After an amazing weekend in Dingle, a little seaside town on the west coast of Ireland, six friends and I climbed exhausted onto Bus Éireann Route #275. I had planned to spend the first leg of our two-part journey home to Cork studying for my archaeology exam, but I should have known better. Even as the final passengers were boarding, I already had my eyes glued on the rainy harbor, taking in the last moments of the trip and remembering how magical the glitter of the sun had been on the water just a day before. I had spent the whole day exploring the coast, picking wild blackberries and watching dolphins playfully swimming amongst the tourist ships and fishing boats sailing out to meet them. It was like something out of storybook, and I didn’t want to leave. Almost without my knowledge, the bus began its slow lumber through the narrow streets of Dingle and out into the countryside. I managed to get as far as opening my notes before I was once again distracted by the scenery rumbling past my window. In the midst of my daydream, the man sitting next to me pointed to the notes on Mesolithic settlement patterns I held in my lap and asked, “What are ya studyin’ thar, loov?” I told him I was an American studying archaeology at UCC, and for the next hour and a half, John (the name I’ve chosen for him, since we never did introduce ourselves) was my tour guide. At first, he just pointed out little things here and there, and shared what he knew about the archaeology of the area. But when I commented on the beauty of the landscape, I received a response I did not expect.

Looking out the window, I saw green valleys divided into pastures of every shade of green. A giant patchwork quilt tucking small gray stones to rest against the dusty mountains sheltering the valley from the sea. But John saw something completely different. With a degree in environmental studies, John saw his beloved landscape dying at the hand of first English and now EU legislators who make decisions from afar in an effort to get the most for their money. Under penal law, the English forced Irish farmers onto the worst land, passing legislation that denied them the ability to acquire additional acres. Forced to divide what little they had among their children, the plots became smaller and smaller with each generation, eventually becoming so small that they couldn’t sustain the family who was left to cope with the consequences of foreign rule. In my patchwork quilt, John saw the scars of long-overcome oppression. In my beautiful wind-blow mountains, John saw EU mismanagement that has resulted in overgrazing and severe erosion, leaving the land barren and unforgiving. In the States, we’re used to seeing mountain sides covered in evergreen trees. But in Ireland, the acidity of commercial spruce forests is killing the salmon that have run in the mountains’ streams for hundreds of years. As I listened to John and tried to view the scene outside my window from his perspective, my heart was breaking for Ireland. Even Ireland’s close ties to the States (over 40% of Famine Era emigrants made their way to the US) have left a negative mark on the landscape with American-style motorways and housing developments ill-suited to the Irish way of life.

I know, of course, that I now have only one side of the story. Had our time together not been cut short by our arrival in Tralee and subsequent transfer to different buses, I would have asked John what’s being done to promote sustainable agricultural practices and what kind of future he sees for Ireland. Although he did express his general disdain for Bono and a concern for other social issues in Ireland, such as the Travelers (Ireland’s troubled gypsy-like community, another lasting product of English subjugation), John is unmistakably proud of his country. “If you don’t have a place to live, [the government] will give you one. We take care of each other.” After three weeks in Ireland, I’m beginning to see things less as a visitor wooed by the foggy footbridges and picturesque vistas, and more as a temporary resident with a vested interest in what happens here. In 20 years, I want people to look out their window on the road to Tralee and see what I saw, not lifeless hills with no stories left to tell. The fight isn’t over yet, old friend. Erin go bragh.