Unforgettable Embrace

by Clancy, Joanne

  Easkey is the English version of the Irish word "Iascaigh" meaning fish. It is one of Europe's best year-round surfing destinations. The road to the sea isn't even signposted but the locals were happy to point Rachel and Mo in the right direction, even recommending a good parking spot on the seafront to them. There are very few facilities on the beach itself, just a toilet and parking. Most surfers park along the sea front, just in front of the castle ruins. There's no beach, as such, just lots of rocks, but the waves are spellbinding. Rachel was lucky enough to happen on the area when the Billabong Easkey Open championships were taking place, so she got to see some real pros in action.

  The village of Easkey is about a kilometre from the sea. It's a small village, with a few shops and pubs and is home to Easkey's surfing and information centre, which provides information and advice to any would-be surfers. There is bed and breakfast accommodation available in the village, but most surfers just park up in their vans or cars where they sleep close to the ruins of the castle for shelter.

  The Northwest of Ireland is a surfer's paradise. Ireland's location and the geology of the coastline mean the country is an ideal place for surfers of all abilities. Ireland has beaches which are perfect for the beginner, as well as high-performance breaks for the competent surfer or massive wave spots for the more adventurous and skilled surfer.

  Rachel decided to try her first surf lesson in Rossnowlagh, Co. Donegal. Rossnowlagh is a Blue Flag beach which is five kilometres long in total. It is located seventeen kilometres southwest of Donegal town. It has two kilometres of sandy beach which is supposedly the safest and easiest stretch on which to learn how to surf. Rachel had her first surf lesson at the Finn Mc Cool Surfing School. They also provided her with the gear and for thirty five euro including a two hour lesson; she thought it was worth a shot. Neil Britton is Pro Surf Tour judge and manages the school. He is a cousin of Easkey Britton, the two-time Irish surfing champion.

  Rachel was a little embarrassed at first as she tried to squeeze herself into her very clingy wet suit, which clung to her lumps and bumps. Mo tried to stifle her chuckles as Rachel struggled to pull the wetsuit up her legs.

  "At least I'm trying something new," Rachel said testily.

  "I know, lovey, I'm sorry, I shouldn't laugh, but it is very funny watching you," Mo giggled. "You won't be giggling when I'm riding the waves like a pro," came the retort.

  The lesson turned out to be quite tame really. Rachel was relieved they weren't expected to do anything too strenuous, but wouldn't admit it. She was a bit worried that if she had to stretch too much that she might end up bursting out of her wetsuit altogether. Rachel was well-used to embarrassing situations but exploding out of a wetsuit would have been a first, even for her.

  Her first surf lesson consisted of lying on the sand on the surf board while the instructor showed them how to move their arms and legs and maintain some balance. Rachel felt like a bit of an idiot waddling around on the ground with her face shoved in the sand. Mo was standing on the sidelines. Rachel didn't even dare make direct eye contact with her for fear of exploding into laughter. She didn't think the instructor would be very impressed with her if she did start laughing, as he was very enthusiastic about the lesson. So, there they were, all ten of them in the class, "splashing" about in the sand, pretending to surf. The second hour consisted of the class standing on their surf board, pretending to surf the waves.

  The instructor showed them how to stand correctly on their boards, in order to keep their balance for when they would eventually be out on the water. They had to bend their knees and wave their arms around in order not to fall off their boards while surfing the imaginary wave. It was the silliest Rachel had felt for a long time, but she didn't really mind. It was good fun and something she'd never tried before.

  The two hour lesson flew by and Rachel was soon back in the changing rooms, trying to peel the wet suit off. Mo was helping, but the two women were so convulsed with laughter that it was taking them an inordinate amount of time to remove it. Rachel had a quick shower and the two friends thought they would treat themselves to a seaweed bath.

  Oh what a wonderful treat it turned out to be. They couldn't believe they'd never tried anything like it before. They went to Kilcullen's Seaweed Baths which is in Enniscrone, about fourteen kilometres south of Easkey. Kilcullen's seaweed baths are very traditional, set within a grand Edwardian structure. It has lots of character with original gigantean porcelain baths and stout brass taps which were still functional, as well as decorative.

  Seaweed bathing is Ireland's only native spa therapy and many people say it is the stuff of mermaid fantasies. Seaweed baths have been part of Irish homeopathy for hundreds of years. It is usually preceded by a sauna, to steam the pores open, then submerging your body in the bath full of seaweed. Your skin is left feeling very soft, as seaweed's silky oils contain a massive concentration of iodine, a main ingredient in most moisturising creams. The baths are thought to help rheumatism, arthritis, thyroid imbalances and even hangovers.

  Rachel and Mo booked a twin seaweed bath, separate baths but in the same room. They couldn't believe how relaxed they felt afterwards. Definitely worth repeating, they promised each other.

  Chapter 24

  Rachel was in awe at the breathtaking beauty of her own country. Every day made her appreciate more and more the wonderful country that is Ireland. She was beginning to understand why so many foreign tourists holidayed in Ireland every year, and why so many singers sang about its staggering landscape. She wondered why she hadn't previously explored the island herself, but was so glad she was discovering it now. The more she travelled around Ireland the more she realised that Ireland is a country with two faces, the modern face and the traditional face, and somehow the island manages to marry the two perfectly.

  Rachel loved the fact that wherever she went in Ireland, she wasn't too far from a city, where she could indulge in a spot of retail therapy or meet up with the girls for lunch or dinner. Then when she wanted peace and quiet she could drive less than fifty miles and be surrounded again by wonderful countryside or coastline. She loved the diversity of the landscape; from the lonely, wildness of Donegal to the picture postcard prettiness of Kerry and the southwest.

  One of her favourite things to do was stock up on delicious food and of course red wine, and park high on a lonely cliff top for the night. She'd leave her campervan door wide open until the early hours of the morning, snuggled up in her duvet inside the window, sipping her wine, mesmerised by the roaring waves crashing and spraying against the rocks below her. The sound of the sea was the most soothing sound in the world to her and she often dozed off just listening to it. It was completely entrancing to her.

  She loved the history of Ireland and how proud the Irish are of their past. There was nothing she enjoyed more than hearing Gaeilge (Irish) spoken in the Gaeltacht (Irish-speaking) areas. Gaeilge is such a beautiful, flowing language. When she read her map or saw signposts on the road with Irish place names, she liked to translate them in her mind and compare the English version to the original Irish meaning. Cork, where Rachel was born and raised, comes from the Irish word "Corcach", meaning "bog" as the city was built on marshy ground, founded in the sixth century by St. Finbarr, as a monastic settlement. Dublin was another interesting place name, coming from the Irish "Dubh Linn" meaning "black pool", but anglicised into "Dublin".

  On the other hand, she thought that tourists to Ireland must be driven mad sometimes by Irish place names. For example, Mallaranny can be spelled Mulranny or Mallaranny, as can be seen when you approach the village on several signs within a few kilometres of each other. It must be very confusing. She had even heard recently on the radio that the powers that be were thinking of listing Irish names only in a new map of Ireland that was soon to be published. That should be fun and not a little frustrating, Rachel thought in amusement.

  The more she travelled and discovered Ireland, the prouder she felt of being Irish and all that she had i
nherited. She got to thinking about what it meant to be Irish. Some people thought she had a slightly English accent and sometimes even asked her what part of England she was from. She was always quick to correct them, insisting that she was indeed one hundred per cent Irish. Her prim and proper tone probably came from her mother's insistence that she speak correctly and from years of speech and drama lessons by a native English teacher.

  So what does it mean to be Irish, she mused. Being Irish is not about the St. Patrick's Day Parade, or wearing green or even having red hair and freckles, and it's definitely not about leprechauns, the typical American understanding of Irishness. Being Irish, to Rachel, meant having a certain, self-deprecating outlook on life, which is peculiar to Irish people, and innate pride in her country, that was often difficult to put into words. The dictionary definition in answer to "what does it mean to be Irish?" would say "it means to be born in Ireland, to have Irish parents, to know your culture and language, to obey the laws of Ireland, to celebrate Irish holidays and customs, and fundamentally to hold Irish citizenship and an Irish passport."

  Irishness is indeed all of those things but Rachel knew that being Irish is a lot more than a dictionary definition. She couldn't quite define it but being Irish to her was having a sense of pride in the very fact that you are Irish, and having a natural affinity with other Irish people. Rachel had travelled quite a bit and lived in France for almost a year when she was studying French at university, and very few people actually understood the Irish sense of humour. Other nationalities understood the joke but they just didn't fully "get" the humour.

  Another Irish trait was expecting everyone to be late, therefore usually turning up to an appointment at least twenty minutes past the arranged time yourself, only to find that the person you arranged to meet is running even later than you, and most importantly neither party getting upset about the lateness. Rachel's sister, Holly, was the worst on the lateness front. If she said she'd meet you in town at three o' clock then invariably she wouldn't turn up until quarter past four. Rachel usually turned up an hour late to meet her sister, because at least then she wouldn't have to wait around too long.

  Most people have heard of six degrees of separation, where there are six people connecting you and anyone else in the world, well in Ireland, that can be reduced to three. Also, wherever you travel in the world, from the busiest city to the quietest jungle, you're bound to bump into another Irish person, almost like some sort of weird radar.

  Swearing is another common Irish trait, it wouldn't be a proper conversation without a few "fecks" thrown in for good measure. Sprinkling "now" and "arra" throughout your speech is another trait. Using "yer man" when referring to any man, or "yer one" when referring to any woman.

  She got to thinking about Irish icons like U2 and Riverdance and how they were recognised worldwide. It made her proud to be Irish when she thought of all the talent such a small island had produced over the years.

  She had missed Ireland very much when she lived in France for a year. She made lots of friends in France and found most French people to be very welcoming towards her, but it just wasn't the same as an Irish welcome. The French were an affectionate people, always hugging and kissing. It took her a while to get used to the "double kiss" when greeting others. Not like in Ireland where all that was required was a quick hug, at most and a "how are you doing?" with the mutual response being "ah, sure I'm grand". When she returned home from France it took her a while to shake the habit of hugging and kissing, until one day her sister told her to "cop herself on, you're not in France anymore girl." She loved the Irish down to earth approach to life, and as much as she liked travelling abroad there was nowhere that could ever compare to Ireland, her home.

  Chapter 25

  Every day Rachel was so happy that she had found the courage within herself to quit her old life and embark on this new life. There was no comparison between her old life and her new life of freedom. Her old lifestyle was so superficial; her thoughts had mostly been filled with inanities like wearing the trendiest clothes, socialising in the hippest bars and nightclubs, buying the latest "must-have" so-called beauty product, which often didn't work anyway, trying to climb the ladder at work and most galling of all, having to be pleasant to colleagues who she'd really rather not even know.

  Now her life was empty of that old, unimportant clutter. She hadn't coloured or highlighted her hair in months. She had at least three inches of brown and grey roots, and usually she was religious about touching up her roots every six weeks. Jen would kill her if she saw the state of her head now. She was all about keeping up appearances and standards. Rachel knew that Jen would be one of those women who would insist on being in the jungle in high-heels and full makeup, with her hair expertly blow dried and a perfect French manicure and pedicure.

  The trendiest item of clothing Rachel wore these days was her battered old Ugg boots and they were worn purely for comfort, not fashion, just like the rest of her wardrobe, which mostly consisted of jeans and cosy, baggy fleece jumpers. Her tight corset top and sexy going out clothes were long gone, and whatsmore she was glad to see the back of them. Life wasn't worth squeezing yourself into a top that almost cut off your oxygen supply.

  She couldn't remember when she'd last worn makeup and most days she barely cleaned her face with a baby wipe, and her skin had never looked better. Baby wipes were her top beauty product at the moment. Obviously, living in a campervan, she had to conserve water as there wasn't always a readily available supply. Gone were the days of hour long power showers with non-stop running water, sometimes twice a day. Now showering was reduced to twice a week. She "washed" herself with baby wipes every other day, the "Portuguese shower" as Camper John called it, and sprayed herself liberally with perfume and deodorant. Dry shampoo was another life saver. Her hair tended to get quite greasy, so dry shampoo was a God send.

  Climbing the ladder at work was no longer an issue. The only ladder she climbed these day was the ladder which helped her adjust the television aerial on the campervan. She no longer had to tolerate irritating colleagues, in fact, the only people she had in her life right now were the people she genuinely wanted in it. Looking back, she thought how infantile office politics truly is, you'd think grown men and women would be able to cultivate an environment of mutual respect, but that was not the reality.

  The reality was that the more you were liked, by the right connected people, then the better you got on. Rachel couldn't be fake nice to people she didn't like. She could be polite, but not particularly nice. She would never ask anyone how their weekend went, for example, unless she was genuinely interested, but everyone else asked, even if they blatantly didn't like the person.

  Some people would probably think her current life was empty and boring, but Rachel didn't care anymore what anyone else thought or how anyone else judged her, because she had never been happier. Her life was peaceful and simple now.

  She was exactly where she wanted to be in life. She felt close to nature and was getting to know people for who they actually are inside and not for how they looked or where they worked or who they knew. It was an altogether more authentic existence. She had the time now to really listen attentively to people and their stories. Sometimes, she caught herself being so completely absorbed in someone else's story that she lost track of hours, which only actually felt like minutes.

  She was at peace with herself. She was able to breathe deeply for the first time in a very long time. She was able to live in the moment and fully enjoy it, instead of having her mind wander off in a hundred different directions. She found herself waking up naturally, when the morning sun streamed through the windows of her campervan, instead of being abruptly woken to the shock of the shrill tones of her alarm clock. Now, when she woke, she always felt refreshed and looked forward to the day ahead and what it may bring.

  She loved the unpredictability of her days. She realised now that a big part of why she'd been so miserable for so long in her old life was the
utter, mind-numbing, spirit crushing, "Groundhog Day" predictability of her previous existence. She loved discovering new places and people and seeing new things and of course tasting different food. She liked the face looking back at her in the mirror these days. It was a happy face, with bright intelligent eyes. Her skin was still pale, it always would be, but she'd lost that sickly grey pallor and now had a certain glow.

  She didn't care anymore that she didn't have a five year plan. She barely had a five minute plan these days, let alone a five year plan. She didn't know what she'd be doing next week, never mind in five years. It didn't bother her that she didn't have a clue what she'd do for work when her year travelling in the campervan was ended. She knew that she'd work something out. All she knew for sure was that life was good now, and that was good enough for her.