I make a false step, and the bog swallows my foot like a hungry
Round-leaved Sundew. I do not fall but my roommate, Olivia, does a
few feet in front of me, losing her shoe in the process. It seems too easy
for the bog to capture someone. For a moment, I fear seeing Olivia in a
museum, but she does escape and so does her shoe with the help of my
classmates. She will not become a bog body. However, it seems probable
that there could be one underneath me, still missing. Like the sheep,
who have all disappeared to hide from the storm. Do they know how to
escape becoming a bog body? Someone else falls behind me. The rain will
not let up.
Because its history is ancient, the Irish landscape feels older than
the American landscape, as if Ireland has more stories to tell. Of course
this is not true. People have inhabited North America for thousands of
years. Perhaps, the strangeness of Ireland in contrast with the familiarity
of America creates this feeling. Ireland is beautiful because it is different,
but it’s hardly the beauty anyone wants. The bright bog flowers do not
compensate for the acidic swamp that sometimes hides petrified bodies.
There is no peace in this beauty. Even when the sun shines, it only reveals
the treeless mountains, swampy soil, and rocky shores more clearly. The
destructions that come with history become monuments; every cut into
the turf, every discovered morphed-body becomes a part of the landscape.
History wears down all places, including America, but it is harder to find
the ties in familiar places. Beautiful places are intimately
connected with the pasts we try to forget.
I’m still laughing as I climb down the bog and return to my warm
cottage. My roommates and I hang our clothes over the heaters and call
our parents using WiFi. This is when we start saying “Achill strikes again!”
Because it will rain on our next hike to the beach, and we will find worms
in our shower. The WiFi will stop working when we need to post our
blogs, the toilets will not flush, we will step in plenty of sheep poop, it
will rain every single day, the hot water will run out mid-shower, we will
hang our clothes all over the cottage because we only have a washer and
no dryer. Olivia says to me after a particularly long day in Achill, “I’ll bet
we will look back and Achill will be the highlight of the trip.” I disagree,
at the time. I can only think of the rain storms and sheep. In a week, I
will leave Achill for Galway, but the natives stay behind all year, three
hundred and sixty-five days.
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