The cliffs speared up, dramatic and sheer above the wild waters of the Atlantic on one side. On the other, the pretty little village spread its color and charm ahead of the green fields and farms.

They walked the trail while the cliffs made their steady rise and the waves crashed.

“Can you imagine seeing this every day?” And she couldn’t see enough. “I can’t believe you’d ever get used to it.”

Gulls streamed, feather white, smoke gray, and called to the wind. With Marco she hiked the gravel path, took the rough flagstone steps, and just stopped to bask and wonder.

“Oh, look at the wildflowers. Wait, I know that one—I think.” She nearly reached in her pack for her book, then did a little hip wiggle as she remembered. “Thrift. That’s thrift.”

She hunkered down to take a photo. “Isn’t it amazing how it pushes up through the limestone, so pink and pretty? I swear I’m going to start growing plants—nice potted plants when we get home.”

“You figure you’ll stay in the apartment?”

She looked up. “Marco, what would I do without you?”

When she straightened up, they walked again. “We could think about finding another place, same neighborhood,” she considered. “With a little balcony. Or a garden apartment with a little patio.”

“I wondered if you’d think about moving out, maybe getting a house or something.”

“A house.” She said it like a sigh. She’d never dreamed that big. “I could get a house, with a yard—for a garden. For a dog!”

“Now you’re thinking.”

“Now I’m thinking. If I get a house, you’re coming with me. But you know what? Today’s today. And look where we are. God, look at the cliffs! We were over there just a couple hours ago. From here they look like some ancient giant hacked them into being with his axe. It’s all drama and ferocity. Then you look that way.”

She turned her back to the sea. “And it’s so peaceful, all pastoral. Like some quiet painting done in saturated colors.”

She rolled her eyes when she realized he’d taken her picture.

Satisfied, he nudged his Wayfarers back down. “That one’s headlining the blog.”

They hiked across fields, along rises, and she soaked up everything.

The sun beamed so bright, so clear, she took off her jacket to tie it around her waist.

“You can see for miles! Those islands out there.”

“Aran Islands,” Breen said when Marco pointed. “I read people there still speak Irish, and some plow the land with horses. I think I dreamed about it. Did I tell you?”

She told him about the dream of the forest and the fields and cottages, and the one where she rode a flying dragon.

“How come I don’t dream cool shit like that? I’ve gotta work on it. It’s like a dream, all of this. I mean, who’da thought, Breen, you and me, hiking cliffs anywhere, much less here.”

“We’re going to start traveling more, doing more. It may not be castles and the Wild Atlantic Way, but we’re getting out of the rut, Marco.”

“I’m for it.” He held out his pinky. “Breen and Marco see the world. Or at least the East Coast. We can get ourselves a car next summer, drive up to Maine or down to Key West or anywhere in between. But no more just working and thinking about doing and going.”

“No more.”

On the cliffs, above the crash of waves, they pinky swore.

They logged a solid five miles by the time they looped back to the village.

“How’re your boots holding up?” Marco asked her.

“Fine.” She glanced over, narrowed her eyes. “Yours?”

He had the grace to look sheepish. “I maybe might’ve worked up a blister, and yeah, yeah, I should’ve used that glide stuff you offered me.”

“I have moleskin in my pack.”

“Course you do.”

She just pointed at the car. “Sit, take off the boots and socks. We’ll fix you up.”

“It’s not bad. I just started feeling it in the last mile.”

He had indeed worked up a small blister on each foot.

“This’ll cushion them,” she told him as she applied the moleskin. “And since it’s pub time, you’ll be sitting down awhile.”

“I’m ready for pub time.” He wiggled his toes before sliding on his socks. “It’s sure nice going into a bar and not working it. Music, too, right?”

“Absolutely music, too. And I’ll be designated driver.”

“It’s my turn.”

She just shook her head. “I’ve still got the keys.”

She’d researched the pubs and figured they could do a crawl or settle into one—with her sticking to soft drinks and water.

She wanted the atmosphere, the music, but also wanted to try for the long shot. Doolin was famed for its traditional music, and her father had made his living playing that music.

Wouldn’t he have, at some point, played here?

He might play here still, she thought.

When they walked into the pub, Breen decided they’d made the perfect choice. It held a long bar of dark wood backed by an old stone wall where shelves held a myriad of bottles and jugs.

Most of the stools there were already occupied, as were the scatter of low tables. The music of a bright fiddle played out of the speakers as people ate, drank, talked.

A low fire burned, red at its heart—a peat fire, which made it all the more perfect. On the wall crowded old photos, signs for Guinness and Harp and Jameson.

It smelled just as she thought an Irish pub should, of peat smoke and beer and food fried in the kitchen.

One of the waitstaff, a woman with stick-straight black hair in a bouncing tail, paused on her way to the bar with a tray.

“Are you after a table then?”

“Yes, please.”

“Take your pick, but for the one in the corner there. That’s for the musicians.”

They grabbed a two-top.

“It’s kinda like a movie, right?”

Breen could only grin. Lunch at a pub had been wonderful, but this? A perfect cap to a perfect day.

“It’s everything I wanted.”

“You gotta have one beer,” he insisted. “It’s like sacrilege or something otherwise. We’re going to eat, stick around for music. We probably won’t drive back for hours.”

“A half pint,” she agreed. “My dad drank mostly Smithwick’s, so I’ll have a glass of that.”

The same waitress came back to them.

“And how’s it all going then?”

“As good as it gets,” Marco told her.

“That’s lovely to hear. Americans, are you?”

“Philadelphia.”

“Philadelphia,” she repeated, and made it sound as exotic as the cliffs. “I’ve not been there, but been to America twice. Once to New York City to visit cousins, and to Wyoming.”

“Wyoming?”

The waitress smiled at Breen. “I wanted to see cowboys, and so I did. A vast place is Wyoming. And so I’m Kate, and I’ll be serving you this evening.” She handed them menus. “Can I get you some drinks?”

“I’ll have a pint of Guinness, and my friend wants a half pint of Smithwick’s. I bartend at home,” Marco continued.

“Do you now? Well then, we may call on you to pull some pints once the evening rolls on. The Cobblers Three are popular, and will fill the place before we’re done. You’re fortunate to have come early enough for a table. I’ll get those drinks for you.”

Marco, being Marco, picked up the menu. “That hike gave me a serious appetite.”

“Waking up in the morning gives you a serious appetite.” But she glanced at the menu herself. “I’m going to try the shepherd’s pie.”

“I’m going for the mussels for a starter. Want to split?”

“Have you ever known me to eat a mussel?”

“More for me. And they’ve got Irish lasagna. What makes it Irish? I need to find out. Man, I haven’t checked your blog since lunch.”

While he did, Breen just sighed into the moment.

“Breen, you got sixteen more comments on yesterday’s, and you’re up to fifty-eight on today’s.”

“Really? What do they say?” She scooted her chair over to read with him. “They really seem to like it.”

“Damn right. Wait till they read what you write about today. What are you going to write about today?”

“I—I don’t know. It’s getting real.”

“Don’t start.” He knocked his knuckles lightly on her forehead. “Just keep it up. I like how my best friend’s a blogger.”

“A couple of blog posts don’t make a blogger. Let’s see how it goes when I’ve got two weeks.”

The waitress brought their beers, nodded toward the menus. “Have you decided what you’ll have?”

“I’ll try the shepherd’s pie.”

“You can’t go wrong with it. And you, sir?”

“I’ll start with the mussels, then go for the Irish lasagna.”

“There’s a treat. My mother’s recipe, cobbled from my two grannies. Hers being from Italy, and my da’s from right here in Clare.”

“Your mom’s the cook?” Marco asked.

“She is, yes, along with my brother Liam. The pub was my grandparents’, you see, and now my parents have it. It’s family.”

“Speaking of family, Breen’s father used to play in pubs like this. Maybe even here.”

“Is that the truth?”

She’d intended to ease into all of that, but Marco liked to wade straight in.

“Yes. He was born in Galway, but I know he played here in Clare, as that’s where he met my mother. It was all before I was born, so you wouldn’t know. But he might’ve played here.”