member of that original team remains alive and various online sources suggest it may actually be two. I admit I am giggling a little as I picture those two aging footballers hiding out somewhere remote in Western Ireland, content to let everyone think they’re dead. Can you imagine? An entire county of football fans waiting for you to die so a curse can be lifted?
