Reflections Part 2

It was wonderfully sunny and cool today with a breeze that rustled my hair into the pleasant disarray of an " I don't have to be at work today" attitude.  I have actually had to move myself indoors to compose this entry because I finally admitted I was cold sitting at the garden table on my back deck.  Now I've plopped myself into my favorite recliner.  I have been quickly joined by Miyagi, our Maine Coon-mix cat who enjoys lying on my legs.  Admittedly his body draped on top of my shins is providing a nice bit of radiant heat and therefore I will resist the urge to move against the somewhat trapped feeling.
 This time last year John and I were anxiously preparing for our first overseas journey together.  Previously, he had been out of the country as an airman.  I traveled to England with Jim, my first husband and Naomi, our daughter in the summer of 1993.  I again visited England in 1994 as part of a healing journey after Jim had taken his life in August of 1993.   Both visits were hosted by our dear English friends, Dennis and Sylvia.
Here it is September of 2011, nearly twenty years since my first big journey and one year since the Lilly trip to Ireland.  I have to admit I truly love the UK and Ireland.  Of course this affection is filtered through a visitor's eyes. My friend Dennis, an English native, has told me on numerous occasions that although he loves to travel there is no place he'd rather live than in England.  The climate suites me.  In fact today's weather here at home brings with it a deep nostalgic feeling that nags at my emotions.  Do you ever feel like you are in the wrong place?  Today I feel that way. Actually I've been suppressing that feeling since returning from Ireland last year.   I've been sitting here remembering what it was like to amble along the streets of Clonakilty and the other towns we visited, taking in the sights and smells, the feel of polished brick walkways, the narrow streets, the flower boxes, ancient stones, church bells, sounds of English spoken in a variety of Irish dialects and the sounds of the Irish language itself, the ocean crashing against craggy coast lines, the creaking of the old wooden floors that are everywhere that there aren't even older stone floors, the sounds of children running and playing in the Emmet Square, music...live music of all sorts oozing out of the doorways of pubs, hotels and squares.  Guitars of all sorts carried by and played by all sorts of people.  The challenge of navigating the road system, the gentle scrape of fuscia against the side of the car as I drive down the teeny tiny twisty rural roads.  Clouds billowing across the skies.  Brief showers that are shut off by the sun as it bursts through and transforms drizzle into glistening honey drops.  The land of hills, stone fences, and dramatically craggy grazing land that only sheep, who dot hillsides like spilled cotton balls, could navigate without tripping. I am sure there are mean people in Ireland but we didn't meet any of them, so I am guessing there just may be a smaller percentage of them.  Go ahead accuse me of wearing rose colored glasses.  I really don't care.  All I know is that the Clonakilty International Guitar Fest is just around the corner and I won't be there.  Sigh.............Perhaps they could use a pottery teacher in Clon?