I love Ireland. I love the green. I love the rolling hills. I love, love, love the black-faced sheep frolicking on the green rolling hills. I'm a great fan of crumbling castles. My heart melts when I see one of the few remaining sod-roofed houses surrounded by a stone wall.
Bring 'em on.
But for Pete's sake, why does it have to be so bloody cold?
And if you're thinking of answering this rhetorical question, don't. I don't want logic, a geography lesson, or a lecture about wearing the right clothes. The plain truth is, Ireland is f'ing cold. It might as well be winter. The other night it was 5 degrees. FIVE degrees!!!!! (That's something like 41 degrees Fahrenheit!)
Ugh. Ggrr. Bah humbug. It' s June!
Thank god I brought my sleeping hat.
But aside from turning into a popsicle, the trip is grand. This morning, Galway (in the cold, lashing rain); this afternoon, a warm hotel room in Westport.
And this afternoon, a swim in the pool with Tully and Andrew. I haven't swam in SO long. Like swam, swam. Not splashed or frolicked, but swam. Lengths. Back and forth. Freestyle. Backstroke. Freestyle. Backstroke.
But today I left Tully in Andrew's splashy care and did a dozen or so lengths. Not a lot, but they felt good. And they reminded me of my first days in Shanghai in 2006, when I swam every morning and chanted as I stroked, "Baby. Book deal. Baby. Book deal." And here I am, three years later, with both of my dreams realized: Tully and Thirsty. Amazing.
Manifest. Manifest. Manifest.