Monday is St. Patrick’s Day but the celebrating will start this weekend — with parades and lots of pubs with live Irish music. Growing up in a Protestant church, I never knew about the Catholic saints. I now read that St. Patrick was a missionary who spread Christianity throughout Ireland during the 5th century.

There’s not a lot known about him except that he was British-born and at sixteen-years old was captured by Irish pirates. He became a devout Christian during the six years of enslavement that followed. He escaped, only to return later in his life as a missionary. While he was not officially granted sainthood by the church, he was given a Feast Day of March 17th.

The most recognized symbol of the Luck of the Irish is the 4-Leaf clover; you see them everywhere. I’ve only learned recently what each leaf is supposed to represent: Faith, Hope, Luck, Love.

In thinking about all things Irish, and perhaps because I’m “Scotch-Irish” as my Grandma Ola Gilchrist Smith would say, I felt that luck on my solo journey to Doolin, Ireland in September of 2022. Before I arrived there, I’d spent a week on a bus tour in Scotland and then a long weekend in Dublin with my cousin, Kim. I’d felt the exuberance of the Irish people as we toured the city aboard a hop-on-hop-off bus with a jolly driver. After a great weekend, Kim flew back to the States and I caught the train south to Galway, then a bus to the seaside village of Doolin on Ireland’s west coast.

It was a long travel day to reach that village. When I arrived, I was surprised to learn that my B & B was not in the town center but rather a mile away with a steep uphill climb around a winding country lane. The Visitor Center staff member told me there was no bus system and taxis would be difficult to obtain due to a festival in a neighboring village. She saw my heavy bag and graciously offered to take me to my B & B.

Once I settled in, I talked with Mary, the owner about where I could get dinner.

“You need to try the lamb shank at McDermott’s pub,” she told me. “It’s the best in the village.”

She hadn’t realized I didn’t have a rental car and listened to my disappointment that there was no village transportation.

“There’s several car services and I know one that’ll come. Let me give him a call.”

She did and within fifteen minutes he picked me up and drove me the mile to McDermott’s. We agreed on a time for him to return. With the festival pulling more car services to their village, I had to be sure I had a ride home in the dark.

The lamb shank and vegetables were as delicious as Mary described. I wanted to stay until the music started at 9:30 but was too exhausted. When the driver told me it would be 30 Euros, I was in shock. It was double the amount Mary had said. I’d only ridden one mile with no traffic down a country lane. When I came inside, Mary was drinking her tea in the sitting room and asked me about my lamb shank. I told her everything — including my surprise at the car fare.

“That’s not right!” she said. “I don’t like him taking advantage of you. I’ll see about that.”

I left it with Mary and went upstairs to my room. I was tired and feeling my traveler foolishness for not checking behind the travel agent, being sure my lodging was in the center of town. Maybe I made a mistake in coming here, I thought. Was my entire time in this village going to be fraught with difficulty?

I knew that familiar voice of discouragement that came on travel days; I’d heard it on many of my previous solo journeys. I put away my things and replayed my entire journey. My days on the bus tour that included the Outer Hebrides of Scotland had been beautiful, and meaningful, but at times, had been very lonely. It was the first time I’d traveled and not been tethered to a husband back home. Watching the couples in our group, seeing them hold hands and stroll together, or embrace on the beach of the stunning shores of northwest Scotland, made my longing for someone special all the deeper. It had been three years since my separation, almost two years since my divorce, and many more years of feeling alone. I was discouraged and worn down from my venture into dating — both the many meetup dates from online sites as well as the “old-fashioned” kind.

It started raining, the drops pounding on the tile roof. I pulled up a song on Youtube that I’d tucked away from an earlier time when I was distraught: “Praise You in This Storm” by Casting Crowns, a contemporary Christian group. I could identify with the words, feeling like it was past time for things to change in my life. Tears washed down my face as I cried out to God to help me out of my discouragement, to give me the energy to keep moving forward, for my days in Doolin and the days beyond.

After finally settling down, I slept deeply and woke the next morning feeling refreshed — likely from the cry and the rest. After breakfast, I walked into the village and then to the entrance to the Wild Atlantic Way trail. How invigorating to walk in the morning sun on the cliffs by the Atlantic Ocean. Being outside, especially in the mornings, had always been a way to renew my spirit, and never any more so than walking that morning.

In the afternoon, I visited the most famous site of that area: the Cliffs of Moher. Not long after I arrived, a misty rain settled in and fog covered part of the view. I took a break from the rain, visiting the museum and getting a coffee in the cafe. I was grateful that I’d hiked on the other side of those cliffs in the morning — not able to see the same view but to have a feel for the height and the power of the crashing waves so far below.

I walked through the slanting rain to the bus stop that served the tourist route. Standing under the shelter of the entrance, I spoke to the man counting the money at the ticket booth. He nodded and grinned and continued his work. Later, when he’d finished, he called out to me.

“Hey there. Sorry I didn’t stop to talk. Have to get this finished and close up.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “You’re working and I’m just on vacation.”

We settled into an easy conversation. His name was Patrick and he had worked part-time at the site since retiring. He asked me if I was from the States and said he’d be going to New York City in October.

“I”m meeting my girlfriend,” he said. “She has family over there.”

“That sounds nice,” I responded. “Lots to do and see.”

“Yeah, I didn’t really expect to have a girlfriend,” he said. “I got divorced six years ago and I thought “That’s it. I don’t need another woman in my life,” he told me. He went on to describe their friendship that morphed into a committed relationship. She was a devout Catholic and he found himself drawn by her personality and her faith. He was ten years younger than me, salt-and-pepper hair, handsome with a warm, crinkly smile.

He listened with interest as I told him about my situation, about my difficult time on the bus tour and my impatience with my life getting better. I shared with him that faith was important to me, too. — as a Protestant, both of us Believers. He was like the stranger on the plane, the one you’d spill out your story to and never see again. It was close to time for the bus and others were gathering. Patrick locked up the ticket office and came around to pull the gate closed.

He walked over and gave me a side hug.

“You seem like a nice lady,” he said. “I think God has someone for you and they’ll show up when you least expect it.”

How much his encouragement meant to me, that Irishman with the listening ear.

Now, I read the notes I wrote on the back of my souvenir postcard. I think of his words, “someone will show up” and I see how things have fallen into place in my life. I’m grateful for my “St Patrick” and how he was the person in my path when I was in need.

I count myself lucky, and that luck is tied to gratitude for all those leaves of the 4-Leaf clover, the Faith, Hope, Luck, and Love.

I wish for you the same. Happy St. Patrick’s Day!

Connie