By Maeve Binchy
After many satisfied years of marriage and elevating a relatives, Brian and Kathleen by surprise locate themselves a piece misplaced in existence. Midwesterners who’ve by no means traveled, Kathleen makes a decision that what she and Brian want is a holiday, and with assistance from an enthusiastic trip agent she plans a visit to eire looking for her roots. In attractive, old fashioned Lisdoonvarna, to the couple’s shock, they locate themselves in the middle of a joyous every year amassing devoted to celebrating the lifestyles and paintings of a past due Irish poet, they usually rediscover whatever even more very important than proof of long-dead ancestors: their love for every different and for all times itself.
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Additional resources for A Week in Summer: A Short Story
But as we drove through the beautiful County Clare countryside, I thought that all we had going for us might have kept on going—and gone away. He opened a brochure and read to me obediently, like a child at school, about the Spa Wells and the curative water and the restorative baths. And there was a matchmaking festival in September. “Pity we’ll miss that,” I joked. ” I was busy trying to negotiate the Lycra-covered backsides of some cyclists who were hogging the road. It wasn’t the moment to tell him that I had never loved anyone else and never would.
It was a bright, sunny day; the fields were small and green; the road signs were in two languages; the rented car was small. Brian wasn’t listening when they asked us who wanted to drive, so I said I would. I learned about the wrong side of the road and to beware leaving gas stations, and roundabouts. And we set off. The other drivers on the road were, well, interesting, I suppose you’d call it. They never used turn signals or anything. They just pulled straight out in front of you. But once you got used to that … I gave Brian the maps and the brochures, but they sat on his lap.
We didn’t want to seem too geriatric. All parents live on different planets from their children, they say, and, Lord, I’ve seen enough of it in the houses where I deliver food. But older parents? That’s a solar system even farther away. Anyway, why should the girls hang out around our home, with Brian always so worried about everything, big lines of worry etched into his forehead, and me always up to my elbows in pastry dough? Not much fun with us. And I remembered my own childhood. I didn’t want to hang around my house when I was younger, either.