Taking My Moms to Ireland

My moms, at 75 and 77, had never been abroad. My wife, Maggie, and I meet them every year for a shoulder-season vacation in Provincetown. We always end up at our favorite restaurant, Sal’s Place. On our last night, over candlelight and a couple glasses of wine, Maggie asked a simple question: “If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go?” They both said, “Ireland,” as if they’d been waiting to be asked. And that was that—it took almost two years to plan and align schedules.

My bio mom, Cyndi, and I have had a long and wild ride as mother and son. Our bond is strong, and sometimes complicated. In the early years she raised me as a single mom, and there wasn’t much money, but she always made sure we took one vacation every summer. There was a lot of camping. I get my independence, wanderlust, and a bit of a temper from her. We both love to get excited and appreciate a good dirty joke.

Darleen has been in my life for a long time now. Together they’ve given me so much love, grace, and support. Darleen is the planner and organizer. In retirement, she became a Quaker minister and has a wonderful way with my mom—and my crass humor—with the grace of the clergy.

The next day they texted to ask if Maggie had been serious. She had. That was the moment I knew we’d hit something truly special for them. For the next year, it was all they talked about.

Looking back, Maggie and I underestimated how big this was for them. Maggie has traveled extensively; I didn’t leave the U.S. until my thirties, but have made up for lost time. Every time we called, the trip was their focus. Darleen had logistical questions and Cyndi reiterated how excited she was. They’re in good health, but time is time—and there are only so many big trips left. The planning carried a new kind of emotional weight. We worked within budgets and schedules, reminding ourselves that the time together mattered more than making it the most epic trip ever.

For my mom, I think the joy was as much about telling people her son was taking her abroad as it was about the trip itself. Life hadn’t always been easy. In our small hometown in western NY State, it wasn’t unusual to never have left the country. She’s proud of the life I’ve built and loves the partner I chose.

For me, the trip felt like repayment for all the years of sacrifice she’d made for me. It wasn’t always easy; she made hard choices to give me a better life. For all the lack of money, there was always love and, maybe more importantly, freedom. From an early age, my mom let me wander and find my own way—it’s at the core of who I am. Only now, in middle age, can I see her fully: the hardships she carried as a queer woman, often a single mother, someone who wanted to be loved and to see her kids safe and happy.

We’re not a family stingy with “I love yous” and hugs, but this trip became a talisman for the gratitude I could never quite put into words.

The moms were nervous about international travel—especially customs—so we planned flights that met in JFK and continued together. They didn’t really know what to expect, so the itinerary fell to Maggie and me. We just had to balance energy and interests: the moms are healthy and relatively active but not big drinkers, and of course there are generational differences. We wanted to make the trip about them, but also have fun ourselves.

We arrived in Galway on a perfectly Irish day—blustery, with sudden downpours that soaked us. The River Corrib had white caps as the wind blew the rain sideways. We couldn’t have been happier. 

The moms pulled out their Aran-knit cloaks, like fans wearing the T-shirt of the band they came to see. Maggie found a fantastic spot for breakfast at Ard Bia, a cool restaurant on the water with staff that reminded us Galway is a real college town. My moms looked at us over their coffees and said that no matter what happened, they were so happy just to have made the trip. To be honest, it felt like a success right then.

The next moment we were on a rough sea, ferrying to the Aran Island of Inis Mór. Apparently there’s also a short flight on a very small plane—it’ll be a family debate forever which would have been worse.

We got some real Irish weather as the ferry docked, with rain pouring down as we struggled against the wind to reach the accommodations our tour company had booked. Dormer House is a small hotel, the kind of place that does not have a website. While very modest, it was clean, warm, and we were very happy to have arrived for hot showers. Alice, the owner, served a full Irish breakfast every morning—a hearty fare for long days tramping around the island.

We’d planned a three-day walking tour, including one day of eleven miles. The moms thought they’d be up for it, but after the flight, the ferry, the weather, and all the excitement, they needed some rest. I hadn’t fully considered that they were in their seventies and maybe reluctant to admit they weren’t quite up for twenty-five miles of hiking over three days.

Maggie and I went to a bar, cleverly named The Bar, and had the best fish and chips of the trip, sharing pints with our ferry captain, Shane. The next day, while the moms rested, we did the long walk ourselves. Around mile nine, I was grateful they’d opted out and half-worried Maggie might start reconsidering our marriage, but she loved every step. She’s of Irish descent and felt a deep kinship with the land, people, and music.

The travel had worn the moms out, so we pivoted and hired a horse-and-wagon tour. They both love animals, and Cole, our driver, played up Irish stereotypes with a wink. We all ate it up. Inis Mór exists for tourism now, but that didn’t take away from its history or charm. During our walk, Maggie and I had discovered Nan Phaidi, whose home cooking was so good we went back the next day with the moms. If we could’ve smuggled her Guinness cake home in a suitcase, we would have.

I don’t love strict travel itineraries. Maggie and I share a philosophy: a little structure, a few reservations, and plenty of room for bits of magic. We’d tried to have a plan to ease the moms’ nerves, and we ended up doing almost none of it.

The rest of the trip centered around an amazing Airbnb Maggie found—a converted church straight out of World of Interiors. The house was so special we’d go back just to stay there again. Cyndi needed a cozy day by the fire; Maggie and I went out and got day-drunk with the locals in Spiddal.

There was a sense the trip was slipping away. Cyndi wasn’t feeling great, Darleen was in caretaker mode, and the walking tour we’d counted on as a highlight had fizzled. We decided to take a three-hour drive north to Donegal. I wanted to see a textile manufacturer there, and everyone was down for a bit of a road trip. We were happy to be together, but the magic felt elusive.

Driving in Ireland was more exhausting than I’d anticipated. Still, as we wound through the countryside, Maggie and I settled into our familiar rhythm—windows down, the road curling through soft hills, the scenery of narrow backroads, soft heather, and farm livestock. Then Maggie pointed out a sign for W.B. Yeats’s grave and, without a word, I pulled in.

The poet’s grave sits at Drumcliffe Church, an old Protestant church looking out on Benbulben, a steep-sided mountain that dominates the horizon. The moms love a good old church, so we wandered through the small yard, reading headstones slick with rain.

And then, pulling in like a banshee, it happened—the magic of travel.

A car painted like clouds pulled in as we were heading to leave. Out stepped a woman who looked as though she had blown in with the weather itself, harp in hand. She told Maggie she was a harper, stopping at Yeats’s grave to honor her mother, who had written music to his poetry in the 1980s.

After the obligatory photo-taking for social media, the four of us sat on a bench in quiet awe and watched this wild, wonderful woman play her harp and sing her songs. I knew it was the moment I’d always remember. Cyndi, in her funny sincere way, asked if we’d known she’d be there that day. We sat and listened and felt Ireland move through us. The moms had now experienced something I hold dear—that magical moment when you travel not to tick boxes, but to experience the world and the people in it.

After we left Drumcliffe, we continued on to Donegal, had an incredible meal at Kai in Galway, took a wild sauna and sea plunge, and caught live music at Crane’s Pub. But I keep thinking about that moment. It felt like some small piece of a larger debt had been repaid. It’s a strange thing to reach the age where you can finally give something to your parents. I love traveling—meeting people, seeing what the world has to offer—but sharing that wonder with them felt different. It shifted something between us. For a moment, we weren’t just mothers and son; we were travelers together, seeing each other a little more fully than before.