CHAPTER TWO

The sky was leaking.

It was the kind of rain that attacks from directions you didn’t even know existed, making staying dry an absolutely titanic feat (pun intended). And here I was: mountain biking on a remote island in the Atlantic while clothed in a Bright Plum, “Guaranteed Waterproof” bundle of lies.

Yet even the most relentless of downpours couldn’t wash away my smile, because after six hours of cycling the Aran Islands, I knew first-hand that sometimes, the most dazzling of silver linings are hidden behind a coat of mud.

That morning, after a slippery ascent to the peak of Dun Aengus, Inishmore’s prehistoric 100-meter fort, I had been greeted by the cliff-top sight of a pod of dolphins jumping through the churning Atlantic. Come afternoon, while lost in the island’s labyrinthine hilltop trails, I had braked to catch my breath, only to have it immediately taken away by the sea of mooing cows and thatched roofs below me.

Finally, just before nightfall – when I was utterly lost with no idea how to return to my B&B on the opposite side of the island – a white horse emerged from the fog. The only two for miles, we stood there, staring at one another through the rain, and I was reminded of one of my favourite quotes.

CHAPTER THREE

Two weekends ago, I trekked up north to the 250-person fishing village of Teelin, which is home to Slieve League: Europe’s highest accessible sea cliffs whose unapologetic cerulean surf and mossy, primordial 601-meter surface put the “wild” in Ireland’s Wild Atlantic Way.

After two awe-inspiring, clear-skied days of hiking, swimming, and serendipitous sheep encounters, I ventured to the cliffs for one last visit, beckoned by the baa’s that had drifted through my window that morning.

Padding downstairs, I passed the living room, where the B&B owner shook his head in disbelief from his spot beside the roaring fire. “You’ll get soaked,” he warned, motioning toward the streaked windowpane.

Twenty minutes later, I stood on the Slieve League viewing platform in my once-Bright-but-now-Dark-Plum-raincoat and couldn’t help but laugh. Around me, befuddled tourists emerged from tour buses and stumbled blindly through the impenetrable fog, searching in vain for a glimpse of the here-today-gone-tomorrow cliffs.

Bidding the horizon farewell, I retraced my steps down the winding trail – past the bleating sheep, past the cottage at the bend in the road and its ever-spouting chimney, past the bright red tractor, past the barking sheepdog. Before me, the village waited.

I was going home.