As we sat, our minds wonder, the layers and layers of Irish grass paced through the glass windows, one would think someone placed a perfect green carpet over this island. Childhood memories from my past bus trips to Boris, Co Carlow dazzle in front of my eyes. Blue and red stripped sheeps pasted by. Cows graze on grass and hay as if time stood still. Unaware of this giant concrete motorway fondle straight through their farm.
The little town of Cashel awaits for the three of us. Yummy sweets and pastries sit in front of us, nestled away under a stair case, a cosy table for three. Story telling, as we watch the brown tears roll down our coffee cups. There we were, on the top of the Rock of Cashel. Me and you, mother in law from Brazil. The wild Atlantic winds, racing through her curly hair. Feeling like another world from another plant. Her first true Irish summer experience, unpredictable weather, one can never fashionably dress for unpredictable patterns. No high heels can with stand the test of Irish weather.