Time stood still on those days when I heeded the call of adventure with like-minded friends or my sisters. There was nothing more liberating than the sun on my face, the wind in my hair and the smell of my world ripe with wonder.
Fifty years later, I’d traded my bike for a tour bus, my wonder-lust for wanderlust; but there was no denying time stood still again as Ireland’s Cliffs of Moher filled every inch of the summer day spread so majestically before me.
This southwest corner of Ireland’s Burren region in County Clare was dotted with tourists crawling like ants out of the busses and onto the cliffs;
I groaned inwardly, suddenly resenting the intrusion I was a part of. Of course, I’d been silently groaning most of the morning, my funk a factor of fatigue. This was day five crammed into a seat on a tour bus that was beginning to feel more and more like a seat on the Aer Lingus plane that had carried Jimmy and me across the Atlantic Ocean to the Emerald Isle. Needless to say, the closest I've every gotten to flying First Class has been the adjacent restroom.
Wordsworth came to mind as civilization receded and nature took center stage. Indeed, "The World Is Too Much With Us," I conceded as I dodged the ants climbing the hill.