Under The Spell :: Creative Writing Short Stories Traveling Essays

Under The Spell "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 are almost immediately secluded. We stopped in front of an old abandoned barn made of stone with an unusual door shaped like a horseshoe. The earth smelled wet and fresh and was a bit boggy, more so when I departed. It was only a few hundred yards before we learned our first rule of driving in Ireland. Under The Spell :: Creative Writing Short Stories Traveling Essays Under The Spell "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 are almost immediately secluded. We stopped in front of an old abandoned barn made of stone with an unusual door shaped like a horseshoe. The earth smelled wet and fresh and was a bit boggy, more so when I departed. It was only a few hundred yards before we learned our first rule of driving in Ireland.