Mrs. Teabody Packs Boots AND Sandals

We saw him playing rain or shine

We sailed into Galway Sunday, September 11 as our first outing of our recent stay in Oranmore and Galway showed us the business end of her weather stick. On our return visit on Tuesday, she charmed us into thinking we never wanted to leave.

Sunday it rained. Tuesday the sun shone.
Sunday the wind blew so hard that it knocked one of the banners off its pins on Eyre Square.
Tuesday folks played frisbee on the lawn in shorts in Eyre Square and dined al fresco, stood listening to the hurdy-gurdy man.
Sunday the surf spat sand and water against houses one hundred meters away. (Okay, maybe not THAT far but a very long distance, nonetheless).
Tuesday? I wore sandals. But my raincoat was in my backpack. That day and every day.

Forty-eight hours can make a big difference when it comes to the weather in Galway. So can forty-eight minutes for that matter. Such is life in Ireland. Best learn, as the Irish have, to roll with it. As Hamlet advises, "The readiness is all." Come prepared. There’s a glorious combination of flexibility, affability and joie de vi·vre built into the folk who live here. Of seizing the brightness when it comes knowing full well that it is, or may be, fleeting.

Are you planning a day or a couple days in Connemara? It is glorious and one of our happiest days was strolling the grounds at Kylemore Abbey, skies overcast but not so much as spitting. The brilliance of the flowers growing inside the walled garden lifted our drought-back-home spirits enormously. We were dazzled by the shapes, variety and vigor of everything. Along the way that morning our driver had told us that rhododendron had become an invasive plant in Ireland. We encourage this shrub in Pennsylvania but our pathetic attempts pale in comparison to the towering plants lining the pathways at Kylemore





“Mr. Teabody, why don’t our rhododendron look like this?”
“Inadequate rainfall, Mrs. T. and  perhaps they (our rhododendron) want to live in Ireland,” he replied.
"Project much, Mr. T?" I replied.


We stopped at Leenaun to stretch our legs and engage in a little retail therapy. I took twenty photographs of water and mountains, of mountains reflected in water before going inside a little shop where I bought half a dozen postcards. Of mountains. Of mountains reflected in water. Of sheep.

                                                                                                                                                                                                            As the clerk rang up my sale, I asked impulsively, “How do you deal with all this beauty?”
He didn’t miss a beat in replying, “Well, we don’t see much of it.”
“Because you’re inside working, right?”
Laughing, “No, because of the fog. You’re having a lucky day.”
Back on the bus I asked Mr. Teabody if he thought it rained too much in Ireland.
“No, I think they tell us that so we don’t move here.”
“I think that, too.”


An observation I cannot refrain from making is that the Irish seem much more engaged with the world they inhabit than what I have grown accustomed to at home. It was refreshing to walk into pubs and see folks talking animatedly with one another. Yes, an occasional cell phone floated from a pocket for a quick chat or text but by and large folks seemed much more interested in being wholly in the moment, enjoying the company they shared the space with. Aware. Alive. Encounter an oncoming person on the street and that complete stranger seemed far more inclined to meet your eyes with theirs, to acknowledge your presence and your right to share the planet with him or her with a wee bob of the chin or full-on smile and pleasant greeting.

The third day of our visit five of us made a dinner reservation for Indian food at Oran Tandoori in the village of Oranmore. One of our party decided last minute he wanted to cross the street to the thatch pub and have a pre-dinner pint so off in his safari-helmeted head he went saying he would join us a bit later. When he didn’t return, our friend went off to gather him back into the fold. Walking into the pub, she found a group of five friends handicapping a race. They looked up  only mildly curious to see this WOMAN invading their space.

“Excuse me. But have you seen my husband?” she asked.
“Oh, him? He’s gone off to Cork, hasn’t he?” quipped one.
“Aw, no, not that one. He’s in the next room with that blonde, isn’t he?”
Getting caught up in the banter, our friend retorted, "And just how do you know it was MY husband gone off to Cork or  gone off in the next room with the blonde?"
"Well, he's left his hat, hasn't he?" responded the first lad, nodding at the Safari helmet occupying a nearby chair. Everyone had a nice laugh.
At that point our friend’s husband returned from nature’s call and everyone laughed again. Easy.

We found no strangers in Ireland. Proximity means chat and before you know it, you’re hooked, exchanging family history, discussing the American political scene or how each of you earns a living. No barriers going up, no condescension, no judgment. That’s not to say there is no respect for privacy. No. You can wander lonely as a cloud and remain undisturbed if you wish. Feel free to isolate yourself. Be that person who takes out his iphone and sticks those earbuds in your ear. Listen to your favorite "f - - -the-world-I-hate-it" tunes if that is your wont. But as my mother used to say - -and she was one wise woman - - don’t cut off your nose to spite your face.

Ireland is everything anyone could hope for in finding joy in the mere living of life. Of  a lesson in never taking themselves or the inconveniences of the moment too seriously. Of looking at a sky that is shedding water by the bucketful and knowing if they wait long enough the sun will be out. Of wearing shirtsleeves but packing a raincoat. "The readiness is all."