Page 55 of Tempting Irish

I glance out the window as the bus starts to roll out of the parkinglot.

Ireland changes as we leave the city. The bustle of the city streets is replaced by miles of open space, rolling green hills scattered with sheep as we drive north through CountyMeath.

It’s only an hour from Dublin to our first stop, the Hill of Tara.The seat of the great kings ofIreland.

I was here once when I was little. My Aunt Agnus brought me and Emer when my mom was off on one of her weekendgetaways.

Getting off the bus, it feels like I’m in the middle of nowhere, not at one of the country’s most famous monuments. There’s a café in front of the small parking lot, but other than that, there’s nothing but hills, a few scattered farmhouses, an old church, and sheep. But buried in the long green grass and purple heather are remnants of a people that lived here thousands of years ago.Mypeople.

I half listen to the guide as my group walks around. Compared to the towering buildings I’m used to back home, the monuments at first seem almost insignificant. It’s not until I realize how long they’ve stood here, untouched, that the significance really grabs me. Some, almost five thousandyears.

A rock is no longer just a rock. It’s a symbol of someone’s belief. Of a people unifying to build something. A wild people who believed in magic, anddestiny.

Standing in front of one of the earth mounds, I close my eyes and breathe in the fresh air. The scent of grass is thick, the bleating of sheep and the rustle of wind the only sounds among the awedwhispers.

I belong here, my heart beats wildly.This ishome.

My tour group moves on, back towards the church, but the last place I want to be isinside.

There are a couple other tours, so I’m never alone as I spend time at each monument. A few nods and polite smiles are exchanged, but everyone I see seems somewhat lost in their ownthoughts.

It’s the large hawthorn tree covered in decorations that seems to draw the largest crowd. Adorned with everything from ribbons, keychains, notes, bells, and even baby pacifiers, it seems out ofplace.

At the otherworldly sound of chimes and tinkling when the wind blows through the branches, a memory tugs at the back of my mind. The memory of being here when I was younger. Of Agnus holding me up to place my grandmother’s charm bracelet on one of thebranches.

“Mum, why is the tree covered in garbage?” A little girl with bright red hair and freckles dotting her nose asks, frowning up at the twisted and gnarledbranches.

“It’s a fairy tree,” the woman says, crouching down beside herdaughter.

“Where fairieslive?”

“No. More like a portal. A place that connects their world with ours. Some people believe that if you leave a gift, that the fairies will take it to the otherside.”

“I want to leave something.” The belief in magic shines in the child’s eyes as her mother takes something from her purse and allows the little girl to place it on thetree.

There was a time when I believed in allthis.

Magic.

Fairies.

WhiteKnights.

Ireland is filled with tales and legends. It’s one of the things that makes it sospecial.

I lost that part of me when I left. The part that believed in more than what my eyes could see, or my hands could touch. And I wonder if, once you’ve lost it, once the veil has been removed and you see the harsh reality of life, you can ever get that childlike faithback.

The sun, which has been hiding most of the day behind a cloud, peeks through, warming my cheeks and making the landscape look like a thousand shades of green. I walk the countryside, taking in the different standing stones, and reading the short descriptions in mypamphlet.

It’s not until clouds darken the sky with impending rain that I realize how much time has gone by and how few people areleft.

An unsettling feeling sinks like a stone in my stomach as I tread back across the fields towards the parkinglot.

I’ve always been one to get caught up in my head, to forget about time. While many kids I knew had trouble focusing on a task, I tended to hyper-focus, so much that I lost track of the world around me. Especially when I was playing thepiano.

Being able to block out the world seemed like a blessing when Frank and my mom were fighting, when he’d come home in one of hismoods, and when nothing she did was good enough. I’d sit in the basement and play the old, out-of-tune piano until my fingers ached, and my heart bled out on thekeys.

Until the night she didn’t comehome.

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