Greetings, friends. (LXIV)

In which Besha asks me to marry her.

Greetings, friends! It’s been a couple weeks since I wrote to this journal. I let a slip become a slide. No apologies. Just getting back in the saddle to ride.

The big news here is that Besha asked me to marry her!

Besha had selected hiking the Cliffs of Moher as our activity for her milestone birthday, which was, after all, the main reason for the entire trip. I had been fairly aching to get out there, because we’d been in County Clare for about 5 days by that point, staying in Doolin just a few miles kilometers down the road. We took a day trip to Inishmore and we could just barely make them out through the haze from the ferry on the way back. I even did a training run at the golden hour one evening following a muddy trail along the ocean that climbed slowly up towards the cliffs. I could see them off in the distance! But we hadn’t actually been there yet.

Nevertheless Besha’s choice was a memorably wise one. West Clare is a gorgeous place, full of verdant hills and grey limestone karst and pastures containing the odd megalithic tomb and ruined castles around every bend in the road. And yet the Cliffs of Moher really are the jewel in the diadem, soaring as they do 200 meters (about 700 feet) above the Atlantic Ocean.

We had been hiking along the narrow winding trail from the “Cliffs of Moher Experience” with its cafe and gift shop and coach parking and (fake!) castle tower, toward the (authentic!) tower at Hag’s Head.

We stopped to marvel at the view. I had just gotten done saying that the sight was as magnificent as anything you could find in California. This is coming from me, and as you may know I am a vocal partisan of the California coast from Crescent City clear down to Malibu.

Then Besha turned to me and asked if I had any surprises planned for her birthday proper. I apologized, because in fact I had not. I had been focused too entirely on making the trip itself happen to come up with anything besides that hike and a nice dinner in Doolin for the big day.

It turned out that was fine by her, because the next thing I know Besha is down on one knee, engagement ring in hand, asking me to marry her.

Which was just about the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me. For once I was at a total loss for words. I started to tear up.

The idea of marriage was not a surprise in and of itself. We had agreed generally long since that it was a thing we would do someday, when the timing was right. The surprise was the timing itself, being right there on the Cliffs of Moher of all places, on her 40th birthday.

I could find no fault in any of it. Then I remembered that when a lady propositions you, it is proper to give some verbal reply.

“Yes,” I croaked. I wondered if I should kneel down next to her. It felt somehow impolite to remain standing, with her on one knee, grinning at me, and starting to tear up a little herself.

Besha put the ring on my finger, a hefty claddagh ring in a modern style, rendered in indestructible stainless steel, one that complemented the antique Fenian claddagh ring I had given her months ago.

No one’s ever asked me to marry them before. It was a fine feeling. I pulled Besha to her feet and kissed her.

I know this entry is a little short, but I hope it makes up in momentousness what it lacks in heft. If you’re reading this, I hope you’re at least as lucky as I am. Because I feel pretty fortunate. I send my love to you and yours. More about Ireland tomorrow.