I was home all of three days from my recent return-journey to Ireland when I woke up one morning knowing there was something I had to do, for reasons I no longer question. I reserved a primitive camping spot at a state park about twenty miles away from my home, with the intention of riding my bike there.

I’ve never bike-camped. I’m afraid of camping, in fact (despite all the weird places I’ve slept the past four years), for all the reasons solo female travelers are cautious about existing in public in general (not to mention snakes and bears, but yes, let’s mention them). And yet, here I am, about to turn 63, wanting to keep flinging doors open on what’s possible in my future rather than let them slowly close around me.

There are lots of greenways in Ireland. There are no snakes, bears, or guns (okay, fine, there is a lot of rain, but I’ll take that instead). I could see myself bike-camping there, couldn’t I? I could go back. I could take that language immersion course I’ve been wanting to take not far from one of my prior WWOOF locations. I could WWOOF again — number 13; a Baker’s dozen! I could finally see my grandparents’ villages — close to which is a campground, which could be yet another way for me to not only travel on the cheap (like my free food and board when I WWOOF), but also connect more deeply with my ancestral land. And then, who knows? There’s a whole world waiting.

First, let me camp here (you know how I like to pilot-test). So in two weeks, I’m strapping my new tent onto my bike and heading out.

Truth? I’m dreading it. And yet, I’m excited. One thing leads to another . . .