While I’m on the topic of the “end of the road,” I thought a lot about my own mortality while on holiday in Ireland this past summer. This was partly because I had just lost a good friend to cancer a few months prior to the trip, but also because I was driving in western-most Ireland, which is notorious for its narrow roads with no guardrails and 500 foot drops straight down to the sea. The all-to-common grottos of the Virgin Mary carved into the rock cliffs along the more treacherous curves are good reminders that you better have your affairs in order if you are going to travel on these roads. When I die I want my ashes brought to Ireland. This was a big decision, decided once and for all on this last visit here (my fourth visit to Eire). It’s a morbid thought, I know, but when I travel to different countries I always think about whether I would like to have my ashes spread there. Some people visit a country and ask themselves if they could live there; I visit and ask myself if I could be there as part of the soil – forever. Usually, the answer is no! (Mexico comes to mind.) For many years now, the leading contender in the hunt for a final resting place has been Scotland. I like the notion of having my ashes dropped in the River Spey. It would be great to give something back to a country that has given me so much pleasure over the years (see the post on Scotch whisky from last week). How satisfying it would be if people would take a sip of their whisky and wonder what it was that gave it that special character. Well, that would be me! The problem is that Scotland frowns upon people throwing anything into its rivers and imposes strict fines for those who are caught. The last thing I need is for my mourners to be hauled off to jail. They’ll already be complaining that they had to pay too much for the airfare. Ireland seems the perfect place for me. It is the home of my ancestors. I feel comfortable there. The region where I want to spend eternity is called Connemara. It is in County Galway in the west of Ireland. In my estimation Connemara is the most beautiful part of the country and very well located: far enough away from civilization so that I can rest in peace; close enough to the town of Clifden so that I can pop in for the occasional pint of Guinness. Don’t tell me there is no Guinness in the afterlife or I am simply not going.
Here in the States a street sign like this wouldn’t exist unless something really bad happened at this spot. We are a reactive culture when it comes to public safety. Somebody would actually have to drive his car over the edge before we would recognize the hazard, and even then we would probably take a wait and see attitude: “well, maybe it won’t happen again; it was a rather freakish accident, it’s not likely…whoops, okay, better put up a sign.”
