ireland

An cinniúnt, is dócha: féach an féileacán úd thall atá ag foluain os cionn mo choinnle. Ní fada go loiscfear a sciatháin mhaiseacha: cá bhfios dúinne nach bhfuil a fhios sin aige, freisin?

Grace to me is a little bit of extra help when you're feeling stuck or doomed or, probably, hopefully, out of good ideas on how to save yourself, and how to salvage the situation or the friendship or the whatever it is,_ Anne Lamott once told me. __ wish it was accompanied by harp music so you could know that's what was happening, but for me it's that extra pause or that extra breath or that extra minute's patience against all odds._ On that first trip to Ireland, grace__he kick-in-the-pants, clarifying, cosmic-pause-button kind of grace__idn't just have a harp. It had an entire soundtrack...

I turned on the water then returned to the door jamb. __hat__ not fair, you__e nice and clean.___ am?_ He took a few steps toward me.__ren__ you?___o,_ he scowled and shook his head. ____ dirty. But you knew that._ Now, if you haven__ heard an Irishman say the word __irty_ before, I will compare it with dynamite in your ovaries. They say it with like, seven Rs.

In Ireland we have the phenomenon known as a "Spoiled Priest." Unlike a spoiled child, this does not refer to a Priest throwing a temper tantrum.

The best thing about flying first class....was that you could be as nutty as a fruitcake and were still treated like the Queen of Sheba.

We had found nothing, and had been lost several times already in one morning, so this was shaping up into a top travel experience.

...being a weatherman in Ireland is about the biggest scam going.

When I come out on the road of a morning, when I have had a night's sleep and perhaps a breakfast, and the sun lights a hill on the distance, a hill I know I shall walk across an hour or two thence, and it is green and silken to my eye, and the clouds have begun their slow, fat rolling journey across the sky, no land in the world can inspire such love in a common man.

Round these men stories tended to group themselves, sometimes deserting more ancient heroes for the purpose. Round poets have they gathered especially, for poetry in Ireland has always been mysteriously connected with magic.

I try to clutch onto those last moments in the place that I was born to, but I was so busy *living* them! How was I to know I'd have to capture everything I ever wanted to remember of Eire for the rest of my life?

His mouth descended on hers in a fierce kiss.He seized, he captured.He dominated.And she loved every second of it.

You aren't meant to be a prisoner. You're powerful and incredible." "You've no' seen me in dragon form.""I don't have to. I see the man before me now.

After a taste of a Scot, you'll never look elsewhere again."A brunette smiled seductively, "That's quite a boast.""I'm quite a man.

She leaned a shoulder against the tunnel wall and thought of Kellan. A Dragon King. A dragon and a King.A gorgeous man who kissed as if there were no tomorrow and made love skillfully, adeptly. He could have let her die. Instead, he took her on a journey that opened her eyes to an entirely new world both beautiful and frightening.

In all of the possible scenarios Kian had envisioned, encountering a lunatic had not been one of them. It just showed him that he could never be completely prepared.

...I live in Ireland every day in a drizzly dream of a Dublin walk...

There was always a big party on the night before anyone left for the States. They called it an American wake, because the whole community stayed up to keep the emigrants company through their last night on the island, just as they would have bidden farewell to a soul beginning the long journey towards eternity. There was almost no chance that anyone present would ever see the departed again

Bí ann nó astáimse ag triall Ortagus má tácuirim geasa Ortmé a shábháilón dreama deirgur fear fuarsa spéir Thú.