A number of Irelands co-exist in my mind. The lullabies my father used to sing painted Ireland as a land of green meadows and thatched cottages, a tame, quiet place inhabited by fishermen and beautiful maidens and sad mothers. The mythology book I treasured as a child, wearing the pages thin from reading and re-reading, spoke of an Ireland of grey skies and stone monuments, a fierce, wild place full of kings and mighty goddesses and blue-painted warriors. The Irish history class I took in my first semester of college showed me a land ravaged by colonialism, famine, and war.
After my freshman year of college, I am finally in Ireland and these different images linger in my mind. I’m on a month-long study abroad trip. We stay mostly in Dublin, living first in a hostel and then on the University College Dublin campus. Classes and group activities in and around the city take up a lot of our time, but in our free hours, we get to explore.
In my wandering, I see that history is everywhere here, much more so than at home.
I see the Ireland of my father’s lullabies in the West. The beautiful green landscapes stretch out in every direction, interrupted by groups of little white dots that are flocks of sheep. I press my face against the window of the train as we pass through.
I see the Ireland of my mythology book in the wild, open spaces. I enjoy sitting on the edges of cliffs: at Howth, a village outside of Dublin; at the Cliffs of Moher, famous for its stunning views; at Dun Aonghasa, a prehistoric fort on the island of Inishmore. At Dun Aonghosa, I feel like I am seeing through the eyes of the old kings; there are the lush and misty hills, the vast and sparkling ocean, and the weathered stones of the fort. I sit in the ruins and dangle my legs over the edge, and the weight of my Doc Martens seems to drag my tired feet down towards the water. When I stand up, my heart pounding in my chest, I feel like I am the master of the whole world below me. I feel those ancient stirrings.
I see the Ireland of my history class in the bustle of Dublin. I go to pubs that are three times as old as the United States. I see monuments to leaders and hunger strikers and deceased ancestors and even British imperialists along the cobbled streets. I pay my respects to Padraig Pearse and the martyrs of 1916 at Kilmainhaim Gaol and Glasnevin Cemetery.
As the month goes on, I see that these three Irelands are not separate after all. They create a fourth Ireland, a country that remembers its past but is looking toward its future. }
It is this fourth Ireland that inspires me the most. It has bred so many heroes, from old warriors to modern artists. It has been through so many upheavals, from the prehistoric ages to the present day. It has both lost battles and won them. Above all, it has always kept its fierce spirit and its wild beauty. Above all, it has endured.
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