They Go Left

Once our group reached the top of the sand, most of my travel companions immediately went to the left. Our tour guide had pointed out how to get to the old light house for a photo op. I went right, however, eyes trained on the quieter, practically empty end of the beach. Tide was out, silver waves lapping lazily halfway up the wide stretch of beach. The water smelled of seaweed and left the sand looking like a mirror as it retreated slowly, reflecting both the jagged mountains in the distance and the fiery sunset above them. It was cold and the wind was vicious—but what else could be expected, sightseeing in early November?

The looming mountains didn’t seem to get any closer no matter how far I walked in their direction. There was a dusting of snow beginning to stick to the very top peaks, making them look slate gray. At the base of the mountains, however, I could see even from this distance that green plant life still clung to the brown levels of the rock. It was like summer turning to fall to winter represented all on one paint-sample card. Another gust of wind hit me square in the chest, coming in from the sea and tasting like salt. Strands of my hair came loose from under my baseball cap. I laughed, surprised, as I caught my hat from being blown off of my head and down the damp beach.

My voice sounded extra loud in the relative silence around me. With most of the group out of earshot and the waves further out at sea, the quiet seemed unusual for a beach. But it wasn’t eerie. It gave me the kind of comfortable peace I had been hoping to find on this trip. Maybe I had been questioning my decision to travel solo at dinner last night, watching the other tables talking and laughing together over their food. But it was in this moment that I realized the stillness was the only companion I needed. Stillness, peaceful quiet, solitude—for the love of God, just shut up and be alone for a minute! —proved to be the message that I was supposed to be absorbing.

The first morning of our tour, in true Irish fall fashion, it was pouring rain. At seven in the morning, I was wearing completely the wrong coat and shoes, dragging my suitcase across the old cobblestone sidewalks around Trinity College. In equal measure, my thoughts were “please don’t break a wheel” and “why are there no coffee shops open right now?” The city was practically silent, the damp throwing a shiny, dark grey hue on buildings, sidewalks, closed shops. But it wasn’t eerie. Once I was certain that I wasn’t lost, I felt privileged to see such a city, with so much history, in this state. It was like being in an empty, ornate theater before anyone else arrived for the performance.

Our first stop once we were out of Dublin was Stephenstown Pond, once home to Scottish poet Robert Burns’ sister. There was a cute little coffee shop with a convenient parking lot for the bus. Our guide billed the visit mostly as a coffee stop, with a tidbit of history tacked on:

Robert Burns was close with his sister, he spent quite a bit of time here, they even called that cottage “Burns Cottage.”

Isn’t that something, how interesting, it is very pretty here, can’t blame him… Do you think they have sausage rolls in the shop? I’m starved.

Coffee never seems to taste better than on a morning when you can’t find any, especially in the rain. The warmth of that shop was like a wool blanket. It was the first hour of their day, we were their first customers, and somehow, that knowledge had us all hushed, as if we were entering a church. It was the epitome of cozy, and within the first ten minutes of the half hour pitstop, we all had our orders. What now?

Some went back to the bus, a few went left, over to the gift shop. I went right back out into the rain. Well, the drizzle, by that point. I wanted to see the actual pond of Stephenstown, and it was evident that it was a short walk down the drive.

My socks started to feel soggy inside my tennis shoes, squelching a little with each step. My sweatshirt hood was sitting heavy on my head. The loose hair around my face was starting to curl from the moisture. The warmth of the coffee in my hand led the way. It’s too hot to drink yet anyways, so why not?

I reached the path and the drizzle turned to a mist, thanks to the canopy of trees. Everything was still alive here even though winter was coming soon—so green! everywhere green! overwhelmingly green! The Emerald Island living up to its name. The stones and dirt of the path crunched under my feet, the earthy scent of wet soil mixing with the aroma of my americano. There wasn’t another soul out on the pond walk, so I could hear the light splashing of the ducks and swans swimming further out in the pond. There was a slow drip of water falling onto a bench, perched just next to the bank, surrounded by way too much mud for me to attempt to get to.

The moss on the railing enclosing the raised observation deck was the same color as that sweater of yours that I love—but no! That’s not why I’m here, not for your kind of green. I’m here to be reminded how big the world is. How great the wind is, how salty the sea spray tastes, how easily I can read a map and find my own way. I’m here to watch the swans gracefully float by, surrounded by rain drop ripples, within still trees, with still thoughts. I stare at the clean paleness of the swan’s feathers, shiny droplets of water casually rolling off them, as I stand on the wooden deck, soft and warped by time. I wonder if Robbie stood here…

I don’t have to go left with everyone else. I can go right.

Though going anywhere without you doesn’t exactly feel right, just yet.

Who is this girl wandering around by herself? She really does like walking in the rain, doesn’t she?