Pete Hamill, a prolific writer residing in New York City, was born and raised by parents who had emigrated from Belfast, Ireland. Writing about his first trip to Ireland – a journey not taken till he was a grown man -- he talks about boarding the plane as “a newspaperman, trained by vigorous masters to a permanent secular skepticism.” He was unprepared for his first glimpse of Ireland: "My scalp tingled. My skin pebbled. I felt a sensation of something invisible rising toward me, like atomic particles… 'Come' they seemed to whisper. 'Come home, we’ve been waiting for you,'" wrote the journalist.

I am always uneasy as the plane begins its descent into Shannon because I am afraid it will not be there anymore. Seriously. I fear that, like Brigadoon, the country has disappeared never to be seen by mortals again and I am too late to go with them, stuck on earth without her for the rest of my days. But then the plane falls through the white clouds and I see the patch-worked fields surrounding Shannon, fields stitched together by ribbons of country roads and slim lines of hedgerow stone walls with tiny cars going here and there, and I know everything is going to be OK because Ireland is still here.

I arrived in Ireland for the first time as a teenager in the 1960s. If you were in the States in the decade of free love, you surely recall all the talk about peace. But at some point, through my eyes, all the talk turned to shouting – generations shouting past each other. One summer, my father took me from there to a thatched cottage in the west of Ireland, where I was immersed in the peace of a bog explored on a bicycle and explained to me by gracious people who patiently answered all the questions of a wide-eyed young American. I returned again and again, till one day Ireland began to feel more like home than home itself. It was on a brilliant summer’s day on Aran where the Atlantic rollers crash into a wall of Irish rock that each wave seemed a sentence from the American world I had left behind, crashing into the rock, falling back into the sea -- a whole line of reasoning dismissed in a nod and a wink.

But in retrospect, it was much more than that. It was the providential juncture of time and place. Ireland was the place; my journey into adulthood was the time. I was raised in a small town in New Jersey where my father had a prestigious job and my six much-older brothers and sisters had already established some prestige of their own. When I was 18, I had to make a decision: Follow the well-established path of those who went before me, or go elsewhere to sort out who I was to be.

Irish people will talk about “the life” -- and if you know it, you get it. But to put this into words, I think of Yeats. The Irish poet would return from a walk in his beloved Sligo to his study where he carefully and deliberately wrote down what he had seen, only to tear the page up when he finally had it right. For if it was put into words, he feared the faeries would come and steal his tongue. The life, he knew, was meant to be experienced.

But I can tell you this. When I get off the plane in Shannon, the first thing that hits me is the smell of peat burning. One whiff of this distinct smell and brought forward in my mind are wet windy days that stretched into a week, giving little reason to rouse from a corner chair next to the kitchen fire. But on a sunny day, I would be out the door and into the fields past the cottages and over the stone walls, and into the silence of the furthest field. This is where words fail me; this sacred silence of the remote Irish countryside must be experienced to be understood. Once it was only there for a moment before the spell was broken by the sound of a smithy at work. There was no echo; no reverberation. It was pure sound exploding across the enormous Irish sky. Later that day, I was back on the road where the stream ran between me and the thick hedgerow, and then disappeared into it. Further down the road, almost as if someone or something was playing hide and seek with me, this line of water appeared back beside me again and ... my scalp tingled. My skin pebbled. I felt a sensation of something invisible rising toward me.…

Being an outsider, there is much about “the life” that is still a mystery to me, which led to my eventual return to American shores. But I know this. Ireland is where I was assembled and to where I return to renew the lessons I learned there, for hers is the landscape that rests at the bottom of my soul.

Views: 804

Tags: Childhood, Exploration, Memoirs

Comment by Fran Reddy on March 1, 2016 at 8:36am

I love this story Susan! I have felt that pull and those whispers from the past.. It's such a distinct 'feeling', overpowering at times! Reading this brings them back! Thanks : )

Comment by Susan O'Dea Boland on March 2, 2016 at 5:17am
Thanks so much for the warm response, Fran. It also so good to know others feel the same thing.
Comment by Kathleen Mary Boyle on March 6, 2016 at 4:45pm
You have captured my experience of Ireland so well. Thank you for your gift of words, Susan. The first time I went to Ireland -almost four years ago - I felt as though I was home ... my heart and my head knew it. I've been back now five times and am planning my 6th trip. I am confident that I will live there at some point. Warm regards, Kate
Comment by Suzee McKee Irwin on March 6, 2016 at 4:48pm

Dear Susan,

You are the first person in my experience that has had a real, physical reaction to your first encounter with Ireland. Both my Mother and Father's families immigrated from there. I first saw Ireland as a tiny black line on the horizon while crossing the Irish Sea from Wales.

It truly felt that my heart just leapt in my body. Indeed if hearts do have strings, someone or something was tugging on them powerfully. I laughed and cried at the same time. I have been back several times since but while it is always grand to glimpse her from the airplane, it has never been the same magical unearthly feeling.

I surely understand what you are describing . Furthermore I now believe in memory DNA. Somewhere deep in my past, those memories were stamped in my DNA. Thank you so much for your beautiful story.

Comment by Geraldine Callaghan on March 7, 2016 at 12:57am
Beautiful expression of one's feelings. County Sligo is a very picturesque County and Yeats wrote passionately about it. My mother was born and raised there. Pete Hammil is a wonderful writer; I have read most of his books. Thank you for a lovely story.
Comment by Gavin Wells on March 7, 2016 at 10:22am

I don't know what my lineage is as I was adopted from birth, but I had the opportunity to go to Ireland in 2007 and I fell in love. I have been back one time since-August 2015-but plan on returning. I feel the pull of Ireland in my soul. I feel that I do have Irish, but it doesn't matter as the heart wants what the heart wants regardless. Thank you for this article Susan.

Comment by Susan O'Dea Boland on March 9, 2016 at 4:30pm
I have been offline for. Few days but was delighted to read the responses to this article. I am so happy to have found Wild Geese, where we understand each others' attachment to Ireland. Many, many, many thanks.
Comment by Gerry Regan on March 9, 2016 at 6:56pm

Gavin, I was adopted an an infant as well. Here's my story: Hope you find your roots -- best mission I've ever undertaken in my entire life.

Comment by Gavin Wells on March 10, 2016 at 4:27pm

Thank you Gerry. Your story was very inspiring. My adoption, too, was closed and I am unsure as to where and how to even start my search. Where did you begin yours and what tools were you able to use? I would appreciate any information you can give. Thanks again, Gavin

Comment by Gerry Regan on August 5, 2020 at 11:25am

Sadly, Pete Hamill, an iconic figure on New York's cultural and Irish scenes for more than half a century, died today at age 85. More on that here:…/08/05/nyreg…/pete-hamill-dead.html


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