Pedestrians
A long walk and a short marriage
I arranged the trip to Ireland as a surprise for his birthday. I bought a can of overpriced steel cut Irish Oatmeal and cooked up a pot of it for breakfast. Folded inside the Hallmark card propped against his orange juice glass was a printout of our flight itinerary; Aer Lingus from Baltimore to Shannon Airport.
He didn’t want to get a hotel near the airport. I argued that point “No one really sleeps on an overnight flight and we’ll be driving a rental on the other side of the road.” He scoffed at the idea. Why waste an entire day?
Our rental car came equipped with a disposable camera in the glove compartment for when we’d have our accident. The roads are narrow with no shoulder. It’s always raining. The tiny road signs all look the same with an excess of vowels. Within an hour we were hopelessly lost.
As the headlights approached, I mentally steered to the right while stepping on the imaginary brake from my passenger seat on the left. Just seconds after impact I screeched, “Give me that damn camera! Those assholes are on the wrong side of the road!”.
“Darlin’, it looks like we’re the assholes,” he said.
Where did that “We” come from? One of us wanted to be sleeping at that hotel with shuttle service from the airport. Instead, “we” were standing in the rain waiting for the police and the tow truck to arrive.
And so, by necessity we joined those walkers of the moors. We were pedestrians. Those who actually have a chance to see things up close. Contemplative cows, patiently hospitable horses, and friendly dogs. Holy wells and shrines to the Virgin Mary just randomly appeared among rolling hills so green Crayola hasn’t come up with anything close. We saw sheep with their rumps dusted pink and green for reasons we’d not figure out on our own. We’d walk ten to fifteen miles to the next Inn, sometimes not seeing another human until we arrived. At times, the fog would set in and we could barely see each other. For a fee, sons or cousins of innkeepers would transport our luggage to the next stop. If the weather was really bad they’d transport us too.
We didn’t talk much then because we didn’t need to. We were in a time out of time as though we were remembering the sabbath to keep it holy. Looking across the Sheep’s Head peninsula, we were intoxicated by the shimmering rocky coast and by our romantic harmony. We were having an adventure as those who are fortunate to have good health might be inclined to do. We kissed the Blarney stone and then kissed one another to seal in the eloquence.
Despite all that, within a year of our trip, we had nothing left to say. The fog would not lift and finally we parted ways. I have a picture of him in that oddly contorted position one must assume to kiss the stone. I came across it the other day and for a brief moment felt the sinus-stinging nostalgia of lost love. Then I thought about how my friend had given him the appropriate nickname “The Lying Infidel.” I blinked back my tears and took another look at the photograph. It reminded me of a horse’s ass.
