When I returned from my first trip to Ireland, a buddy who’d been there several times asked, “Did you feel it ?” That’s all he said, and I knew exactly what he meant.
Ireland is a poem, a ramble, a reek, a song, a session, an emerald, a brogue, a jaunt, a lure, a dream. Ireland is lush and crag, warm and brutal, pubs and bookies, bangers and stout. Its history is written by independent and proud people subjected to invasions and oppression, followed by risings.
Frank McCourt chronicled his wretched childhood in his Pulitzer Prize winning Angela’s Ashes. His formative years were characterized by poverty, malnutrition and loss of siblings, yet he wrote in ‘Tis,
“You’d think that after all the miserable days in Limerick I wouldn’t even want to go back to Ireland but when the plane approaches the coast and the shadows of clouds are moving across the fields and it’s…
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