Travel and Verse

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Tag: Ireland (Page 1 of 2)

Favorite Trips: Aedan and the Roots

October 8, 2020 / / 0 Comments

Once a month, I will post a story from the year prior.

Travel Journal, 82

Our bus pulled into the city of Ennis in County Clare, Ireland. The only other person to get off the bus was a talkative, late middle-aged lady holding her purse close to her chest. She was apparently the second cousin of the bus driver. After chatting with him for an hour during transit, she disembarked the bus and we made our way to the front. We exchanged pleasantries with the driver and soon found out that the purse lady was not the only talkative one on that bus.

Most of my conversations with Irish people had started the same way.

“Where are you from?” they would ask.

And every time, in all of my vast intelligence, I would respond, “the United States.” In case the point is in question, it is very apparent that I am from the United States, especially when I open my mouth. Further, the Irish have a deep affinity for the USA. And the feeling is mutual. During an extraordinarily dark time in Irish history, the American people welcomed Irish refugees and immigrants with open arms. Ireland had been devastated with a crop-killing blight, sending the island into the Great Hunger. Millions died, and help was nowhere to be found. The Irish flocked to the far reaches of the world, but mostly to the United States. But the relationship has been very reciprocal. Without the Irish population, the Civil War could have ended far differently. Our roots go deep into Irish culture, and millions of Irish in Ireland have family here. It’s nearly symbiotic.

Our conversation continues. Soon, we become friendly. Names are exchanged.

Aedan drives commuter bus all over the southern par of the island. He tells us of his family in the USA. He smiles with pride. And I can’t help but draw similarities between our two countries. All I can think of is how many people are doing the same thing right now in my own country—excitedly telling somebody of a long-lost family in Ireland.

Aedan tells of watching American TV in the 70s and how he had never had a milkshake until his first trip to America. He goes on and on and it’s refreshing. Aedan marvels at the beauty of the Grand Canyon. And I express my marvel at his Emerald Isle. Perhaps there’s a lesson there. But maybe not.

Our two countries have shared roots and connections that reach far deeper than this. But it is a beautiful thing when those roots occasionally spring to the surface.

 

anthony forrest 

Fish and Chips, Three Ways

August 27, 2020 / / 0 Comments

Travel Journal, 77

Seattle, Washington, 2015

I peered out the small airplane window and glanced worriedly back to my watch. There was simply no way I was going to make the next flight. But maybe, just maybe it would be late and I could run to the gate. I had a vision of myself running like OJ Simpson, stiff-arming people through the airport. (We’re talking pre-scandal OJ. Check it out here. You’re welcome.)

I looked back out the window and saw my gate. What luck, I was pulling into the gate adjacent to my next flight. But alas, my luck ended there. I watched helplessly as my next flight pulled away from the gate and taxied down the jetway. That was it. I had no other options for getting from Seattle to Ketchikan, Alaska until the next afternoon. I now had an unexpected stopover. And the solution to an unexpected stay in Seattle is simple—Pikes Place Market.

Backpack on shoulder, I stepped off the bus in front of the iconic sign, right above the fishmongers. After several minutes of gleeful fish-throwing observations (Yes, fish throwing. Check it out here.), my stomach told me to find some fish of my own.

I bypassed several nicer-looking places with patio-seating and large menus. I knew what I was looking for: a hole-in-the-wall. Sure enough, on the pier and under a shanty sat three greasy stools and a small counter. The stocking-cap-wearing chef (?) threw a pile of fried fish and French fries on a day-old copy of the Seattle Times. I doused the luscious heap of Pacific Cod and fries with fresh-squeezed lemon and gratuitous amounts of tartar sauce (call me a heathen). Nothing beats the west coast for the market flavor of fish and chips.

Howth, Ireland, 2019

The small fishing village of Howth sits just east of Dublin. In fact, it’s one of the most pleasant train rides leading out of Dublin. Ivy-covered houses line the tracks that lead all the way to the ocean. When you get to the ocean, you’ll find a lovely little village with a lot of scenic hikes and great food. Some say that on clear day, you can look out toward England and see Hollyhead, near Liverpool. Ireland supports the cliché. Ireland is exactly what you’d expect: green, beautiful, friendly, all the people have wonderful accents, and the food is outstanding. But in a place where they literally call fish and chips “Dublin Caviar” how does one decide where to eat? Nearly every restaurant and pub serve outstanding food. But when you step off the train in Howth and walk just a little way up the street, you’ll see Leo Burdock’s. Please, if you go to Dublin, eat there. We placed our order and began to take a picture of the restaurant. But the owners would have nothing of it.

“Come on back,” they said with a smile. So, I jumped the counter and got my picture with the laughing crew. We chatted about Ireland and America until our food came. They sat a glorious mound of fish and chips on a platter in front of us. Each serving is two pounds of fish and potatoes. This time, I poured the malt vinegar with reckless abandonment.

Grand Marais, Minnesota, annually

Blindfolded and dropped onto the North Shore of Lake Superior, most people would guess they were in Maine or some other rocky and oceanic local—unless, of course, you’ve been there. The Lake stretches for miles and miles and states and states. And every year, my family heads up there in search of solitude and rejuvenation. The frigid water laps the rocky coast. Pines and boreal trees sway with the almost-constant breeze. The small town of Grand Marais is a favorite in Minnesota. Most residents of the State love it and make the journey at least once a year. And just as you drive into the town, look to your right and you will see a little café called Dockside Fish Market. The Lake teems with an abundance of Whitefish, Pike, Walleye, Salmon, and (my favorite) trout of many types. When I was a lad growing up in Wyoming, I didn’t really think that anybody ate any other fish but trout. I had not been confronted with the great Northern Pike or the elusive Walleye. I now love it all. But each year at Dockside, I get a basket of Lake Trout. We usually sit on the patio in the back and we eat our fish and chips in the cool breeze of Lake Superior. It is a tradition we are not soon to break.

anthony forrest

A Tale of Two Museums

August 6, 2020 / / 0 Comments
Trinity College in Dublin

Travel Journal, 74

I have been to several museums in my life—some interesting, some not. In fact, I very much enjoy a good museum. I don’t even mind the occasional modern art exhibit (although much of it is completely lost on me). But two museums stand out clearly in my mind.

Early in my marriage, an exhibit of the Dead Sea Scrolls made its way to the Science Museum of Minnesota. Even if you are not a Christian and if you don’t even believe in the God of the Bible, the Dead Sea Scrolls are undoubtably the most important manuscript discovery in modern time. They are a collection of manuscripts of Biblical and secular texts from before the time of Christ—over 2000 years ago. Stunningly, these scrolls were discovered by a shepherd boy in the 40’s. As he walked near the Dead Sea in modern day Palestine, he threw a rock into a nearby cave. A shattering noise caught his attention. Inside the cave sat several clay pots filled with old scrolls. Over the next decade, archeologists unearthed numerous manuscripts, hidden in a total of 12 caves.

My wife and I walked through the exhibit, holding the electronic “tour guide” to our ears. The monotoned voice regaled us with countless details. Row after row of tools lay under glass display cases. Shepherd outfits hung here. Large murals of caves hung there. Everything led to a small room with low lights—only a few were allowed in at a time. We stood hovering over the glass encapsulated scroll. A ragged piece of parchment, written in ancient Hebrew was described in an English translation adjacent to the display:

I love you, O Lord, my strength. The Lord is my rock and my fortress and my deliverer, my God, my rock, in whom I take refuge, my shield, and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold.

Psalm 18. It astounded me. Here sat one of the oldest copies of God’s Word. And it showed a perfect truth—God is my strength and the One who holds me with His powerful hand.

Just last year, my wife and I attended another museum. The Trinity College Library in Dublin, Ireland, hosts (in my opinion, humble or otherwise) the greatest treasure of the Middle Ages—the Book of Kells.

During the fabled “Dark Ages,” monks in Ireland, Scotland, and Modern-day England created an exquisitely and ornately decorated copy of the four Gospels. The nearly 700-page collection dates from the 8th and 9th centuries. The Latin words form a decorative tapestry on each page. And Celtic knots and pictures line the margins. Bright Irish colors jump out at the reader.

We walked through this exhibit much like we had done several years ago at the Dead Sea Scrolls exhibit. Quill pens lay on ancient desks. A replica of the book sat on a glass case. And a translated poem about the difficulties of writing spoke of hand cramps in the name of biblical preservation. But soon we walked into a dark room with two of the books on display.

They were open to the Gospels of Luke and John. I gazed at the Latin words, then over to the translation. It spoke of Jesus—the same God who swore to be my strength and fortress and shield.

My salvation. My Love.

The two museums make me think of a little song I used to sing as a child while attending Sunday School:

The Bible stands like a rock, undaunted amid the raging storms of time. Its pages burn with the truth eternal. And they glow with a light sublime.

anthony forrest

Mountain Ash

May 7, 2020 / / 1 Comment

Travel Journal, 63

Two of my favorite places on earth are tied together by a single tree.

The North Shore of Lake Superior lies just south off Canada. And Ireland lies west of the UK. Neither has much in common.

Each year, my wife and I join her family on a getaway to the North Shore. We stay at a small resort a few miles north of Grand Marais and spend our week having campfires on the rocky coast and eating pie. We wander the area, pick agates, skip stones, visit State Parks, talk about fishing (but never do), and relax near the perfect simplicity of the ancient and cold Lake Superior. Last year, our family group walked all over the area near the resort. Down and around the coast, I saw a tree that I always love to see—the Mountain Ash. It’s almost a large shrub or a bush, but it does grow tall. The branches are filled with flat rows or leaves and bundles of reddish-orange berries. I find the Mountain Ash quite beautiful. The red offsets the green leaves, making the tree stand out near any evergreen. Before we left, I looked around and dug up a spindly little sapling to bring home and stuff into the ground. Despite my best efforts, it appeared that the tiny tree would not make it.

A month after our week on the North Shore, my wife and I walked along the eastern coast of Ireland, in the fishing village of Howth. I love Ireland so very much. The reason the world over speaks of Ireland as the Emerald Isle is because it’s true. Ireland is never really beset with a hard winter. So, the island grows vibrantly green. Trees and vines and bushes and ivies and all sorts of plants grow there. Even in the rockiest portions of the island, tufts of green heather can be found here and there. But the biggest surprise to me was finding the Mountain Ash growing wildly in that little coastal town.

Last week, as I walked around the yard, back at home, I found the place where I planted the spindly Mountain Ash. I kneeled down and saw that it has begun budding. It makes me very happy to know that, one day, our yard will have a tree that reminds me of both the North Shore and the Emerald Isle.

anthony forrest

Come Unto Me

April 20, 2020 / / 0 Comments

I walk along the path of life

And only darkness I can see

Though all these things point toward the wrong

God has a plan for me

 

His caring hand will I take

Now through His comfort I can see

That my loving Lord makes no mistakes

And how He beckons ‘Come unto Me’

 

anthony forrest 

Kinvara, County Galway

January 30, 2020 / / 0 Comments
Dunguaire Castle

Travel Journal, 49

Rolling green slopes of wet grass lead up to the tiny castle. Is there such thing as a tiny castle?

Appears so.

As castles go, this one seems on the small end. But somehow, its tiny size makes it all the more beautiful, haunting. Stones lay around its base. Perhaps one day it rained stones and hailed rocks in place of the incessant drizzle that makes the grass ever so green. Compared to monstrous castles throughout this wide world, its two towers look like cut-stone milk cartons, standing alone by the ocean. A stream rushes beneath the towers.

The light rains and mists from the light grey clouds make this, as the locals call it, a “soft day.” Dark and rainy it may be, but far from a bad day. This is a fine, soft day.

Cobbled stone road, narrow and unchanged for centuries, leads southward, toward Tralee. But long before that, it meanders through tiny villages, and by the wild Atlantic.

The stone walls on either side act like a chute, spilling you into the harbor town of Kinvara in County Galway.

A guesthouse on your left.

Dressmaker’s shop next to it.

A veterinary surgeon’s office next to that.

You walk across the road to the light red building on the corner. The sign above you says Keogh’s of Kinvara (food served all day).

The air is dry and warm, inviting. With a shake, you unbutton your rain-jacket and lean your umbrella against the wall near the entry. The two people seated at the counter turn and look, but turn back to their tea.

“Morning. Y’allright?” asks the man behind the counter.

And with a smile, you sit and wait for your tea. To your right, a tiny-but-mighty wood-stove shakes with heated excitement as the owner stuff another log inside.

The drizzle hits the window, but you don’t mind. A bowl of soup and a piece of brown bread show up shortly after your tea.

Cold and rainy outside, but warm and hearty inside.

A fine soft day, indeed.

 

anthony forrest

On Patrick’s St.

November 18, 2019 / / 0 Comments

Ancient stones rise in solemn silence

A cavern of worship and song

It’s arching cool darkness

Sheds light enough

Illuminating hearts, broken and wrong

Grey stone pillars hoist high the glass

Of windows colored by olden-hand

Telling tales of Saints long dead

With curving, winding knots

Echoing truths of God and man

 

anthony forrest 

Travel Journal, 37

November 7, 2019 / / 0 Comments

Companions

Sometimes it’s just the two of us traveling together. Travel is so much sweeter when somebody you love is there to share in the experiences and sights. I almost never travel alone. But there is a sweet spot when it comes to travel companions. A giant bus filled with tourists rumbling from one site to the next might appeal to some, but not to me. But I’ve also heard stories of two people that may be friends on a daily basis, but might tire of each other before the trip is over.

Some porridge is too cold, some too hot.

My wife and I often travel with the same group of four or five. And that group is just right. The fun experienced becomes heightened. Conversations richly deepen. And each person’s strength becomes the groups’ strength.

One of the friends we travel with is a bold gal. She has no misgivings about walking up to a stranger and asking for direction, even if she doesn’t speak the language. She’s also gifted at striking up random conversations with random people. She is the social needle that introduces us into the country or culture we are in at any given time.

We walked along and talked during a recent visit to Ireland. Though each of us may be able to go unnoticed alone, the four of us stood out like sore thumbs. A passerby asked us where we were from. Our social butterfly stepped in. She stuck up a pleasant conversation with a man who happened to be Ukrainian.

He spoke of his president and asked about ours. They talked on about the tensions between our respective nations. But they came to the conclusion that our lives were barely affected by the decisions of faraway people in faraway capitals. In the end, a comedian from Ukraine and a billionaire from America can’t change the color of the grass in County Claire, Ireland.

As I walked along with my friends and my new acquaintances from Ukraine, it struck me that I certainly would not have had this conversation without the binding agent of good travel companions.

 

anthony forrest

The Garden

November 4, 2019 / / 0 Comments

 

A stone wall stands to my right and to my left

Before me?

A little gate

But I must leave this miniature green-space

For the rain is starting

And the hour grows late

 

anthony forrest 

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