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An Féar Gorta
If I ever go back home again, we will drive
through the countryside just as it is getting dark.
We will gather together in the town’s only hotel,
eating, and telling jokes at each other’s expense.
My heart beats steady there, my spirit alive
to every gesture, every glance, the fire and spark
we find in those we love. Those to whom we tell
our dark secrets along with our idiotic nonsense.
Whatever route I take, I always seem to get lost.
I have a tendency to choose the wrong road
to the wrong place. I wind up confused and stranded
wondering if I’ll ever get back home.
But I want that ticket back, no matter what the cost.
At An Féar Gorta I want that rhubarb tart a la mode.
I am even willing to stand in the rain, and be reprimanded
for the sorry, soggy state in which I’ve left this poem.
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at An Féar Gorta with cousins Monica (Guthrie) Donovan and Mary Guthrie, Oct. 2013
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An Féar Gorta is one of my favorite eating establishments in the world. Located in Ballyvaughan, in County Clare, Ireland, where I have many beloved relations, it is a place, as the poem suggests, that I look forward to visiting again.
I originally thought the term meant “the hungry man,” as “fear” is “man” in Irish. But the fada (accent) confused me—instead of “fear,” it’s “féar,” which means “grass.” So, the name translates to “The Hungry Grass,” a term going back to the Famine. More information can be found here, here, and here.
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the garden at An Féar Gorta. Photo by T. Winch
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Author: Terence Winch
