My Irish Trip of a Lifetime: In 5 Words and 50 Photos

I live on. Which means it might be too soon to make the call. 

But to date, it rates as the trip of a lifetime.

Mom and dad took their kids and grandkids, ages five to 76, to Ireland—15 of us, for one glorious week. 

Odes to the Irish

Éire was a muse. Words flowed. Namely, overlong Facebook posts in the wee hours from my hotel bed. The days—thanks to my über-on-top-of-it travel guide dad—were for soaking and seeing and living. But nights were for writing, for reliving days. 

The Irish turn prose into poetry. They speak in a song. 

Its cliffs and sea and splashing foam,

Its Burren and Dolmen and Lewis’s home

Its pipes and its drums and its songs sad and merry, 

Its castles and towers, and FInn’s stepping stone.


Its blazing green pastures and stone walls and moss,

Its people, its Patrick, its faithful high cross,

Its Doolin Ferry, and firm walls of Derry

Its joy in rain and in storm and in loss. 

This is the Erin I love.

Looking over that Dun Aonghasa cliff. The photographer shook in her Brooks, even at this far angle.

Or if you prefer, while the poetry flows, a quick Irish limerick:

There once was a clan named Considine,
Who went on June holiday oh-so-fine.
They did it together,
Through mixed Irish weather,
And on them God’s smile, it did shine.

But I’m back home.

Life flows along, and mostly in prose. 

Summarizing seven magical days in one blog post trim enough that you’d read is daunting. 

Not for the faint of heart. I almost didn’t pull it off. 

But I remembered. What you mostly want is a glimpse. So I’ll share 50 photos and tell you three quick stories, to show you why, 11 years after my first visit, I remain smitten with the Irish. 

My sister and me, at the Cliffs of Moher.

Minus my husband Jim, who was still touring Donegal Castle, where St. Columbkille’s unauthorized copy of the Psalter—long colorful story, ask me— eventually led him to flee his believed Derry to Scotland for shame.

The Burren. Its flowers grow in the cracks of the rocks, and give scent to perfume. They are defiant joy blooms.

“Anything like the sweetness and peace of the long shafts of sunlight falling through the windows on the grass cannot be imagined. All churches should be roofless. A holier place I never saw.”

—C.S. Lewis on seeing Tintern Abbey in SE Wales

Down Croagh Patrick with our witty and wise Irish companion John Fleming of Rothcommon.

My niece Ruth who joined me on the steepest ascent of Croagh Patrick. It was 90 minutes up, and about 45 down.

More Sligo sheep, en route to Delphi.

Twilight walk at Delphi Resort, taken just before sunset at 10 o’clock.

“I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.”
―William Butler Yeats

Yeats was such a gifted poet who so loved Ireland. He sought goodness and beauty but, maybe, sadly, not hard enough for the truth.

Poke salad at Joe’s in Lahinch, just before the T-Shirt shop. Raw, smoked salmon grew on me. It did not grow on Gabe.

An English breakfast: note beans and no brown bread in Northern Ireland.

Dunluce Castle, whose kitchen fireplace, it is reported, fell into the deep one stormy night. The mistress of the house then moved inland.

Dunluce Castle, Northern Ireland

Wet and happy at the Giant’s Causeway.

St. Mark’s church door knocker, a few blocks from Little Lea. This is where Lewis’s mother and father were married and where he was baptized and confirmed. His maternal grandfather was the pastor at St. Mark’s. Did this knob inspire the creation of Aslan?

I’ll explain in five words and three stories that point to one singular trait: indomitable joy. 

The words, and the stories, are roll, reel, and roll. 

And defiant joy.

An Irish Reel

The first word is reel.

A reel, you might know, is a traditional Irish dance. We were blessed to watch Connor dance a reel after our Knappogue Castle dinner. The dinner when dad, being high king of Ulster wore a crown and a cape and presided with mom at the high table. 

High King of Ulster with his queen, my dad and his bride of 55 years this July.

Connor danced with his arms stiff at his sides during the reel. And why?  

One explanation is that it was a protest by those forced to dance for Queen Elizabeth I, who started the plantations of Ireland.

The story says that a group of Irish dancers were brought to dance for the Queen. They danced, but in defiance, refused to raise their arms to her, holding them rigidly at their sides. 

Connor, who danced a straight-armed reel, on the left; Anna’s fingers on the harp.

In that same vein, later British colonizers tried to stamp out traditional Irish songs and dance. But the Irish danced on. Only it was behind hedge rows, stable doors and pub bars with their upper body straight and arms tight by their sides. With no arms and hands flailing about, English soldiers might not detect their dance. 

I’m a massive fan of that kind of joy. 

That is defiant, indomitable joy, I say.

But it gets more personal.

Anna was the harpist beside Connor, who danced a stiff-armed reel. She recognized me as we mingled over mead upon our castle arrival.

A few hours earlier, an hour away in Lahinch, after lunch with the family at Joe’s, I’d taken an hour alone. I’d wandered into T-shirt shop up the hill hunting for a gift for the son who didn’t come.

I mindlessly exited through a side door and found myself in a different world. 

Co-Mingled

The Church of the Immaculate Conception where Anna and thousands of others lined the street for a mile, a mile. From north and south and east, they came to pay respects to County Clare’s beloved, 20-year-old native son, Éanna Rouine.

I inquired of one crossing guard, then a store clerk, and then Anna. The gist was always the same:

“Éanna was a bright, kind hearted young man whose presence brought joy to all who knew him.” He was a gifted Gaelic footballer and musician. He played the accordian. Both of his parents had deep roots in Clare. Éanna went to a concert in Dublin Saturday night and he never came home.

Now in this strange way, we crossed paths. I was drawn into this tragedy. I couldn’t help be. Éannna’s smile reminded me of Gabe’s and my Sam is also 20. It was all so present.

Sandfield Pitch and Putt, one km. from the cemetery. As we walked here from our hotel, the roads were closed for Eanna’s funeral procession.

The roads were closed Sunday afternoon because of his funeral procession. So I followed a man with an green Irish cap. I left before the others for the Sandfield Pitch and Putt, 0.9 miles from our Cliffs of Moher Hotel, walking on the tight right side of the hemmed in lane, for the road was closed for Éanna’s burial at Kilmcreehy cemetary. It was on the way.

So I followed the man with the green hat into the cemetary.

Bed of Heaven to ÉANNA & Anna Played the Harp

As the crowd gathered, I veered to the right and stole into the roofless, ivy-walled church. I found John and Thomas Considine’s stone. Then I tuned my ear toward the dark throng a stone’s thow away gathered on the green hill.

So many Considine’s — my maiden name—in County Clare. My Great-Great Grandpa John Considine came from County Clare in 1846, the height of the Potato Famine.

Down the hill from this grave, Eanna’s body was being buried.

Ascension Day, 6/1/2025.

“We are the people of the living God. . . From dust we are and to dust we shall return. . . Blessed are you among women and blessed is the fruit of the womb Jesus.” I stopped counting after 10. 

This funeral was on June 1, 2025 on Ascension Sunday. 

“Bed of heaven to ÉANNA
Codladh sámh i leaba Dé d’Éanna.

May the Angels & Saints welcome ÉANNA home.“

I add, may the God of the Living, the God of Peace comfort the hearts of those who loved ÉANNA.

Back to Anna. Back to Knappogue Castle.

Éanna’s only sister is Anna the harpist’s friend. 

Hours after the memorial, Connor danced a straight-armed reel, and Anna played her harp. 

Defiant joy. And the second word is roll. 

An Irish (Donkey) Roll 

As in, “You’ll see donkeys roll.” 

Have you ever heard that? 

I hadn’t either, until I stopped by to see Willie Daly’s donkey farm and matchmaking museum near Liscannor, Ireland last week. 

Hand-painted red and blue signs

“DONKY FARM 🫏

MATCHMAKING ♥️

And 

“MATCH 

MAKING ♥️

DONKY 🫏

FARM ➡️ ”

were posted all over the corner of County Clare in which our family lodged. 

But my personal favorite: 

“MANY 

NICE

DONKEYS”

The signs were so intriguing that I passed on dinner Sunday night and opted for Irish ice cream instead–I tried Honeycomb and Biscoff. And sweeter yet, a matchmaking-donkey-farm date with dad. 

Willie was in his little barn museum where among other items he has a jaunting trap just like the one from the Irish movie, “The Quiet Man.” He was painting more donkey farm matchmaking signs when we arrived. 

Willie is said to be Ireland’s last traditional matchmaker and has been matchmaking for over 50 years. He reports that he has matched over 3000 couples so far with matchmaking skills passed down to him from his father and grandfather.  

But I’m happily married, and sadly, Willie is divorced, and so it’s his donkey not his matchmaking expertise I’ll share. But if you’re inclined, you can find his matchmaker book here.

Donkeys Will Roll

Willie splashed a few more strokes and put the lid back on the can. Then he led us out and introduced his donkeys to us.

I missed a few of their names, but I know the white one is named Donald Trump, the oldest donkey in Ireland at age 45, is named Mary, and the sturdy brown one is named Brad Pitt.

As one donkey sauntered to the water trough, and another started to roll up dust.

One of Willie Daly’s happily rolling donkeys. Is it Brad Pitt? Donald Trump (white), grazing in rear.

That’s when Willie’s words turned to gold. 

“It often seems it never stops rainin’. But then someone will say, 

Because donkeys don’t like mud. They only roll when the ground is dry and the dust comes up.”

For some reason, hearing Willie say that, and watching donkeys frolic and roll reminded me of this.

Willie’s words call me to hope. I believe in the Risen Lord and so, am called to hope and full of joy. For Jesus Christ will come again, and reign in a new earth “where there will be no more death or weeping or crying or pain” (Revelation 21:4). 

In other words, all will be well. We’ll see the donkeys roll. 

So defiant joy, and the last word is the first two: roll and reel.  

Irish Roll & Reel

As in, the boat rolled to the side as if it might capsize, and the people on it reeled. 

It was our last full day, our day on westernmost Aran Island. After five hours of bike-seeing, and white-knuckle Dun-Angus climbing, fueled by brown bread and sumptuous soup, the ferry came for Doolin. 

Brown bread and yellow butter at every single meal. 😋 If you ever go to Dun Angus, do try Teach Nan Phaidi.

On cue, the wind kicked up and the sun hid. The clouds hung heavy.

They burst as we queued to board. It was common rain and average waves for the first 15 minutes. But with the boat filled upon our pickup at Inis Oírr. 

Then we started to reel and roll. As 8-foot waves crashed, sick bags filled.

From the stern came a cream. I looked up. Faces greened and waves blocked the outside view. But then,

“Everyone good?” asked chipper crewman

The chipper crewman, with needful tissue, board the rolling Doolin Ferry.

Silence and a few grim nods were his reply. 

I needed more, so I caught his eye and smiled.

“If you’re good, I’m good.”

He grinned,

 “I’m good.” 

Half a second later he added,

“Honestly, I’d be good if the boat were on fire.” 

Before my eyebrows could rise, he quipped, 

“Of course, we’d have plenty of water to put it out.”

Those not retching were laughing. That is defiant joy.

Defiant Joy

I am a Christian. As such, I am called to joy, I am called to hope, and I am called to defy myself. Not only myself, but anything or anyone that would rise against my joy and say with the psalmist:

Just before we boarded at O’Hare, we took this photo in our Emerald Green “Ireland 2025” shirts.

I posted it with this caption: 

“Rain or mist, it’s all a gift.” 

Reel, roll or reel, it was. And defiant joy was over all the week.

That is why I love the Irish. Despite it all, despite dominations and plantations, Troubles and Potato Famine, despite rain and mist, I see joy.

I hear jokes while a boat rolls, I hear harps as a county reels, and I know—I saw—the donkeys roll. 

Thank you Jesus, for the trip of a lifetime.

And thank you, Mom and Dad. 

Want more?

I didn’t even tell you about our epic climb up Croagh Patrick, or my moment at Drumcliffe after remeeting W.B. Yeats. There was an epiphany at Poulnabrone Dolmen, a near calamity on the “slippy rocks” at the Giant’s Causeway, a so-worth-it detour in Belfast to see Little Lea, and an incredibly weighty walk around the 400-year old battle-tried walls of Londonderry. Or Derry.

Let me know if you might enjoy a future (much shorter) post.

I will defy myself to keep it under 500 words.

Grant me a sense of humor, Lord
   The saving grace to see a joke,
    To win some happiness from life,
And pass it on to other folk. 
—From "Irish Blessings"