My Irish Adventure

I once had my astrological chart read. Before we met, I told the astrologer the date, place and time I was born, and the first thing she said when I saw her was, Do you ever leave home? I said, Not much. Evidently my sun sign (Taurus) is in the majority of my 12 houses; I don’t know what that means actually, but I gathered it was significant by the look on her face. Now, I did not need a reading to know that I prefer home more than any other place on earth, though it was confirming to know it was indicated emphatically in the celestial bodies of the universe. What has been true much of my older adult life is that I rarely travel very far from home. I love going to the North Shore of Minnesota, but that’s really an extension of where I live. I spent a year in France in my 20s and I have been to England, Mexico, Canada, Majorca, Italy and many of the states in the US. I only recount this now to prove I am not a shut-in.

On the last of day of May of this year, I decided to leave my house, my ZIP code, my city, state and even country. I had been feeling as though I was marinating in the comforts of my life to an extent that might not be good for me. In addition, someone I know advised that if I had even the slightest interest in traveling, doing it sooner than later might be a good idea. I currently have decent stamina and good health and I still have my wits about me. In 10 years, at the age of 80, who knows?

It was several years ago that I researched writing retreats all over the world. This was the way I “traveled” for years — on the internet. I looked at houses on Vrbo or Airbnb like an addict looks at porn. All the places I could go, all the cottages I could rent … but was never able to say, Yes, I’m going. I found hundreds of retreats that were organized around workshops and classes. I did not want this type of experience. I wanted to be left alone to write for hours, perhaps in a beautiful location, with other like-minded people who crave the spaciousness of quiet time that is scarce in the everyday life we all lead. I found one in Ireland that was just this type of retreat, called the Anam Cara Writer’s and Artist’s Retreat. The name Anam Cara is what first grabbed me. It means soul friend and I learned about it in a wonderful book by John O’Donohue, Anam Cara: A Book of Celtic Wisdom. I emailed the owner almost two years ago and we arranged a call by phone. It sounded exactly like what I was looking for, but alas, I could not commit to leaving home, my cat and my work for a week or two. And truthfully, flying to Ireland sounded like too far to me.

So why was I ready now to commit to going? I needed to shake things up, take myself to places I have never seen. I was eager to think new thoughts, to see a different country, and quite frankly, to take my curiosity out of the inner world I inhabit perhaps too much and focus it elsewhere for a while. I made all the reservations in a 48-hour span of time in late May. Here is the trip I planned and the trip I had: three days in Dublin, three days in Cork and nine days at the Anam Cara Retreat on the Beara Peninsula, a remote part of southern Ireland.

My time in Dublin and Cork was lovely — walking miles in both cities, seeing museums and galleries, watching people everywhere and listening to their beautiful accents. I took a train to Cork, two and a half hours south of Dublin, and on my last day there, I was picked up by car and taken three hours south to the retreat by a man named Battie (short for Bartholomew) O’Neill. He was the first of many interesting people I would meet in the week ahead. Battie is from the town of Eyeries (where Anam Cara is) where he and his wife own a bed and breakfast as well as a farm. We talked the entire ride about the Republic of Ireland, Brexit, Northern Ireland, Trump, the impeachment proceedings, Boris Johnson, San Francisco (where he has visited twice), the Irish famine, and why many Irish people have animosity toward England. The countryside from Cork to Eyeries was stunning, especially when we reached the Beara Peninsula.

The retreat was enchanting. Anam Cara sits on five acres of forested land with a river running through it. In the woods were 34 of what the owner calls “nooks and crannies” — hidden benches, a meditation hut, a labyrinth, roped-off wooden platforms suspended over the river, etc. Next to the main house was a chicken coop housing five hens that produced eggs for our breakfasts. And there was a pair of resident ducks who waddled all over the property and swam around in their pond outside the kitchen. Meals were prepared for the residents and we ate them together; the rest was quiet time for writing, walking, painting — anything but talking.

When I arrived, there were two other residents: a young Norwegian writer working on her second novel and a man from Santa Cruz, California, researching his Irish ancestry in hopes of writing a book about it for his family. He had been there for four days and left the day after I got there. Maria, the Norwegian writer, was on day four of her eight-day stay. I got to know her at meals and by the time she left, I had made a friend. We had rich conversations about writing and about our lives in Norway and Minnesota. She was young enough to be my daughter, but we seemed on the same page about creativity and life. I was sad the day she left, a feeling akin to homesickness. We had made a deep connection and I am hoping we will stay in touch.

For the rest of the time, I was the only resident — along with the owner and the cooks. I finished a story I was writing, started a new one, and began a new book, this time fiction. Only two things interrupted my hours of writing: one was my consultation with an Irish oracle named Mary Maddison. The owner of the retreat told me that people come from all over the British Isles to seek her insight about their lives. Battie O’Neill drove me to her house on the far side of the village. He laughed all the way, saying that many people consult Mary, but he was a skeptic about the oracle part — he just thought she was a lovely person and whatever she did was fine with him.

Mary is at least 80. She owns a tract of land around her house that is astoundingly beautiful. It overlooks the sea; she has five peacocks (one is albino), ducks, white doves, geese, chickens and even miniature horses. On her land she built a separate meditation domelike structure that she keeps open at all times for anyone in the village to use. In addition to her being an oracle, she is from a long line of Irish storytellers — so there is a separate small building just for storytelling. And in a far-off pasture, she designed a circle of enormous sacred rocks. When she showed me around, I thought I had died and this might be what heaven looks like.

The reading itself was unusual and I am still sorting it out. She reads stones. First she asked me to take off my shoes and socks and then she gently put my feet into a round bin of tiny pebbles, covering them completely. The pebbles were semi-precious stones and rocks and they felt cold and wonderful. Then she gave me a basket of much larger stones and asked me to choose 42 of them — and to put them on a table in six rows, seven rocks in each row. I did that and then she started the reading. She interpreted all the stones, predicting, talking about the past, my relationships, my work, creativity and on and on. She knew nothing about me other than I am American and I am staying at Anam Cara. Some of what she said was spot on and other things were strange (e.g., I will be meeting someone from South Africa, specifically Cape Town, in the very near future, there will be a significant and unexpected happy event in April). Then she asked me the birth months of my family members and some close friends. She told me about their yearnings, conflicts and losses. She then closed her eyes and said she could hear the ones who are no longer living. She told me what my parents and husband were saying to me. I felt my skepticism rising to the surface, but I listened carefully nonetheless.

Eventually she took my feet out of the bin of pebbles. She gasped and giggled saying the bottoms of my feet were completely covered with pebbles, which she said is highly unusual and that it means I am a true healer. Really, I think my feet were just sweaty.

It was not the reading that blew me away. It was Mary Maddison herself: how she lives her life and how she loves her birds and animals. She had a goose named Alice that she picked up and cuddled like a baby. I took a video of it and have watched it already a dozen times. Each morning she makes fresh scones for her peacocks. And on cold mornings, she warms up the corn slurry she feeds her other birds and ducks. She is tiny, missing a few teeth, and as spry as a 40-year-old. Walking around her land with her after the reading was a privilege.

Here is the other event that drew me away from my writing: I took two private art lessons with a wonderful artist and teacher, Ida Mitrani. Ida is Turkish and grew up in western France. She lived and worked in Dublin for 20 years and recently moved to the Beara Peninsula to a village called Ardgroom. One of my lessons took place in the glassed-in conservatory at Anam Cara. Ida arrived with drawing materials. (I brought drawing pencils from home.) We worked together for about three hours — which seemed like 30 minutes. I did quite a bit of painting and drawing in my 20s. So it has been almost 50 years since I felt the deep contentment and meditative calm that comes from making visual art. I felt as though Ida plugged me back into some old part of myself.

Two days later, she invited me to her house for a color theory and watercolor lesson. We worked for three hours, and again, it was a deeply satisfying experience. After the art class and a tour of her studio and house, Ida made us a wonderful lunch. We sat for a long time talking about some important things in our lives. By the time she dropped me back at the retreat, I knew I had made a good friend. I never expected anything like this would happen. I will study with her online and I hope she might visit me in Minneapolis one day. She invited me to return to the Beara Peninsula and stay with her and her partner next time. Maybe I will. Who knows?

So here I am writing this piece for my first Newsletter, at 35,000 feet above the Atlantic Ocean on a flight going home to my beloved Minnesota. The richness and depth of my experiences far exceeded anything I ever thought would happen. I think my timing was right. I was not ready a few years ago. I would not have been as open to adventure as I was these last two weeks. I surprised myself repeatedly. I thought I would be fearful from time to time. I was never afraid. I loved traveling by myself. I loved having room to indulge any curiosity. This trip was a gift from me to me: of time and quiet to write and reflect. My world got bigger, I thought new thoughts, and I learned about a people and a country that deeply touched my soul.