This is an incomplete chronicle of our family's trip to Ireland in July 1998. It was the first time we (myself, my wife, and three boys) had ever been outside the United States, let alone across the Atlantic Ocean. On the way there, we met my mom in Chicago. This would be, I believe, her third or fourth trip to Ireland.

We shot about twelve rolls of film during our trip. They only begin to show the beauty of this wonderfully unspoiled, ancient land, to which words alone cannot do justice. And we found the Irish people to be very warm and welcoming. "Cead Mile Failte" as the saying goes - "A Hundred Thousand Welcomes." (We figure we wore out about 92,000 of them).

The following is a transcription of a hand-written journal I kept nearly every day during the trip. Some factual errors have been corrected, and a few additional memories added.

It must be acknowledged here that this trip was a gift from my most gracious sister, Debbie, and her wise and benevolent husband, Brian, and was at least partially bankrolled by my dear, sweet, wonderful mother. We cannot thank you all enough for the gift you've given us. The memories of the enchanted, beautiful "Emerald Isle" will, no doubt, warm our hearts long after we've forgotten how much money we owe you.

Friday, July 10

It's after 8 p.m. in Bray. We've been in Ireland about 12 hours so far, and we've yet to top the time it took us to get here from Texas.

We left our house at 1:15 p.m. Thursday (July 9) and arrived at Dublin Airport at 8:15 a.m. Friday (July 10). Total time door-to-door: about thirteen hours.

I alone am awake in the "grandma flat" that my sister Debbie and her husband Brian secured for us. It's quite nice. Two small rooms - a kitchen and a living/sleeping area - plus a full bath. It's perfect, considering we will be spending most of our time out-and-about.

It is still very bright out. The sun will not be down until after 10 p.m. and will be back up before 5:30, I'm told. Being so far north of the Equator, Ireland gets an obscene amount of daylight during the summer months.

Our flights (Dallas to Chicago and Chicago to Dublin) went very well. In both instances we landed ahead of schedule, without falling short of the runway - which is always a plus for me.

The Chicago-to-Dublin leg was not without its moments. It was long (about 7 hours) and at times "bumpy." I say "bumpy" because that's the cute way our Aer Lingus (Gaelic for "lingering in the air") captain chose to describe this turbulence (from the Latin turbu, meaning "excessive" - and lentus, meaning "pants wetting").

"We'll follow a route over the St. Lawrence Seaway to the Atlantic," he said in a soothing Irish brogue. "And, as always, [did he HAVE to say "as ALWAYS"?] when we get out over the ocean, we may experience a bit of the bumps."

The phrase "a bit of the bumps" struck me as an understatement on the level with a proctologist saying, "you'll feel a little pressure" as he Vaselines a gloved finger the size of a garden hose.

You could say he was only being honest and trying to prepare us for the possibilities. But then, had he been truly honest, he might have said "more than likely, we'll be shaken like a James Bond martini." But this sort of forthrightness is, of course, frowned upon in the optimistic world of commercial airline pilots, who always "hope you enjoyed your flight" in spite of the fact that your stomach is still somewhere over the Atlantic.

Ireland - in spite of the fact that it is entirely too far away from my stomach - is a beautiful country. We've only just glimpsed the "Garden of Ireland" (County Wicklow, where my sister and her family live) and it is breathtaking. It's refreshing to be in a place where this can be said of the scenery, as opposed to the climate. When we left Dallas, it was steaming at an oppressive 104 degrees. Dublin greeted us with a brisk 14 Celsius (which is about 60 degrees Fahrenheit, or 23 linear yards, I can never remember which).

Only the first day here and I've feasted twice on "fish and chips" - very popular here as well as in England. "Chips" are actually French fries, but the Brits had to give them another name, owing to the fact that they want absolutely nothing to do with anything remotely French. Consequently, what we in America call "chips" they call "crisps," because they are crispy, and "crisps" sounds better than "bits-o-spud," which is, in fact, their name for Prince Charles.

Tomorrow, Debbie's church is hosting a picnic in the Wicklow Mountains. Can't wait to see the sights. After Tour de France vacates the island (Monday) we'll go to Killkenny en route to Blarney.

Saturday, July 11

It's 8:37 a.m. I've showered, shaved and dressed and no one else is up yet. Hardly noteworthy except that it never happens at home. Not the showering and shaving part, but the part where I'm awake before everyone else. Never happens - ask Nancy.

My sister just called. We need to be ready to meet the rest of their church group at about 10 or 10:30 ("half ten," as they say in Ireland). Just enough time to have some eggs and "rashers" (bacon) for breakfast.

Sunday, July 12

6:35 a.m.

I know, I know. I'm never up at this hour in Texas. Actually, I've been up since about 5:45. It's either the excitement about being here or it's that the sun was up about half an hour before I was. It's incredible. This time of year Ireland gets about 7-and-a-half hours of dark. The sun is up from about 5:15 a.m. until well past 10 p.m.

We spent most of yesterday in the Wicklow Mountains. What sights! We saw how aptly County Wicklow was dubbed the "Garden of Ireland." Everywhere is thick, lush, green land. There was a "soft Irish rain" most of the morning. This, unfortunately, spoiled the picnic Deb's church had planned.

We first went to the church. The sign in a first-floor window reads "Eglinton Road Christian Fellowship." Deb says they just call themselves "Christians at Number Five" (the number on the house where their church meets). Each of the various rooms is used for either Sunday school or the worship services. The bottom floor is a coffee shop and reading room, which is open to the public nine months each year (they close the shop during the summer months).

We met a few of the members at the church there, including Pat - one of their elders - who teaches as a lay leader. (They are, as yet, without a "full-time" pastor - but they have various preachers from other Christian churches in the area who also visit as guest speakers). Then we met a few more people at the picnic site before the rain chased us off. They seem to be a great group of folks.

From there we drove further up into the mountains and saw a "lovely" (our new word of the day) waterfall that feeds a stream through the most wonderful valley below. At the bottom was one of many sheep farms in Glendalough (Gaelic for "valley of the two lakes").

[As an aside - the Gaelic language is commonly used by less than 10% of the population, but the language is still taught in schools and is very much a part of the culture. Street signs are all written in Gaelic first, then English. Some radio stations and one of the main TV channels runs completely Gaelic programming, including news, sports and dramatic shows.]

Sheep abound both high and low, and they have the right-of-way on the narrow roads. Even some of the most heavily-trafficked roads are about the width of one and a half lanes on an average American street. Admittedly, two cars can fit on the opposing lanes, but then, we didn't see many Cadillacs or oversized Dodge Ram pick-ups. In fact, there's hardly anything but foreign cars here, for some reason. Imagine that.

After stopping for lunch near the top of the waterfall, we started back to Bray (going a different way) and saw even more striking scenery. The pictures I've taken will only begin to do justice where words fail. It is simply beautiful.

Brian also stopped at an old and very peculiar graveyard dating back to World War II. Ireland was (I learned) neutral during the war. But apparently a German plane crashed on the island. I didn't find out just what they might have been doing over Irish airspace to begin with, but nevertheless, when they crashed, many of the crew died.

The survivors were interned in Ireland, at least for a time, and the dead were buried in that plot in the Wicklow Mountains. The German consulate continues to maintain the site to this day. When we were there, several flower arrangements were quite fresh.

This morning I strolled down New Court Road (where our flat is located) to walk along the Irish Sea. My first turn did not lead me where I wanted to go, but I happened on a wonderful vantage point where I could see the entire shore and nearly all the land leading up to the Great Sugar Loaf (the largest mountain in the area - about 2,100 feet high). Bray Head loomed right behind as I turned around. I've got to get my camera out there.

On a curious side note: We Coca-Cola lovers have apparently been drinking vegetables and didn't know it. I picked up my first can of Coke here and read: "soft drink with vegetable extracts."

Now the ingredients read virtually the same - carbonated water, sugar, colour, acid (phosphoric acid), flavourings, caffeine - and Brian assures me they are the same. Except that American Coke has "color and flavorings," whereas theirs has "colour and flavourings." After tasting it though, I can assure you it tastes no different, even with the added vowels.

(I'm guessing the "vegetable extracts" are the coca beans?)

Monday, July 13

11:45 a.m.

Just stopping for a bathroom break on our way to Killkenny.

We walked to downtown Bray yesterday and watched the Tour De France ride by, in all its drug-induced glory. (The second day of the race and we hear they're already disqualifying riders for steroids, or some such). The whole event lasted all of two or three minutes. It seemed all of Bray was there, lining the streets four and five rows deep in some spots. It was exciting.

We went to Deb and Brian's church on Eglinton Road. They have about 40 or 50 members. It was moving to see and share their burden for Ireland.

There was a firebombing in Northern Ireland on Sunday that killed three children, all of them under 10 years young. I think Maureen (an older women in the church) expressed everyone's feeling of frustration and weariness over all the struggles and violence in the North.

We sang and prayed for Ireland, then shared the Lord's Supper.

That night, back at the flat, Kyle and I ran out to the yard to view the fireworks marking the end of the Bray Seaside Festival. We were cold (dressed only our shorts and tee shirts), but what a show!