I’ve lived long enough on this earth to know ghosts. I’ve felt them, seen them when I close my eyes. Heard them when I block out all other noise. Ghosts are real. In my experience, they’re nothing like the ghosts depicted in Hollywood, which usually resemble something out of Dickens novel – ragged clothes and chains and dangling teeth.

They are times gone by. They are faded memories that suddenly adopt a splash of color. They emerge from somewhere deep inside you, dance around, then fade back where they came from. Ghosts are not necessarily scary, creepy, or lonely — at least my ghosts aren’t. They just need some attention now and then so that you can remember to live the way you’re supposed to live.

My ghosts show up when I visit someplace I’ve been before. Driving through Connemara on our trip to Ireland in the summer of 2018, we stopped at a pub and hotel at Maam Cross. As the name would suggest, this place has long been a crossroads for travelers. But it’s been more than that. A hotel called Peacock’s sits there. It’s a tourist pit stop now, with a trinket shop and a replica of the house from the John Wayne movie The Quiet Man. We stopped because I needed to find a restroom. But as I walked through the posh lobby, across cushioned carpet and past the restaurant with tinkling glass and dishes, I felt the ghosts come alive.

This was the site of an old pub. And every weekend, it was home to the Maam Cross disco. It was my first Irish disco (i.e., nightclub). I remember a stone, white-washed building, a long, dark bar, and wood floors polished by thousands of eager teens. I could almost feel the thrumming techno beat of New Order, or the Cure, or something by Duran Duran. And every now and then, just because it was something we couldn’t expect, they played the Hawaii 5-0 theme song. Every weekend, this remote Irish pub pulled out the disco ball, and the walls thrummed with a modern beat. The odor of sweat and beer and cigarette smoke wafted out of the door.

As I walked through the posh lobby, I could hear echoes of “Olay, olay!” as kids from around Connemara chant the Irish World Cup fight song from 1990: Put ’em Under Pressure. (For the few of you reading this who remember, click the link.)

Ghosts.

I see younger me, with my friends, Connie and Dana, dancing with the rest.

A ghost of myself.

I have no photos of the pub or our time there. This was the era before digital cameras and instant telecommunications. I only have the images in my mind. And I have to say, that is sufficient to jog the memories.

A week later, I’m walking along Inch Beach on the Dingle Peninsula, and it happens again. The beach morphs before my eyes. It becomes narrow and rockier, the waves taller, crashing on the sand. I see the old trailer that was the life-guard hut, and I can almost taste stale scones we ate as we camped out overnight here. There was no cafe or souvenir shop almost 30 years ago. It was quieter. No cars driving along the beach.

Ghosts: colors of the past come forward in a moment.

I have shells I collected from this beach. They rattle around in an old plastic film canister in my pocket, like memories jingling about in my mind. I pull them out and hold them in my hand, remembering a walk along this beach with my best friend, Connie, who left this world long ago and far too soon. I see us each finding a set of shells, dusting off the sand, stowing them in our pockets before moving on. They were souvenirs of our time there. A little piece of Ireland I carried with me for nearly three decades. Maybe it was the ghosts that urged me to take them back.

They are not mine to keep. Like this life. We are visitors here and the world shifts and changes around us, as we shift and morph into new beings. I hold the shells in my hand and think about all the things I’ve had to release between then and now — especially the people that have moved out of my life — some suddenly, some slowly faded away. The waves wash up on the beach rattling pebbles and shells.

I walk to the edge of the water and circle the shells in the sand, then watch as the water laps up and blankets them, one at a time, with grey sand.

I look up, set my ghosts aside, and walk back across the broad beach toward the newish cafe and B&B.

I have promises to keep, perhaps miles to go to my last sleep.