A few years ago there was another night when I had difficulty sleeping. I had travelled solo to Ireland the week before Christmas, flying into Belfast with just a small carry on and the most snot filled cold of my life. (In fact, the cold that has kept me home recently doesn't even compare..) I had rented a small car to drive to a tiny cottage on Lough (lake) Melvin between Donagal and Sligo. I had no experience driving on the other side of the road as the first roundabout nearly finished me off and my directions were full of such gems as "turn right at the holy well" and "follow the road past the old petrol station." However, I somehow managed to find my way to my little cottage, having turned my projected two hour drive into a mere five.
A couple days later, I finally felt healthy enough to explore past the safety of the cottage and had driven into Sligo, the home and final resting place of the folklore king Yeats. Yeats, who spent his entire life collecting stories of Irish spirits and fairies, had started my fascination with Ireland. As a child I had read his collections and had come across one story in which a musician wandering home drunk from a gig falls asleep in a quiet field. He wakes up later to the most beautiful music he has ever heard and realizing he is hearing the fairies play, he eavesdrops shamelessly before returning home to play those very melodies he had overheard. I had come to Ireland for a similar sort of inspiration ;) I meandered aimlessly through Sligo's cobbled narrow streets full of happy Christmas shoppers before buying some tea, cold remedy, soft kleenex and a couple books to while away the quiet nighttime hours.
Sometime in the small hours of that night (the cottage lacked a clock) I was in bed reading. The walls of the cottage around me were made up of large stones and a turf fire burned low in the fireplace next to the bed, emitting a wonderful warm earthy smell. Pillows were at my back and a heavy down blanket was pulled high. The headboard of the bed was against the window and a soft rain had begun to fall distorting the night outside.
I was deep into stories of changelings and people being carried off by the 'wee people' when I heard a soft tapping at the window. I nearly jumped out of my skin as I realized that I was in a secluded cottage further that a run away from any other and at such a late hour, my light was perhaps the only one visible for miles. As my heart rate slowed, I rationalized the sound away, explaining to myself out loud that it was just a stray branch in the wind. After a few minutes I settled in and began reading "The Piper and the Puca" when I heard the light tap yet again. I shivered in anxiety..was this my own puca coming to take me on a wild ride, or perhaps some crazed Irish mass murderer seeing an easy target... I looked towards the window seeing nothing but darkness and raindrops. 'It's just the wind..just a branch," I told myself, "just a branch.." Nervously I settled back into my pillow. "RRRAT Tap TAP!!!!" I lept high off the bed, quickly grabbing the heavy fire poker. After all, I would NOT go down without a bloody fight! I turned towards the window, quickly adopting a battle stance only to scream in girlish terror when confronted with the horrifying face of...... a sheep!?!!
I immediately donned my shoes, flinging open the front door in my haste and moments later happily found myself in the middle of a dark misty Irish night sitting on the front door step while petting an incredibly fluffy and agreeable sheep.
Upon my return to the States, my custom form asked if I had been in proximity to livestock. I lied.
I hope you all had a wonderful St Paddy's Day and won't feel any Guiness induced nastiness tomorrow :) And now I am off to count my sheep!
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