By Lori Welch Brown

I’m writing this piece from a train on my way from Westport to Dublin, having just spent the week on an art retreat with 13 other artists plus the instructor. It just so happens to be my 59th birthday.

I was a bit apprehensive about this trip. I tried to cancel and/or reschedule after I’d booked it—which admittedly was a bit of an impulse purchase. I booked it just after the 2024 holiday season. There may have been some holiday melancholy and wine involved. Just sayin’. My grand plan was that my husband, XXL, would join me on some part of the trip—front end or back end—but we couldn’t seem to make it work. When my master plan fell apart, I began to get a bit nervous—not to mention a bit guilty about spending money for a trip I’d be experiencing alone.

I haven’t done a ton of traveling out of the country and only a couple of solo trips so I felt a bit wobbly. I’d have to figure out things like train schedules and currency exchange and meet up spots by myself. I’d have to schlep bags and procure airport transfers on my own. While I consider myself a strong, independent woman, apparently that only conveyed to the continental US. In other countries, I would be alone and afraid.

In the end, my frugalness trumped my fear when I found out that I’d lose my deposit if I cancelled so I was Ireland bound. To ease my trepidation, I focused on the preparation, not the destination. I laboriously scrutinized outfits and accessories and culled down as much as possible knowing that I’d be responsible for carrying and lifting and dragging bags from airports to taxis to hotels to trains and back. I emailed the other participants under the guise of collecting contact information and queried where they’d be staying, which trains they’d be taking in the hopes of crossing paths sooner rather than later.

All the while I told myself, “one step at a time.” One leg of the journey at a time. All I had to do was get myself to the airport and find my seat on the plane. Easy enough. I’d done that dozens of times. When I arrived in Dublin, all I had to do was jump in a taxi and check into my hotel. Again—no problem. Once I was settled, I was free to walk about, explore, eat, shop, etc. Then I’d have to get myself to a train station and find my train…from there, piece of cake.

So why the heck was I nervous? None of this was rocket science. It wasn’t like I was flying into a war zone in a third world country. I was scared b/c I’d never done it before. I was nervous about the ‘what if’s’ instead of focusing on the ‘wouldn’t it be cool if’s’.

I’m on my way back now, and the trip has been amazing for so many reasons. Mostly because when I arrived, I discovered that I was the youngest of the participants—most were in the their mid to late 70s. One is turning 80 next month. Several had traveled alone—one from Australia, several from the UK, and a handful from the states.

Not only did these women travel solo, but they showed up to make art together and be vulnerable in a way that many may never understand. They opened their hearts and souls and shared their innermost thoughts and feelings. They talked about caregiving and sick spouses; failed marriages and the fall-out from alcoholism. One person revealed that her partner had died last year. Another shared that she had recently undergone serious health issues and was still recovering.

We gathered each morning and had breakfast together. Then we headed to the studio for instruction and painting. We broke for lunch and then got back to splattering paint on paper, wiping it around, scratching into it, and making all sorts of wonderful marks with crayons and pastels. When we were done, dinner was served, and we pretty much zonked out shortly thereafter. For those of us who could sleep anyhow.

Painting days were broken up by a day trip to Achill Island and another half day to the town of Westport for some retail therapy. Our guide, Colum, pointed out every local we passed and gave us the low down. “That’s Mary McCray over there. She doesn’t know where she is half the time. Oh, here comes Shamus Moran—he’s the local mortician and runs the farm next to me.” Apparently, everyone in Ireland has two jobs. “Watch out over there—that’s Sean Fitzpatrick. He’s probably still drunk from last night.”

I picked up some new terms—chuf’t (reallly good/happy), crikey (dang/darn). And learned what a rat road is (a path barely suited for hiking let alone driving a car), which locals use to get back from the pub vs. taking the main (safe drivable roads). Colum swiftly maneuvered our 15-passenger bus through a maze of rat roads, and I’m glad I was sitting in the back although I could have grabbed a roll from the counter of a few passing houses had my window been open.

These ‘strangers’ and I met in a small village in Ireland, County of Mayo, and bonded over a shared loved of art. We broke bread (a lot of really yummy bread) and communed with nature with a view of the Holy Mountain directly in front of us. Our hosts were magical—the only word to properly describe the love, attention, and nurturing provided us.

On our last morning, we hugged, snapped pics, exchanged contact info, said our goodbyes, and promised to stay connected as we boarded the van with Colum once again behind the wheel. As we drove off, I thought about how my art evolved over the past week and how magical it is to spend time in the company of strangers—especially women. And I was reminded that fear is easily conquered with a passport, a paint brush, and a desire. Age is truly just a number.

About the Author: Lori is a local writer, painter and pet lover who loves to share her experiences and expertise with our readers. She has been penning a column for the OTC for over 20 years. Please follow Lori online on Medium for more missives like this.