Eerie Erin

When you're in Ireland, standing in the mist, looking at castles, you can feel the ancient history. The struggles to survive were immense. Despite all the suffering the spirit of intellectual, literary and artistic annals surround you. So does the finely developed wit.

Despite invasion after invasion, the unique character of this tiny Island republic haunts you. The native Irish, the Gaels, Celts, Vikings, Normans, English, Scotch have all jumped into the Irish recipe.

When the middle ages tore apart the cultures of Europe, it was Ireland that became the depository of the records of our early development. And it was Ireland that spawned James Joyce, Jonathon Swift, Oscar Wilde.

The citizens of Ireland go out of their way in this Irish soup to keep all of their history alive. The GHOSTS ARE EVERYWHERE.

How, after only a two week stay, would I know that?

Well that's Ross Castle up there, and that's Peggy and our host and beloved good friend Cheri trying to keep warm in the rain.

It was a busy day visiting the castle and other cultural delights in Killarney National Park. So we arrived in the evening at Cheri's cottage on a farm in County Kerry EXHAUSTED.

Peggy and I just flat out crashed. It is important for me to tell you we'd already been staying with Cheri for about a week. We pretty much knew the layout of our headquarters. So should nature call in the middle of the night? We knew the terrain well enough to get from point A to point B.

Well, on this night I'm in deep reverie walking around Ross Castle when nature gives me a shout. So as I step out of bed I'm not sure which way to go. At that very moment Peggy stirs to ask me where I'm headed (pun intended). "To the toilet," I reply. Did you see one when we came in?" "No," she mumbles. "But Cheri went that way, to your right."

SO? I grab a door handle, pull on it, and head in the direction suggested. It was odd, though. No longer than I got into the next room than I'm attacked on all sides by what I presume is an invading army of Swift's Lilliputians. They are noisily trying to get something tied around my head. My now desperate attempts to get to the toilet are met with a collision with a solid wall.

"Paul, are you okay?"

" I don't know. Where am I?"

Turns out we were both in the same "castle dream," a first after 20 years of bliss. Fortunately Peggy had the where withal in her dreamy state to turn on the light next to the bed. She shook her head to wake herself up, and began laughing at my expense.

Had we been at Cheri's Cottage, and not Ross Castle? The way to the toilet would have to the left, not the right. The turn to the right took me inside the closet, where I was being attacked by a rack of empty hangars.

Leprechauns, do you think? A practical joke from the ghost of Oscar Wilde, I'm thinkin'. It certainly smacks of the subtle Irish humor that says, in essence, "if we can't laugh at ourselves we'd have to cry."

Peggy is still laughing. I may have to get her some help.