Creative Writing: Under The Spell - A travel tale by Danny O'brien
"The great advantage of having an ancestry like that of a mongrel dog is I have
so many ancestral homes to go home to."
We caught the ferry from Le Havre, France to Ireland, land of my ancestors.
Every since I was a wee lad, my mind has been used as a canvas by every Irishman
who has been displaced from the Emerald Isle. A picture of quaintness
bordering upon myth. Cute I thought it would be, but never as much as the
tourist hype I had read. I donned my suit of armor constructed of cynicism,
forged by age. Protected thus from the hype, I the ancestral child would see
Ireland as it really is. Mind you, no tourist hype for me.
The ship pulled in to Rosslare Harbor near Wexford and lowered its gangplank. I
made it most of the way down before I was sucked clean out of my armor into,
head over heels, and under the spell of the Emerald Isle.
We had arranged for a rental car, to be picked upon arrival at the harbor. I
thought perhaps we would be shown how to operate it. Instead the attendant said
in his sweet Irish brogue, "It's the wee red one over there," and handed me the
keys.
Still dazed by the sudden entrance in to "The Spell" we sped off in our wee red
Ford Fiesta. Every so many hundred yards along the road signs reminded us to
"Drive to the left." On the open road it was no problem, however moments later
in the congestion of Wexford I was near panic, yelling at Travis to help remind
me what side of the street I was on. It didn't help that he often mixes left and
right up in his mind, some sort of hereditary functional disorder. I almost
broke out in sweat when I had to make my first right turn feeling as though I
was going head on into the oncoming traffic.
By the time we got through Wexford I was in desperate need to stop for a wee pee.
I saw a small side road and took that hoping to find a secluded spot to relieve
myself.
I discovered that when you leave the main roads in Ireland you... [continues]
"The great advantage of having an ancestry like that of a mongrel dog is I have
so many ancestral homes to go home to."
We caught the ferry from Le Havre, France to Ireland, land of my ancestors.
Every since I was a wee lad, my mind has been used as a canvas by every Irishman
who has been displaced from the Emerald Isle. A picture of quaintness
bordering upon myth. Cute I thought it would be, but never as much as the
tourist hype I had read. I donned my suit of armor constructed of cynicism,
forged by age. Protected thus from the hype, I the ancestral child would see
Ireland as it really is. Mind you, no tourist hype for me.
The ship pulled in to Rosslare Harbor near Wexford and lowered its gangplank. I
made it most of the way down before I was sucked clean out of my armor into,
head over heels, and under the spell of the Emerald Isle.
We had arranged for a rental car, to be picked upon arrival at the harbor. I
thought perhaps we would be shown how to operate it. Instead the attendant said
in his sweet Irish brogue, "It's the wee red one over there," and handed me the
keys.
Still dazed by the sudden entrance in to "The Spell" we sped off in our wee red
Ford Fiesta. Every so many hundred yards along the road signs reminded us to
"Drive to the left." On the open road it was no problem, however moments later
in the congestion of Wexford I was near panic, yelling at Travis to help remind
me what side of the street I was on. It didn't help that he often mixes left and
right up in his mind, some sort of hereditary functional disorder. I almost
broke out in sweat when I had to make my first right turn feeling as though I
was going head on into the oncoming traffic.
By the time we got through Wexford I was in desperate need to stop for a wee pee.
I saw a small side road and took that hoping to find a secluded spot to relieve
myself.
I discovered that when you leave the main roads in Ireland you... [continues]
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