Page 4 of The Wandering Season

Week One: Ireland

January 15

Dublin, Ireland

Every website I’d researched listed January as one of the months best avoided in Ireland, and so far none of them were wrong. It was cold, bleak, and rainy, and the daylight hours were incredibly short this far north. Avery and Stephanie dove headlong into planning this trip, and no amount of thoughtful planning or color-coded itineraries could change the realities of the weather. But they were right that offseason travel would be far less disruptive to my work, and taking several weeks off in better weather would be next to impossible.

As I’d hauled my suitcase through the Denver airport the better part of a day before, I had resolved I wasn’t going to sulk the whole time. I was excited to sample anything made with Irish cheese and butter. France and Italy had boatloads of culinary delights in store. I even held out hope for some unique finds in Denmark, which had a world-class restaurant scene. I’d resolved this would be a useful trek, if not an enjoyable holiday in the traditional sense.

If I was going to go on this madcap trip on Avery’s and my parents’ dimes, I would use it for the benefit of The Kitchen Muse so I could dazzle Fairbanks and the others on my return. I’d find new vendors, find new products, find new inspiration. That was my mission beyond whatever ancestral sentiment the family was hoping to evoke in me.

Had I planned the trip myself, I’d have given myself several weeks instead of a few days’ worth of lead time. I would have read up on the places myself, researched where to go. I would have reached out to potential business contacts well in advance to potentially make the trip a more profitable one. But I would have to make the best contacts I could on the fly.

I barely had the chance to download a few travel apps on my phone and to peruse Stephanie’s hyperdetailed itinerary. I hoped I wouldn’t regret not purchasing paper guides and maps to lug around. I’d discovered that if there were two uncertainties in travel, they were the availability of reliable Wi-Fi and the dependability of the battery on my six-year-old smartphone when I needed them. But when Stephanie had come over to help me pack, I’d conceded that traditional guidebooks would have added more weight than I wanted to bother with. I’d simply have to hope my luck would hold out and I’d be able to navigate to where I needed to go.

Avery had sent an overnight express care package of clothes for the trip, and the sheer amount of merino wool layering pieces and waterproof outerwear was staggering. She insisted merino was lightweight and compact to be practical for packing—far less bulky than my usual winter wear in Denver—but still warm enough and water resistant to stand up to the January climes in the north. Of course she’d also thrown in a few brightly colored scarves and other fun accessories to lift the darker, muted tones of the merino. Winter climes were no excuse not to look one’s best, after all.

My head was buzzing from jet lag, and I wanted nothing more than to take a nap, but I was hours away from my B and B on the outskirts of Westport on the opposite side of the country, and to nap at eight in the morning would have been disastrous for my internal clock. My train to Westport wasn’t for another three hours, and I found myself in the heart of Dublin with time to kill and an overwhelming sense of gratitude that I’d heeded Avery’s advice to travel with only a carry-on.

There wasn’t much within a stone’s throw of the train station aside from the Guinness Open Gate Brewery, which wasn’t all that appealing in the early morning, so Stephanie’s itinerary suggested I use the time to prowl around the pedestrian mall on Grafton Street. Most everything was still closed, but at least a few places should be showing signs of life.

I wasn’t much of a shopper, much to Avery’s consternation, but there were any number of good restaurants I could peek in on. A lot could be discerned from a glance through the windows and gleaned from the menus posted outside. Even if overshadowed by London and Paris, Dublin was regarded warmly in the restaurant world. It boasted a handful of Michelin-starred restaurants and was similar to Denver in that it was a Goldilocks city in terms of the restaurant scene—big enough to matter, small enough to stand a chance.

After perusing the restaurant fronts for an hour and filling my phone with a long list of notes, the cold was beginning to wear on me. There weren’t any kitchenware stores, so I ducked inside a quirky-looking thrift shop called Objets Trouvés—“found objects”—in a building that was probably a hundred years older than the city of Denver. The fa?ade was a stately green, but the sign was colorful and delightfully bohemian.

I’d taken to thrift shopping to save money while avoiding “fast fashion,”

but I really knew nothing about the art of thrifting. I wouldn’t know the difference between a five-dollar Goodwill shirt that could be resold for two hundred dollars and one that was barely worth the cost of the price tag, but I did find the hunt for pieces that seemed well-made and flattering to be a fun exercise in small doses.

The selection in Dublin was different from back home, to be sure. Denver’s thrift shops housed a collection of two- to five-year-old cast-off clothes from all the recognizable mid-level brands; this assortment was far more eclectic. I found myself wandering the racks and not knowing why. I perused outdated blazers, all manner of blouses, and an eclectic collection of handbags before happening onto the dresses in the back of the shop. There was everything from barely there sequined numbers that would have looked at home in Vegas to the most horrendous avocado-green jumpsuit that was something out of a seventies horror film.

I almost passed up the garment bag altogether, not wanting to bother with zippers to reveal the contents, but when my hand touched the hanger, I felt an unshakable tingling in the tips of my fingers. I unzipped the plastic sheath to reveal a flawless lace gown that almost literally stole my breath.

“Oh, that’s a lovely thing, isn’t it?”

The shopkeeper had materialized out of nowhere at my elbow. “It’s a pity to think it’s been here so long. More than ten years now. I know it’s daft, but I couldn’t bear to bin it for the charity haul like so many places like this do after a few weeks.”

“No,”

I agreed, gently running my fingers along the pristine lace.

She showed me the label at the neck of the gown. It was an old-fashioned embroidered script on the tag that made me think the dress was from the 1940s or even earlier and was far more yellowed with age than the dress itself. “Do you know Ordaithe? It was a fine house back in its day. They don’t make dresses like this anymore.”

I blinked. “The dress looks brand-new. Maybe the label was switched?”

She shook her head. “I did a bit of research, and this was a style they made shortly after the war when fine fabrics were easier to get your hands on and before the 1950s when shorter wedding gowns and fuller skirts became en vogue. The lass who brought it in had it restored and then backed out on the wedding. She pressed it into my hands and refused to take a penny for it. Poor dear was in a right state.”

“Oh, that’s too bad.”

I stroked my finger along the lace. It had to have cost a fortune when it was new, and I felt a twinge of sadness for the unhappy bride-to-be and the unwanted gown. Both deserved better.

“It just wasn’t her time to be married and it wasn’t her gown. It just happens that way sometimes. I do hope she finds what she was looking for eventually.”

“Me too.”

I’d never met this woman, but I couldn’t help but imagine she’d been in a low moment when she’d given up such a lovely gown.

I felt compelled to know how this saleswoman seemed to know after ten years that she hadn’t found someone, but the question died on my tongue. She looked from me to the lace dress and back again, her expression pensive. But rather than pressing for a sale, she zipped up the bag.

The muscles in my neck loosened a bit . . . The last thing I wanted to do was try on a wedding dress so soon after a breakup. I wasn’t sentimental about clothes, but even I wasn’t immune to the mystique of a wedding dress.

“I’m guessing based on your accent and your suitcase, you’re here on holiday from the States?”

I nodded. “Obvious, is it?”

She smiled warmly. “Well, yes. Though most of your countrymen tend to come in the warmer months and travel in packs. You’re rather cunning to come in the offseason.”

“Cunning or supremely stupid?”

“Most assuredly cunning. I see you’ve got a decent coat and wellies on.”

I looked down at the waterproof winter coat and boots Avery had shipped out. The coat was sturdy and lined in merino wool against the cold but managed to be reasonably stylish in the process. The boots were, mercifully, not the usual death traps she favored. “Your skin isn’t a violent shade of green like the Wicked Witch of the West. I don’t think you need to worry about melting in the rain. Far better to see our fair island when she isn’t overrun.”

“You’re probably right about that,”

I conceded half-heartedly. I wasn’t as quick to discount the short daylight hours and colder temperatures as a travel deterrent.

“You need a trinket to commemorate your travels.”

The shopkeeper ushered me toward a case in the front. She removed a thick silver bangle with gilded edges that was patterned with intricate scrollwork and a filigreed disc in the center resembling a shield. “A warrior maiden’s cuff, my dear girl. A reminder of your own strength.”

She affixed the bangle on my wrist. I wasn’t used to wearing bracelets, as they often got in the way in the kitchen, but the weight of the thing was pleasant on my wrist. It was the weight that gave me pause. That much silver had to be expensive. “How much?”

I asked, ready to find the clasp and return it to her in a heartbeat.

“Five euro, dear. Consider the discount a welcome present.”

She patted my hand like an old family friend, and I felt like I was taking advantage of this kindly woman’s misplaced benevolence.

“I couldn’t possibly. That’s far too generous.”

“Nonsense, my dear. You wouldn’t deny an old woman the pleasure of a small gesture of welcome to a guest in her country?”

Her eyes, which I noticed then were a remarkable shade of blue, were pleading.

“Very well,”

I acquiesced. My eyes scanned the shop as I pulled out my wallet. My gaze settled on a small Santa figurine resembling the collection my parents displayed each year. Slenderer than his American counterpart, clad in green rather than red, but unmistakably Santa. He had a pine tree slung over his shoulder and a doll and a lyre clipped to his belt for the sleeping children. I was sure this was one Mom and Dad didn’t have and would be pleased to add to their collection. “Only if you let me buy the little Santa there for double the price.”

Her face broke into a smile as she heaved an insincere sigh. “You drive a hard bargain, miss, but so be it. Twenty euro for the lot and not a penny more.”

I handed her the colorful bill, adorned with arched windows rather than a political figure, which she accepted. She wrapped up the small figurine in some tissue and placed it in a handled shopping bag.

She took me in with her intense blue eyes as handed me the bag. “I do believe you’re going to have an extraordinary time while you’re here with us, my dear. I hope you’ll come see me again to tell me all about your adventures.”

I exited the shop, pleased with the trinket I’d found for Mom and Dad but somewhat baffled by my interaction with the shopkeeper and a bit distracted by the bangle on my wrist. Why a shopkeeper would go out of her way to give an expensive piece of jewelry to a tourist when she was certain to see hundreds of us every year, I couldn’t be sure. But I loved the idea of a token to remind me of my strength. With the upheavals of the past few weeks, such a trinket couldn’t come amiss.