“Why does that not make me feel any better?” I’m not really expecting an answer.

“Hey, it’s an adventure, loosen up. Besides, we’re hardly ever going to be in the room, right? We have things to do, places to go, people to see. Bam, bam, bam. Get in, get out, no fuckin’ about.”

I grin. “Well, maybe a little fuckin’ about.”

She smiles back. “Okay. A little. But not a lot.”

“After we check in, what’s next?”

“We find a local solicitor. We find Padraig O’Fuck-me-no-way-are-you-getting-my-bar Flanagan, and then we buy him out.”

I play-frown. “Hmmm … sounds like you have it all figured out.”

She slaps my leg. “Shut up. It’s an evolving plan.”

“And by evolving, you mean non-existent.”

“No, by evolving, I mean feel free to add your two cents because I can’t be expected to come up with everything on my own. I’m just the driver.”

A sign catches my eye, so I sit up straighter and point. “There! That’s our destination. Turn left. Turn left!” I’m still not used to this whole driving on the wrong side of the road thing. It feels weird to be on the left side of the front seat without a steering wheel.

Erin waits until the last possible second and then jerks the car to the left. We bounce off the motorway onto a side road so narrow it could rightly be called a path. My head hits the side window when it whips back in the other direction.

“What the hell!” Stomach ache plus headache equals cranky girl.

“I’m sorry! I was waiting for the GPS bitch to say something.” She waves at the dashboard as she’s leaning really far forward, her boobs resting on the steering wheel. “Is this the right way? Did I go the right way?”

I poke the screen, getting control of my temper. “The GPS bitch is sleeping apparently.”

The Bambino is trundling over this secondary road that’s not only narrow but could also use some re-paving. I hold my hand against my stomach. “My god, where are we? Did we just travel back in time or what?” I’m staring out over mist-covered green fields, outlined by low stone walls that must have been erected over a thousand years ago and possibly by elves. There is nothing out here but us. “How many people are at this festival? Five?”

“No. Thousands. I think we went the wrong way.”

I point. “There’s a guy up there. Ask him for directions.” As we draw closer, I’m struck speechless. He’s holding an actual shepherd’s hook. Thank heaven he’s wearing jeans and not brown robes or I would for sure think we’d dropped back into biblical times. The guy’s black and white dog runs up to the car and starts barking.

Erin slows the car to a crawl and rolls her window down. “Hey there … we were wondering if we’re going the right way. We’re looking for Doolin?”

He stands there and nods at us. The dog settles in at his side, finally silent.

“Doolin,” Erin says a bit louder. “We’re looking for Doolin.”

For a moment I’m thinking he’s deaf, but then he begins to talk. At least, I think he’s talking; but whatever he’s saying, it’s not in English. I love the cadence of his words, even though I don’t understand a single one of them. And he’s not bad looking, either. Maybe a little rough around the edges, but … hmmmm … maybe this matchmaking festival won’t be all bad after all.

Now I’m really hoping we can finish the business of getting Erin’s bar put back whole soon so we have some playtime left over. If the shepherds look this good, I can’t imagine what the rest of them might look like. The old feelings are coming back … the ones that say men in suits are boring and men in dirty jeans are fun. Rawr.

Erin nods a few times and then says, “So how far is it, then?”

I frown because she seems to have understood him. I thought she said her Irish was rough. “What’d he say?” I ask in a loud whisper.

She glances over at me. “Can’t you hear him? Clean out your ears.”

“Of course I can hear him, but that doesn’t mean I understand Irish or Pig Latin or whatever he’s speaking.”

She laughs. “He’s speaking English, fool.”

He finishes up whatever it is he was saying and Erin waves, rolling her window back up with the other hand. “Thank you! Good luck to ye!” he shouts with a grin.

We drive away, and I turn around to stare at him. He’s waving at the back of our car and his dog is running after a stray sheep. I’m kind of hoping he’ll be at the festival tonight. I’d do a turn or two around the dance floor with him.

“Seriously, what’d he say?” I ask, turning back to look out the front window.

“He said we’re on the right road. We took the back way, but we won’t lose any time. Doolin’s straight ahead.”

“What language was he speaking?”

“I told you. English. He had a bit of an accent, though.”

I snort. “A bit? Holy understatement. I’m going to need a translation app, I can tell already.” I pull out my phone and then growl when I remember that I can’t use the wifi in this country. The charges on my plan will be more than my mortgage payment, which means no translation app for me.

She pats me on the arm. “Don’t worry. You’ll start getting it. Oh, look! Houses!”

My gaze follows her pointing finger. The roofs are almost the same color as the ground and the buildings themselves are very squat and low to the ground. They’d be easy to just drive right by without noticing when they’re off in the distance like that.

“What are those roofs made of? They look like really thick bushes.”

“I dunno. Reeds. Straw. Stuff you can grow around here.”

“Is it waterproof?” I can’t believe the way they swoop and turn around the corners of the houses. They remind me of Lloyd Christmas’s haircut with the way they’re cut straight across, like bangs on a bowl cut.

“Of course they’re waterproof. Ireland did actually make it out of the middle ages, you know.”

“But they’re … weeds.”

“Reeds, not weeds. And look. There are some more modern roofs too.” She points to the edge of town that’s quickly coming up to meet us. “See? Tile. Just like home.”

“Home Dublin, not home Boston.”

“Yeah. Right.” Erin goes silent.

I’m wondering why the idea of home always seems to shut her up, but I don’t press her for explanations. Now’s not the right time. Our most immediate need is to find shelter, and even though those reedy weedy roofs look interesting, I’m kind of hoping our B&B has a tile roof over our heads. It has to rain a lot here with the way everything is so misty and green, and I seriously doubt I could handle water dripping on my head while I sleep. I’m all up for new experiences and getting into the culture and all, but I’m pretty sure that the water dripping thing is used as a torture device in POW camps. I have to draw the line somewhere. Yes, I’ll eat a few balls and a loop of intestine, but no, I cannot sleep in a rain barrel. I Just. Can’t. Do it. Captain.

“He said we just have to take five turns and we’ll end up at her house.”

“House?”

“Yeah. B&B. That’s a house. I’m not exactly sure she’s an official B&B. It might just be a friend of a friend of the family.” Her cheesy grin does not ease the delivery of this news at all.

“Oh, goody.” So much for power-showers and a good night’s sleep. One thing I’ve learned about Ireland so far is that bedtimes are much later and much louder. I think it’s the whiskey. If this person’s family is anything like Erin’s, I’d better just plan on sleeping on the plane ride back.

Minutes later, we’re pulling up to a house painted robin’s egg blue. The roof is tile, the garden is filled with ceramic gnomes, and a woman with a yellow-flowered housecoat is standing out in the middle of it all, talking to herself.

“Hey ho!” Erin says, sliding up to the curb next to the garden. “Mrs. O’Grady, I presume?”

The little old lady smiles kind of absently. “Oh, hello dear. Do I know ye?”