Meg in Transit

Here I am, back once more, attempting to finish this seemingly endless, self-appointed project of mine…

My return is partly due to the hint of autumn in the air today, and the nostalgia that comes with it. The back-to-school-ness of it all: romanticizing years past and the beginning of a new year. I’ve always tracked time by the school calendar, whether or not I was actually attending.

It’s also partly due to recent conversations about my months of traveling (if you ask my advice, I’m going to say “do it,” just saying), and partly due to the reminders and memories resurfacing from various apps and photo albums – constantly pulling me back, reminding me of everything I don’t want to forget and keep promising myself I’ll write down. 

I’ve also found myself in a similar headspace lately. Though the circumstances are different, I keep feeling familiar feelings and realizing they relate to an experience or a person from that summer. Since 2023, I’ve been so afraid of forgetting everything that I’ve made a habit of wandering through the memories – before bed, upon waking, while walking my dog. You get it.

After making a Big Move last year, on my own – though again, with the support and patience of my family and friends – I’ve gone through similar highs and lows. Because it’s been so long since I’ve written, and in an effort not to get sidetracked today, I decided not to reread what I’ve posted so far. I can’t remember if I ever wrote specifically about how everything felt so much bigger when I was alone in new countries. The highs were very high, and the lows got pretty low. For example: standing in a small corridor next to a busy, not-so-clean bathroom, holding all of my bags on a very delayed, very slow-moving, and very packed train, tears silently streaming down my face… not my proudest moment. But we’ll get to that.

I suppose all of this is to say: in the year since I moved, I’ve been forced to revisit so many of the emotions I had put off – some of them since first feeling them that summer. I’m used to filling my schedule, and recently, when I suddenly had time that wasn’t planned, I was caught completely off guard by the happy/sad of it all. Immense gratitude and joy, paired with intense fear and doubt.

Year One was filled with the novelty of new experiences, relationships, and places. And while I hope – and know – that Year Two will hold much of the same, there was a sudden jolt to my system when I thought: Well, here I am. Now what happens? And then: Why does this feel familiar?

On a smaller scale, the shift from my comfort zone – the familiarity of Dublin, my cozy and safe stay with Rhoda – to a completely new experience that my mostly introverted self was actually terrified of felt similar. I spent Year One saying I wanted to commit, to find some version of settling down, at least for a while. But now that Year Two is here, I’ve realized I am doing it, it’s real. And, for various reasons, that’s scary.

When I was younger, I think I believed that at some point I’d just be brave. I’d be older, I’d be confident, I’d be sure. We all know that’s not how it works. It doesn’t just happen – it’s a constant process. I had to learn that lesson on top of a hill above a tiny village in one of the most northerly parts of Ireland two years ago. And now, in a similar moment, I’m having to learn it again.

So while I’m writing this for you – whoever you are – I’m also writing it for me, where I am right now. As I head into this second year, let’s head into Chapter Two.

(See what I did there?)

Two years, two months, and 25 days ago, it was an unusually sunny June day at the top of a hill above a village in one of the most northerly parts of the country – at my favorite place in the world. If you were to look for me on that day, you’d find me covered in a layer of dirt, sitting in the grass, sticky from sunscreen and the atypical absence of a breeze, shielding my eyes from the bright midday light, and looking out over tidy rows of newly compost-covered potatoes.

Perched on this hill, next to the Lough Foyle coast, sits a small farm. On this particular day, you’d find a herd of cows, some brown and some black, a flock of self-shedding sheep, four cats, two donkeys, two dogs, and a rather large pig named Mrs. Sweeney. You would be welcomed by two of the loveliest people you’ll ever meet: a soft-spoken, even-keeled, bearded Englishman in a red cap, and an exuberant, beautiful, immediately-draws-you-in-with-her-laugh-and-sparkling-eyes, woman, also English.

The man is an expert organic farmer, former woodworker, and supposedly a famous goat breeder, having saved some breed that would have disappeared entirely if not for him, according to legend. The woman is an award-winning preserve maker, incredible cook, and gifted conversationalist. She knows so many things about so many things, and you could, and would, listen to her speak for hours. Sometimes, another Englishman pops by with warm scones – he’s a chef turned farmhand with many stories of his own. You would never tire of their stories.

On a typical evening, you’d likely find yourself in the kitchen, gathered around a large table, stories and laughter filling the room. The warmth of the stove would mingle with the scent of herbs and simmering soup or sauce. You’d cradle a mug of tea, and Ciara – the energetic, eager, still-a-puppy-but-full-sized border collie – would most definitely drop a ball in your lap under the table, not-so-silently insisting you play with her.

I’m getting ahead of myself. 

On the 21st of May, 2023, I packed my bags, and walked to the train that would begin my journey across the country to Galway. I had visited Galway a few years prior with my mom, and my memories of our brief time were a huge reason why I had wanted to return to Ireland to explore on my own. 

The thing is – and please don’t think I’m ungrateful, I know how lucky I was to be doing any of this, all of this –  my first few days had been so perfect that I was bound to get hit with a little bit of reality. You know when you have a perfect memory of an event or experience, and then you try to recreate that moment or feeling and it just… falls short? I had been romanticizing Galway for years, and I think I was convinced that returning would be simultaneously dream-fulfilling and sort of, person-fulfilling.

It was still beautiful, but it was also lonely. I think the fact that I was doing this – by myself – had just hit me. I was overwhelmed, anxious about the next leg of my trip, and frustrated with myself for overcomplicating things.

It was that loneliness in a crowd feeling. I was intimidated by it. It was consistently overcast. The city was buzzing with people in town for a festival, and I completely talked myself out of going to any restaurant or pub for fear of not knowing how to act or of taking up space. My second day there, I went on a brief walking tour, but for the rest of the time, I wandered, took photos, missed my dog, and stopped in shops for meals to take home and heat up in the shared kitchen of the sort of boarding house I was staying in, while I wondered what I was doing with my life, why I had decided to do this, and if I should book a flight home.

On the 23rd, I got on a bus and hoped I wouldn’t make a mistake on my unnecessarily complicated travel day.. Instead of taking a more direct route from Dublin, I had unintentionally arranged it so that I needed to take multiple buses through the more rural western part of the country. Partway through, we stopped in Sligo; at some point I switched buses, tried to exchange some money (because one of the buses only took coins), and made it to Moville by 4:00 p.m., where I checked into a tiny B&B, a small room above a cafe, for the night. I later learned that I absolutely could have told my hosts I was in town and they would’ve brought me to the farm. But because I was afraid to take up too much space and ask questions, I decided it would make more sense to tell them I had arrived in the morning, on the day I was supposed to start at the farm. Reader, I was going through it.

At this point, I was entirely made up of anxiety. I walked to the convenience store and picked out a cup of ramen for the evening and some quick oats for the morning, and pulled an apple out of my bag. I asked for pictures of Rosie, then cried myself to sleep. Yep, I was four days into my three-month adventure, and I was losing it.

The next morning, I nervously ordered coffee and an Irish breakfast sans meat, then shakily sent a message to my host saying that I had arrived. Soon, a red capped farmer pulled up in his car, filled with various gardening tools, and hoisted my suitcase into the back – as I thought of Rhoda from Dublin, now cursing myself for not packing everything in a backpack. He quietly and kindly reminded me that my door was on the other side of the car,  then chauffeured me through the little coastal main drive, and up the hill. 

I’m hesitant to write too many personal details about my two farm-mates. Should they read this and give their blessing, I’ll create an addendum solely devoted to singing their praises. We were quite the trio, with decades and life experiences between us, all there for different reasons, disclosed or otherwise. I couldn’t have asked for a more supportive and caring pair to spend my time with. I find it difficult to concisely describe the impact they had on me, and continue to have on me, but I will do my best to provide some narrative. In my memory, it was moments after I arrived, that the younger of my two companions, a student from Germany, excitedly whispered, “should we ask her?!” She and I would bond as“bothy-mates” splitting a bunk bed in a small stone shelter, immediate neighbors to the retired pig, Mrs. Sweeney, whom we affectionately referred to as our other roommate. My older companion (sorry – I’m not calling you old, just older!!) , a fellow American with Irish citizenship, nodded, smiled, and said, “go ahead.” “Would you like to join us for a trip this weekend?!” Without asking for details, without second guessing, I uncharacteristically said, “Sure! I’m in.” Something told me, almost immediately, that I could trust them.  I would soon find out that this trip was an overnight cycling trip through Northern Ireland to ultimately see the Giants Causeway, but more on that later.

In those first moments, I realized this part of my journey was about learning to say ‘yes’ – to uncertainty, to connection, and to bravery in the face of the unknown, whether that meant a herd of sheep or opening up to strangers who soon became dear friends. Just like I’ve had to learn again and again – two years ago, one month ago, and now.

Chapter Two – to be continued. Year Two – to be continued.