I rose to the discreet tapping of rain on the roof of the V.W van, comparing to delicate mice feet running across the puddled metal above. The only light shining into the van was that of the grey sky, in which it filled the space; a somber grey. Outside of my window, a field of endless Northern Ireland green glistened as if someone sprinkled miniscule drops of dew onto it. It was twelve in the afternoon, though it felt closer to five due to the darker than usual hue. Road trip money made a 5 pound weight in my right coat pocket. Parked on the side of an off road, my friend Emerald and I lounged in the front seats, subtly awaiting the moment. A most fulfilling moment we were indeed, waiting for. Five minutes lingered when, much to my satisfaction, the sky let out an unsteady growl informing me of the oncoming storm. The smell of rain being so fragile, it was only to the point of deep inhalation In which I was able to catch the faintest scent of crisp mountain air. One hundred and thirty-four miles from home and out into the damp Ireland region, freedom lingered in the air as I gazed upon the aggravated sky. The clouds silently crashed into each other, forming thicker, darker pillows of smoke intent on unleashing their angry tears upon those making way to their destinations.
After minutes of watching thin sheets of rain coat the drowning fields, I turned on the GPS which picked up where it left off from a day’s previous drive. Three-hundred and twenty-four miles until we reach our destination: A hotel only emerald knew and was withholding and kept me from knowing, explain that it was a “Surprise”. She climbed into the back, a mini room equipped with a semi-firm bed taking up the floor and white dusty cabinets towering on each side. I started the van, twisting the keys counter-clockwise in which it replied with a roar louder than the approaching thunder but intensified my curiosity and euphoria of what lie ahead. We then continued our journey the rest of the way, passing cars that honked in appreciation at our bold choice of transportation. The atmosphere changed from the dreary grey that evoked a melancholy beauty, into a warm light, it seemed as if we were traveling through the light of heaven. The sun greeted us with shades of yellow and orange, guiding me off of the free-way. We passed a town with sumptuous streetlights adorning the old bricked sidewalks. A cozy little town it was. I decided to stop in front of a quaint tea shop. Inside, it was limited, space wise. Wooden tables lined the right side, waiting for people to come and buy a cup of tea. None the less, it was a humble tea shop, adorned with paintings from the era of romanticism, which captured not only my eye, but my heart. After thirty minutes of strong tea and scenery admiration, we stepped out into the luminous streets of Antrim, determined to finish the journey the same day.
With two hours to go, Emerald and I sat on top of the van which was parked in a rest stop’s parking lot, minding the summer leaves as they chased each other on the ground like kids at a park. The wind picked up and ran through the trees, swaying them enough to make it look as if they were tickling the sky. The prickling heat from the sun was periodically assuaged by Mother Nature’s soft blows of sweet air on my skin. Switching positions, I was then in the passenger’s seat while Emerald took control of the driver’s seat. I settled myself and turned on the air conditioner as we pulled out of the small parking lot and into the winding streets surrounded by green fields and trees. My attempts to stay awake failed and the darkness soon took over as I drifted into the subtle comforts of sleep. Anon, Emerald with her modulated voice, and pixie cut hair of crimson, shook me and said,
“We’re here.”
Her crooked smile was at its widest as she studied me with anticipation, her dark brown eyes coaxing me to look. I peered out of the window and peeked at the hotel which in no manner, resembled an ordinary hotel. The image was peculiar in the sense that it did not correlate with the multitude of hotels I’ve experienced in this lifetime. It was mystifying and left me with a perplexed feeling I not yet understood. A sign was suspended above the door, with “Open” meticulously carved into it. The structure of this building belonged in the medieval era being that it appeared to have been constructed by medieval architects. Time was then taken to pay for our stay. Upon entering, I was introduced to a dimly lit room with a spotless beige carpet. Two queen sized beds separated by a nightstand were located on the right side, while a dusted grey and black T.V sat on a mahogany stand to the middle left wall of blood red. The meager scent of firewood burning, slowly lifted into the air. The cozy room was decorated with four masterpieces of art by Donatello, Cimabue, Fra Angelico, and Lorenzo Ghiberti: artists from the renaissance. A commodious amount of time was spent learning the medieval art; a cherished piece of information I convey with unequivocal prestige to this day. At one point in time I thought to myself, “The irony of this.” The medieval age being a dark time with little education, yet the primitive works of this age placed before me, to be displayed for the new era of education was an authentic veneration.
It was only on the last day that I ran into the greatest pain of disillusionment. Perching on the steps resembling a bird of mourning, I soaked in the last bit of alluring artistry, the enchantment nevermore left my eyes, even as the distance between the palace and I grew greater, and further. An experience to never be experienced again, and a remembrance never to be buried.
