I’ve got nothing in the tank right now. I’m more feeling the pull of the Julian Date (2458485) rather than the freshness that comes with a sunrise and set on the first of January. I’m sitting in a dimmed cabin and tapping whatever this is into my phone while aboard an Aer Lingus flight back to London. I’m also crawling through the slow-motion discovery of what a 40something feels when a barely-earned hangover mixes with overambitious physical training. But here we are.  

In the time of the Táin Bó Cúailnge, the pre-Christian Irish associated drunkenness with wisdom. I learned that bit in college, where young exam proctors roamed our desks wearing black robes with Guinness harps peeking out from the untied cloth.  I’m not sure anyone believes that these days, and from last night onward I’ve had nothing upstairs that felt worthy of discussion. But still, the first day of the year has been most pleasant. Something that I’d like to remember all year. And further, I’d like to pass you a stack of photos taken from my morning run. Don’t worry, I’m not going to thrust you my phone and watch you feign enjoyment at my forcing of enjoyment. You are free to click away and I’ll never know. Or even care that you do.

I woke up this morning only several hours after going to bed. Happy New Year! As such, my self-interrogation immediately went like this: Why did I accept those extra glasses of champagne? Why did I start down that path of blue cheese and crackers at 12:45am? Those shots are down range now. I negotiated myself downstairs and said hello to the coffee machine. 

Now seated at the dinner table, the only other person up was the 11-year-old. She sat in the living room watching a brand-new season of Unfortunate Events that had just been dumped onto Netflix. I wasn’t interested in much more than excessive post-mortem thoughts on my midnight champagne & Roquefort course. Until I remembered where I was.

New Year’s Day moving beyond my immediate personal obsessions was looking incredibly mild and with as much blue in the sky as clouds. The deep waves of The Burren, they were still frozen in time. Pulling off their usual yet spectacular feat of existing. This is the reason why dozens of tour buses zip through these tiny roads each summer. People wait their lives to come for a visit. I trudged upstairs to find some clean running gear. 

“I’m heading out for a run,” I told the Irish girl, still taking in the antics of the evil Count Olaf. “I’ll be out for twenty minutes, max.”

“Are you going to take the back road?” she suddenly turned from the television and looked at me. There was a road near the house largely reserved for farmers that was an alternative to aforementioned main yet twisty one that was favored by speeding motorists. 

“I am,” I told her, “I just wanted to go have a look at The Burren in the morning sun.”

“Oh good,” she answered, as she twisted her long and dark hair. “Because people drive fast on that road and this morning they might not be paying as much attention…” Her voice trailed off but then her eyes continued to look straight at me, taking over the thought that her young mind understood but her vocabulary could not quite articulate.  

I told her not to worry. If I wasn’t back soon, then she should send the dog out after me. I stepped outdoors. 

The thing about this island’s coastal areas is that most offer a mix of hills and mountains that abut a fickle sea. This combination of terrain, it creates something enchanted when joined with the sky because the light, when it can get through, always bounces and shifts like those magical stories from the Táin. Even as I have grown somewhat familiar with this place, I still find urgency in dragging my hungover ass outside to experience it anew.

I ran to the soundtrack of the morning. As is my terrible habit I stopped a dozen times to record what my colored my vision. In motion once again, I kept my sight on two pieces of the horizon that revealed two broken ends of a rainbow. Continuing west, I watched caught glimpses of the sea in the distance. Ahh the sea. 

Thirtysomething Megan would have dialed in a run to the sea. It’s not far and my legs were more fresh back then. But after the Rocquefort and bubbly, coupled with this unusual third day of logging miles on my knees, I didn’t have the constitution to commit to this extra distance. But then I kept going. Run to the sea. You’re leaving Ireland later on today. Not forever. But for now. Run to the sea. 

And I will probably be the only person who will say with a straight face that I woke up this morning and accidentally ran to a village harbor that overlooks Galway city. I can tell you that it was accidental because now as I sit on this short flight to London, my ass muscle is throbbing as is my knee and oddly my left smaller middle toes. Don’t ask. On Day 2458485, this is how my body is talking to me. 

The sea, as I very well knew, did not disappoint. While it was late and folks were stirring, the morning was still incredibly quiet. I love that about being one of the first out the door, and I know there are others out there who do too. When I did finally loop back and close in on the house, I realized that I had run about 40 minutes longer than I anticipated. In the distance on the back road I caught sight of my friend, the 11-year old’s mother, who was out for a walk with the rust-colored fluff of the family dog. I stopped in the worn-down hollows of the tractor road. We both looked around at the surroundings— her home— and agreed that this was a glorious way to start the new year. She hadn’t been worried about where I’d gone off to; like me (or me like her), she had felt the absolute requirement to get outside.

We walked 5 kilometers around the lower levels of The Burren, talking as you do about adulthood things such as the definition of a career, or a single life’s work (hint: we think these questions need major reframing). As I grew chilly and tired from my pre-walk run, she lent me her jacket. The clouds around us started to gain in supremacy. It was turning into just another day. Without any deliberate planning (with perhaps the exception of champagne and cheese), New Year’s had begun in exactly the way I would have wanted.

When we finally returned to the house, I was more conscious of the fatigue in my body rather than the alcohol percolating out from my pores. We had just enough time to gather our things and return to the harbor to watch the daughter partake in a charity swim into the sea. Much like the landscape, the people of Ireland in their mad brilliance factor fully into the magic that is everywhere. 

In no time I was back down by the sea. I watched as dozens of locals counted down from ten anew. In no time many were jumping without reservation into the shock of water. I stood by in my garb of running tights and pea coat, quite happy to be a spectator in this particular sport. Behind us stood a refueling station with offers of biscuits, hot chocolate and hot whiskey. 

So my flight is over and we’re landing now; I leave you with no amazing ending to this silly tale that barely props up my photos. It’s back to life in London and on to a new year full of adventure. As a clever person once taught me years ago, chi viaggia a Capodanno viaggio tutto l’anno. I don’t know if there is an Irish equivalent—perhaps one can be found in one of the old Irish texts—but it essentially means “(s)he who travels on New Year’s Day will travel all year long.” It’s a good omen, and one for now that I hope will hold true. I’ve got more body parts to test, more mind over matter. More running to be done in places like The Burren.