Farewell to Ireland

After a month-long stay, it was going to break my heart to leave. As a consolation, there was a diaspora of sand.

The Irish man at Europcar had a wee bit of fun with me as I was departing Ireland one dreary July morning last summer. I had stayed a month, writing my heart out on a new memoir. (My memoir, Boundless, publishes in Fall 2024.) In Ireland, I found inspiration like it had always been waiting for me to come.

This is me, focused on how god-awful early it is and how much I don’t want to leave. Also, whether my luggage will pass the weigh-in, having made the executive decision that the water bottle, contact lens solution and insulated food bag would not be coming along.

This is him, returning after inspecting the car, saying I was leaving “the something” behind. Even after many years of traveling in Ireland—and this time, for a monthlong stay—I don’t get too hung up on processing every word I heard with those beautiful Irish accents. I start explaining it won’t fit. “It’s yours now,” I say.

“Ah no, the beach,” he says. “You’re leaving the beach behind.”

Quite a lot of Inch Beach did travel with me. The floor mats tell the tale. At Inch Beach, you can park on the sand unless it’s high tide. I walked it in the morning. I walked it on my lunch hour. I walked it in the evening.

As he shuttles me to the airport, I ask if he’s been to Inch Beach recently.