The hills are spectacularly green there. Much greener than anything we have here. They almost radiate and pulse with a blinding shamrock glimmer. There’s a mist that crawls over and through them in the early morning. Tiny, little purple buds of frozen Asters, not quite ready for exposure to the overcast sky. They lie on these hills and as sure as they enjoy the view, they would stay atop them, these craggy cliffs that fall off sharply to meet their sand-covered feet hundreds of meters down.

In a fit of pretentious spontaneity, I took a trip to Ireland this past week. And at the risk of sounding like a James Joyce wannabe in the previous passage, I have to confess that my wayward college mind is to blame for such a pilgrimage.

You see, I have a theory that we all have a greater view of ourselves than we put foreword. That’s probably nothing special to comment on in and of itself. The ego provides us with wonderful illusions of grandeur. The self-preservation Id exists to eventually work us towards becoming the person that we want to be. And it’s a hard-fought stream of self-discovery to become comfortable with it. Years and years of introspective analysis and frustration just to find things out that may in fact not be there at all. This is why I went: to try and put a notch on my bedpost. To say I tried.

It was probably an error on my part to rush my trips conception so hurriedly, but recently, I’ve adapted a more “fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants” mentality. I’m young and stupid…might as well do something out of the ordinary while this skin is still fresh. I had rested on my failed convictions of the past for too long and was gung-ho on making this one happen. I desperately wanted, nay, NEEDED to go.   Ireland had always appealed to me and at the drop of a hat; I purchased my plane tickets and my first night’s room at a Hostel in Cork.

People seemed so astonished when I said this would be a solo affair, and would have to answer every query with slightly distained resilience. But 12 straight hours of travel, three layovers and a near missed flight at London Heathrow effectively excavated their doubt from my head. I felt accomplished simply by navigating that. So as it turns out, the rest of it was more than manageable. I left on a Sunday and landed in Cork on a Monday (thanks, time zones!). And immediately began the desultory, aimless, superfluous wandering around the city I had looked foreword to.

The tourist-centric downtown in ANY historical state is a bit of a sad affair. Tommy Hilfiger, The Buckle etc., sharing space with St Peters church and Briton’s Quay almost makes one cry for the collective sole of the organic populous who have to endure it. but tourists like me might be an equal headache. people who want to get beyond it, but don’t really know how at the beginning. But this is where a shift happens. It takes a certain confidence to ditch all of that. Yes, it’s safe, it’s comfortable, and it’s sanitary…but it’s not real. Marble white storefronts offer reflections of the vain and the positioned. And I, not wanting to associate myself with either, turned around and simply started walking.

Back alleys, narrow streets, and rows of brightly colored stucco houses that shy away from the brighter lights of the town center. Tight and compact is how the city has been organized for centuries. The cracked, jaunty sidewalks float just inches from the brick road and half the girth of a skinny man from the sides of buildings. THIS is authenticity. Far past the coherent and the organized lies the dirty, but charming. The humble but the spectacular. The simple but the beautiful.

Not even after nearly six hours of heedless walking and looking had the experience seemed old or tiring. My feet were most definitely tired, but my mind hungered for more.  I walked on and soon found that I had circled around most of he southern end of a city with a population roughly that of Lincoln.  I lamented to my physical hunger and popped into a pub to feast on a meal of Guinness with a side of Guinness and was washed down with a smooth, smooth Guinness (as is what I assumed all Irish children are brought up on). In this first leg I had found a solid ground to travel along. Things were starting out well, if not a bit more stressful than my liking. But I was seeing farther down the road. I had found a little solace for the moment in a pub on Beachy Cowld Street.