A Drift of Ireland’s Mist

Since my return from Ireland, I seem to be in two places: one, the here and now with the excitement of books about to be published, the other,  a mystical island in the Atlantic, where ancient towers still keep watch on the surrounding countryside. I close my eyes and see swans floating on the River Shannon surrounding King John’s Castle. It was beautiful the day we stopped by the river to see the swans and the castle built during the 1100s. The temperature was 51 degrees and the sun shone, dappling the river.

I see streets signs in Gaelic and English, flower boxes outside the shops, Kerry Gold butter, Ireland’s own, from grass-fed cows. Clear-running streams hurry down from the hills; water is everywhere in Ireland. The lakes of Killarney are misty-blue because of the rain. An ancient graveyard lies beside the highway. White sheep dot the green, green fields and Kerry cattle, the oldest breed in Ireland, graze in another pasture. I cross, again, the largest lake in Killarney which is five miles by three miles and 300 feet deep.

Along with all the beauty and magical places, Bill, our tour guide, tells the stories of the famine, when the whole country failed. We pass famine houses, sad ruins. We hear of the American wake and coffin ships at a time when it took seven weeks to cross the Atlantic. Pitiful stories, these, unbearable tales of suffering, but all a part of the heritage of Ireland.

I see names like O’Shea’s, O’Briens, Mulcahy’s, climb the 110 steps to the top of Blarney Castle and gaze at the bogs which keep their secrets for centuries.

There is only one remedy  for mixing the past with the present and finding my way out of this Irish mist: I’ve got to write another book, a sequel to Moonlight Can Be Murder and somehow, I’ve got to stir into the mix some of the memories and pictures running through my mind. That way, I can keep a bit of Ireland with me as I move forward. A nice solution, don’t you think?