The luck of the Irish is in the landscape. Bright-green pastures are vibrant even in the fog. The few trees still clinging to fall contrast beautifully against the rugged lime grass. Dew from the morning coats everything in a fine sheen of silver sweat. Like the land itself is showing signs of fatigue after centuries of struggle and triumph.

My purple biker boots smack against the slick and muddy stone steps. I step carefully and purposefully. A fall could be disaster at The Cliffs of Moher. I get to another viewpoint and stop, basking in the misty afternoon sun. I hear the roar of the ocean, a mighty force crashing into the extremely steep coastline. The sound reverberates off the bay and it sounds like thunder, like a storm is brewing. I see the swells coming in, one after another, the waves crashing over each other and whitewash plummeting against the rock, slowing carving a piece of natural history. A history that is timeless, that has presided long before humans and will remain long after we have transpired. The swells are small ripples against the backdrop of the Atlantic Ocean. Like the cliffs, they seem timeless and infinite; a ripple flowing endlessly.

The cliffs are majestic. They alternate layers of limestone for hundreds of meters until they reach the rocky shoreline. Grass, rocks, and mud cover everything. I become daring and find a spot to sit along the cliff, looking hundreds of feet down into the ocean. The gnats fly around me as I find myself in a moment of vertigo. Terrifying yet thrilling. It’s as if I can feel the world turning on its axis; I can feel gravity move like it’s pulling me forward, trying to entice me over the edge. I plant my feet firmly against the turning of the world and lean back, smelling the salt in the air.

As always, the ocean calls to me. It is the lighthouse in the darkness, beaconing me to safety and tranquility. The elements ground me and bind me to the present, where time becomes an illusion.

The present is all we have.

Irish countryside

The Cliffs