Getting off the American treadmill to live the Irish dream

How a small Irish village taught my wife and me about life

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Picturesque shop front in Adare, County Limerick

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Wherever we traveled around the country we found witty chat or, in Irish terms, talking the craic, which seemed to be a national pastime.

As the economy boomed, so did pent-up desires. Construction was everywhere — roads, houses, shopping centers. The food went from mediocre to excellent. With the booming economy, immigrants — primarily from Eastern Europe and Northern Africa — sought refuge in Ireland. We were disturbed by an Irish strain of xenophobia, all the more troubling to us because we were aware of the Irish plight under the British boot heel for eight hundred years and felt the Irish, of all people, should have been more welcoming. Still, we weren’t ones to pontificate. We were all too aware of the American history of prejudice and worse against Indians, blacks, Irish, Japanese, Jews, Muslims and others.

We were on Irish soil on 9/11. Then, we saw firsthand the Irish capacity for compassion. Two days later, the country essentially closed down and religious services were held throughout the land in an outpouring of sympathy for the U.S. In an almost reflex action, the Irish displayed their central goodness.  

We traveled throughout the country and did most of the tourist stuff during our initial trips. The sites were never ending. The history was fascinating. The countryside was gorgeous, but the driving proved to be a tad challenging, especially on the country roads where locals seemingly drive at the speed of light and there’s barely enough room for two cars. Adding to the challenge was being in the driver’s seat on the right side of the car, shifting with my left hand, remembering that the left lane is the slow lane, and getting the hang of looking to my right for oncoming traffic when entering a roundabout. An additional challenge was figuring out how to exit without causing a crash.

Eventually we settled into the Village of Adare in County Limerick, a village of 1200 people, roughly the same number as had lived in a square city block where we’d each been born. We returned annually, rented the same cottage, and came to know the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker. We adapted to the slower pace of life in the village, and never complained that things weren’t as “at home.” Though the showers were smaller than that to which we were accustomed, we’d get just as clean.

Rather than bemoaning that the coffee was terrible, we simply switched to good Irish tea. We came to enjoy the more important aspects of Irish life — an unyielding sense of humor even in the face of adversity, an appreciation for the physical beauty that naturally adorns the country, a love of music, dance and the arts generally, and the fabulous craic. 

After we’d returned a number of times, the locals understood that we weren’t just vacationing in the village. We were living there, and they came to accept us as belonging there, eventually bestowing on us the honored moniker of being “fierce locals.”

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