She is a happy, happy place. She is friendly, she is real. She is a never-ending toboggan ride through 12-foot-wide country roads lined with bushes and stone fences on both sides. Not wide enough for two cars, or in most cases, one car and a bus.

She is about the town's piazza where people gather, which on this Island are the pubs. She is full of small farms with no crops, only sheep or cattle. She is ancient ruins, and still-standing old churches, blackened on the outside by centuries of raw weather. She is real. She is wonderful, and lovely. She is not about crowds. She is all about the town's characters that could all be mayor, but do not want to bother as they know too many people.

She is about wonderful, eclectic "rest stops" off the highways with gas stations, Inns, and at least 6 or 8 types of food for the not-so-weary traveler. She is about getting from one side the Country to the other in 4 to 5 hours or less. She is about not having an agenda, rather taking what the day gives you.

She is a chocolate factory on a rural Mountain hideaway road—an oasis of coffee and tea, and pastries. But mostly chocolate, great chocolate at that. She is raw and clean. She is all about the wind. or the rain, or most times, both. Her people revel in the sun when it is out. She is always multiple shades of green that vary with the light. Sometimes Kelly, other times Lime, Forest, Spring, Avocado, Olive, Chartreuse, Hunter, Lime, Sage, or my favorite, Emerald.

She is a bright orangish red Moon over the Dublin coast. She is about the Black Widow Bar, or the perfect pour of Guinness.

She is dunes, dogs, heather and gorse. Late afternoon walks on the beach. A Sunday night church service then ice cream for the young lads and lasses. She is the three old men holding court at the front booth of a pub at The Harbour Bar—telling jokes, embellishing stories and razzing the tourists—from 3:00 to 5:30. Every day.

She is Fibber Magee's and Flanagan's, Fitzgerald's, O'Connor's Cullinan's, Kenny's and the Nineteenth. She is the Seven Old Ladies of Belmullet. She is Totty, The Pilot Bar, Gilroy and B. Hopkins. She is Bushfoot, Bushmills and the Giant's Causeway.

She is Down County Up County Down by Van Morrison. She is the haunting guitar riff of The Edge, the brilliance of Bono, and the melancholy lyrics of The Waterboys. She is Joyce, Yeats, Beckett and Wilde. She is where the streets have no name.

She is a sixth century Norse Castle, and a new millennium shiny-metal office building. She has a thatched roof, a grounded boat and railway stations.

She is everything you have ever dreamed of her to be. To put it simply, she is poetry. But most of all, she is a late afternoon walk on a links course, slight breeze off the water. Soaking in the views.