Crawling on my belly toward the edge of the cliff, my fingernails gripped the wet, green turf for dear life. Below me, the Atlantic roared, waves crashing violently against jagged rocks, seabirds wheeling in the salt-laden wind. I could almost see the headline: 61-year-old American woman traveling solo plunges to her death in Ireland . . . making a TikTok.

Jesus, Mary, and Joooseph, I muttered, dragging out the Jo in Joseph the way my grandmother did. “Put the feckin’ camera away.” I’d started saying feckin’.

@roundirelandwithaduck

#cliffhanger #RoundIrelandWithADuck #travel #journey #TrustTheJourney #fyp #foryoupage

♬ original sound – Trust the journey

Back home now, at the bottom of a hill in suburban Atlanta, where you have to get the color of your shutters approved, I love that TikTok video. The wild woman in it feels distant already, however — a version of me that society never seems to stop trying to tame. I’ve resisted for so long, most recently with this solo-female-traveler journey. How do I keep that spirit alive? 

I had put off going to Ireland for decades, by the way, convinced I didn’t belong there. Sure, my maternal grandparents hailed from the Emerald Isle, and I grew up named Patty, which gave me a certain St. Patty’s Day flair (the American spelling of that holiday, I’ve since learned, is an Irish no-no), but I’ve always been more aware of what I wasn’t. 

I wasn’t one of the red-headed cousins; that gene pool belonged to my New Jersey relatives. Even my brown-haired brother, Bobby, looked more Irish than I did (I resembled our Slovakian side). 

I wasn’t religious, having abandoned Catholicism after twelve years of classroom nuns. My politics never aligned with the conservative Irish-American mainstream. Even drinking, the quintessential image of Irish camaraderie, wasn’t my scene. I had quit years ago and wasn’t about to start again, charming pubs or not. 

The stereotypes didn’t fit.

Farming, however, did. I’d planted my first seeds right after the tragedies of 9/11, trying to hold onto some semblance of control in a world in crisis. As a journalist, I covered farm stories, plus I found myself digging in community gardens wherever I went.

Over the past few years, I had fallen in love with volunteering on organic farms across the United States through the WWOOF (Worldwide Opportunities on Organic Farms) program — trading labor for food, shelter, and unique experiences. I found myself scrolling through the WWOOF Ireland website more and more, knowing my great-grandfather had been a farmer. 

After farming across America — goat and lavender farms, llama ranches, a Krishna temple, you name it — Ireland offered a compact, enticing new challenge. Just the size of South Carolina, yet full of possibilities. Plus, no snakes. Following encounters with cougars, bears, coyotes, and rattlesnakes, that alone sounded like heaven. But did I really have it in me to do this again, and then write another book about it?

I pondered this many mornings while gazing out my window at my garden, imagining the road ahead in life — the twists, turns, and alternate futures I couldn’t yet see. Staying strong and flexible, physically and emotionally, seemed essential. “Once you stop, you stop,” I’d tell myself each day while trudging up the hill on my bike. After eight farm stays in the US, I could still push a wheelbarrow and wield a hoe. I needed to go now.

Then, the idea of applying for Irish citizenship began to take root. My grandparents’ Irish birth gave me the right to claim dual citizenship — a legacy that would extend to my descendants, offering them live/work/study opportunities across the European Union (27 countries, including The Republic of Ireland) and the United Kingdom (England, Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland). I’d have to do it before any grandchildren were born, or else they couldn’t qualify. In a world increasingly defined by political upheaval, climate crises, and escalating violence, having options felt like my precious gift to them. 

But beyond the practicality, there was a deeper pull: the chance to reconnect with a place my ancestors had left behind and to plant my own roots in its soil. There was even, perhaps, a curse to break. It would take time, but time passes anyway (and I could hear it ticking for me). Might as well start. 

So, I gathered and submitted heritage documents and I turned my focus to three other pursuits: figuring out my grandmother’s Irish soda bread recipe, learning Irish language basics, and securing WWOOF placements on Irish farms. I then needed some sort of symbolic official kickoff to my actual journey. While riding my bike, I glanced down at the multicolored rubber duck on my handlebars and knew what I had to do. When I got home, I painted his bill green. 

Named Disco, he had already proven his worth across the US bobbing up and down on those handlebars on my prior journey. During and after COVID, when smiles and spontaneous conversations felt scarce, he worked magic — drawing people in, breaking barriers, and spreading joy. I was curious to see if his charm extended overseas. What other magic might I find? 

The journey began with a train ride to New York City, where I gazed at the Statue of Liberty from the Irish Hunger Memorial. This surpising mound of sod and stones serves as a tranquil yet somber slice of Ireland’s tragic history tucked into the shadow of Manhattan’s skyscrapers. 

From there, I flew to Dublin and embarked on a 40-day adventure — the same length of time Jesus wandered in the desert and St. Patrick wandered in Ireland. Three farms, in three distinctly different corners of the country. Three stays in Dublin. Three forms of transportation: trains, buses, and bikes, which would take me through dozens of other villages, towns, and cities. I intended to barter 150 hours of work for accommodations, food, and experiences that money could never buy. There’d be lots of wandering. Nervous but excited, I took the leap (not off that cliff, thank goodness). 

I’m not saying a journey like mine is for everyone, but I hope it sparks something in you. Maybe it’s a reminder that the roles we play — as parents, partners, caretakers — don’t have to confine us. Maybe it’s permission to dream bigger, to take that first small step, even if you’re scared. Especially if. As the legendary dancer Isadora Duncan once said: You were wild once. Don’t let them tame you.

If there’s a place calling to you, go. If there’s something you’ve always wanted to do, start now. I pilot-tested WWOOFing at a farm not far from my home — living in a micro-tiny house; feeding chickens and planting crops; and exploring on my folding bike — before setting out on the next ten across the US and Ireland. One small taste of your dream can change everything. As my mantra, my motto, and the tattoo on the back of my arm says: trust the journey.

Where will this windswept one take me? Where might your own untamed path lead? Let’s find out.

Round Ireland with a Duck launches globally on September 1, 2025 in both paperback and eBook formats. You can indicate on Goodreads now that you want to read it, and you can preorder the eBook all over the world — all the links are in this blog post. In the meantime, I invite you to read Round America with a Duck, available wherever books are sold online. Click here to order yours. Thank you for your support. It means a great deal to me. And Disco 🙂