We took our four children and boarded a plane for Shannon, Ireland in June of 2003. We were going to take about one week to travel a southern loop around the island and then stay in a cottage on the Dingle Pennisula for a second. On our fourth or fifth day there while touring the south we were in one of the towns, perhaps Wexford, and I found myself standing alone outside of a shop.
The day had gotten off to a rough start. Everyone had their own idea about how we should spend the time. We had all scattered among the shops and I stood alone, somewhat frustrated that we couldn’t come to a consensus and my countenance undoubtedly showing it.
When along came a little old Irishman wearing a long top coat and a cap. He was short and frail with hair of gray, but eyes that twinkled. A lively Irish tune was playing somewhere from a shop’s speaker. The little old man stopped on the walk in front of me and executed ten quick steps of a jig, then with a nod and a smile resumed his course and walked away leaving me still alone, but smiling—only in Ireland.