A Million Kinds of Wanderlust

"No Trespassing," the sign forewarned. But my friends and I didn't listen; we clambered up onto the dilapidated fence to glimpse a better view of the deserted ruins of Clare Abbey. We were several miles east of nowhere among the emerald fields of Western Ireland. It's not like anyone actually cared whether we disobeyed the rules, right? Right.

My friends made silly faces at a few scraggly sheep grazing nearby, but I couldn't keep my eyes off that hauntingly abandoned mass of crumbling stone. The land of my ancestors had thus far proven to hold a rich, deep, mystical history. The ancient city of Galway, with its winding, shaded cobblestone streets and charming pubs. The raw, windswept beauty of the Aran Islands, flung like pebbles into the Atlantic Ocean. Even the act of hanging backwards 90 feet in the air while simultaneously kissing a very slimy Blarney Stone (which I could not help but believe was silently cackling and taunting: "if only you knew how many other lips have touched me"). Yes, even that. I was enamored by the whole country.

And now, Ireland had presented these old ruins. Once photos were taken, we climbed, exhilarated, into our blue rental car and slowly reversed up the narrow path. This in itself was a feat we'd been slowly mastering over the last few days; the art of left hand-side driving. I'm not necessarily stating it as an absolute fact, but we just might have skimmed the front bumper off of a few stone walls and a particularly obtrusive curb along the way. Clumsy Americans!

At the road's fork, HE appeared: a shadow of a man advancing toward us as if he'd magically materialized from the mists. It took a moment to recognize the shape of a rifle on his shoulder.

Inside the car: terror, screaming! Thus began our panicked backtracking toward the highway. The brake pedal became obsolete- who needs to stop when you're being chased by a gun-toting Irishman? But looking back from a safe vantage point, the figure had disappeared just as quickly as he had slunk out towards us from behind the old abbey.

Later, from the safety of our small seaside cottage, after our breath was caught, our fears subsided, and our overactive imaginations tamed, we wondered what we'd really witnessed protecting those ruins; man, or- just maybe- ghost.

(A travel note: DON’T trespass onto the grounds of deserted ruins. Instead, DO make a point to visit the towns of Ennis, Cork, and Galway. They’re enchanting, historic, and provide a true Irish experience.)