Trim and the Boyne River Valley
I rationalized these feelings by the fact that my grandmother was Irish, and that my city of Chicago is chock-a-block full of fat Irish firemen. I convinced myself that these were the reasons I was connected to a place I had no business going to. Except for the stout. I gradually came to drop this idea and face the fact that, yes, there was indeed a strange force drawing my imagination to Ireland, and I set my sights on going there to find out what this force was. If I was going to find it, I needed to hurry before they paved it all over to make way for bigger shopping malls.
My chance came in May of 2003. I was twenty-six when I hatched a plan with my travel buddy Annie to cross the ocean. We scoured the Internet for a couple of cheap plane tickets and before we knew it, we were over the Atlantic. As the rest of the plane was snoozing, I was deep in thought, wondering if I had just made a stupid move. What the bloody hell was I doing on a plane bound for Ireland? What the hell was I planning to do there? Would I spend the next two weeks wondering aimlessly in the cold, wet, windy countryside in vain, attempting to locate the force that had been pulling me there for so long? What would happen if I didn’t find it? All I had was a map, my guitar and a vague notion that I'd track down an invisible, mystical force. Good plan. It's a good thing I wasn't in charge of D-Day.
The plane passed over the greenest fields I’d ever seen. We landed in Dublin shortly after, at about ten in the morning. Much to my astonishment, it was cold and rainy. We rented the cheapest car we could find and headed into the general direction of the countryside. Right, I thought, this shouldn't be too hard, considering Ireland is almost completely rural. Unless, of course, we got hopelessly lost on the expressway, which we did almost immediately.
An hour or so later we wound up in a great place to start my experience of the country: Trim, a pretty village just northwest of Dublin. My Irish fantasies began to kick in as we rounded a turn and were face to face with our first castle, a hulking ruin that served as a set for the movie "Braveheart." The crew came to Trim in 1995 to film around town and the locals have been high about it ever since, kind of like your cousin who keeps re-telling the story of how she met some soap opera star when she waitressed in L.A.
I popped into the TI (the traveler's information office, usually located in the center of town), collected some information on rooms to rent, and approached the gorgeous old home of a very kind lady. It was directly across from the old fortress. Luckily she had a very inexpensive room available upstairs and I collapsed into bed and slept.
Two hours later, from our little room with the giant, ancient bathtub, we could see the clouds had broken and it was a beautiful evening. We descended the rickety staircase and walked outside, where we were met with a sight that made the long flight worthwhile. The Braveheart castle was bathed in sunlight, with incredibly green grass around it while the Boyne River gently burbled past. It felt like a dream.
Trim is a friendly, homey village, one that’s easy to feel at peace in. It made it an ideal place to relax for a couple of days and rest up for our trip around the country. We perused the massive castle, walked along the sleepy Boyne River and had a great dinner at a little restaurant next to the small stone bridge that has straddled the little river for centuries. You could probably jump across it if you wanted to, but I was weighed down with beer.
The following day, we drove along the lush Boyne River Valley. We visited the site of the Battle of the Boyne, where Irish forces decimated the British Army in the late 1600's. The event is still celebrated hundreds of years later, like a really bad team finally winning a soccer match and then losing again for another couple of centuries. I had never been colder or wetter in my life. We soon left and headed further west. It was here that my first encounters with the magical force of Ireland took place.
We were rolling right along the road as I was wondering why I’d come. To my astonishment, the weather was still awful. All of a sudden I caught a glimpse of some very mythic-looking ruins high on a hill, covered with mist. I instinctively got out of the car, which was still moving. It was great—no ticket booth, no t-shirt shops and no historical re-enactments. Just a hill. A muddy one in the middle of nowhere. In the rain.
We proceeded to climb up, sliding down more than climbing up. There were stray cows about, so most of the trip included slipping on cow dung. In the rain. We were cold and muddy when we reached the ruins at the top, but were rewarded as only independent, adventurous travelers can be. Not only did we have the ruins to ourselves, we were blessed with a beautiful view of the surrounding countryside. The little green fields of the Boyne River Valley were ours to enjoy in the mist and fog. I ambled around and wondered what happened up here, when these ruins came to be, and whatever happened to the people who built them. I thought about how cold the people who occupied this place must have been when the wind kicked up. It was a moment unspoiled by commercialism that we had to earn. I began to understand that finding that "something" was going to be easier if we put the map away.
The rest of the day was filled with more wandering and eventually we headed back to Trim. As Annie got ready in the bathroom for a night at the pubs, I overheard an argument between the woman who owned the house and her teenage daughter. The daughter was complaining about the stiff curfew and the overall lack of nightlife in the village. It was hard to blame her. The mother gave her a scolding for not being more grateful that she lived in such a wonderful place. It shattered the average tourist's illusion of happy rural villagers content with the fields and the irritating camcorder-toting visitors. The argument I overheard vividly illustrates the very real divide between the older residents who are content versus the younger crowd who see Ireland's rural tradition as nothing more than an impediment to good cell phone reception.
When Annie was ready, we hit the pubs. I was eager to see whether they matched up to my imagination. After all, Chicago is a world-class, pseudo-Irish pub city. And our plot to explore Ireland was hatched in an Irish pub, of course. They didn't disappoint. My theory of travel has always been that to feel the texture of a place, you must experience it as the locals do. This means renting a room in a home and going to the local tavern after dark. As I was soaking in the smoky atmosphere of a cozy, warm, busy pub in Trim, I began a conversation with two locals who were trading jokes at their corner table, next to the dartboard.
The one old farmer in the wool knit cap began to tell me about a wave of serious injuries inflicted with the sharp metal tips of darts during unruly pub fights. Apparently, hooligans across the land were being maimed by these things during otherwise harmless incidents. It became so bad, in fact, that the Irish government dealt with the crisis by temporarily banning metal tips on darts. "Feckin' plastic, it's just not the same," he said. "Aye!" said his friend, also in a wool cap, "I haven't won a pub fight since!" We all had a good laugh and clinked our pint glasses together.
We enjoyed what we thought would be our last night in Trim, but as usual, fate had something else planned for us. We did indeed leave for the west the next morning, but we had not seen the last of this little village. As often happens to independent travelers, it turned out that the best experience of our trip was being saved for last. That experience would answer all of my questions. But first we had to travel around the country before we could get back to where we started.