As I step out of the airport in Dublin, I discern that the air feels heavier than it does back home in Canada. It’s more humid yet still temperate. What I breathe in and what I hear — the cries of the gulls of Dublin Bay — signal to me, I’m back.
These senses are more vivid for me than my sight: I was born with a rare genetic condition (Leber congenital amaurosis), which meant I saw the world through an extremely narrow tunnel of limited vision. I could see colours until around the time I discovered The Cranberries, when I was just 11. Despite degenerating sight in my adulthood, I was determined to visit and fully experience Ireland, my desire inspired by my love of that band.
When I first visited Dublin, in 2011, I looked out the window of the bus while entering the city centre. Ireland’s capital came into view, but it was dim and colourless. I had been dealing with that for years. Still, I was grateful.
From the bus window, I watched the treeline, and then the lines on the highway. Later, as we toured ancient monastic sites, I noticed the distinctive circle-on-cross shape of Celtic crosses. On the dappled grass at the grave of poet William Butler Yeats, I observed sunlight filtering through. These were small glimpses of what most people can see, but they meant everything to me.
“I decided I would not miss out,” writes Kerry Kijewski, who was born with Leber congenital amaurosis and is now blind.
Twelve years after that first trip, I returned to travel through my beloved Ireland again. I have friends there, both old and new, and went with one who runs women’s-only tours.
Again, I found myself staring out from a bus window, my brain doing a double take. But now, I was seeing a blur compared to what once was. The bright light of a daytime drive was an assault on my open eyes. Just looking hurt me, an exercise in exhaustion and futility. I’ve had a lifetime to get used to blindness, but the change is still painful.
This wasn’t the Ireland of my memories. In 2023, there was no point in trying to experience the country as I had before. Nearing tears, feeling frequently queasy from the work that my brain was striving to do, I realized it was no longer fruitful to try to take in this place visually.
We live in a sight-centric world. Fear of the dark is common. The fear of going blind is right up there with that of a cancer diagnosis. The latter is life-threatening, while the former is life-changing, yet highly misunderstood.
But humans have more than our sight. This was a dream vacation. I decided I would not miss out — I would try “seeing” Ireland another way. I would draw upon what I could smell, hear, taste, touch.
As I stood on a beach in County Kerry, I was prompted to try the seaweed, and as the salty flavour spread across my taste buds, it didn’t matter that I couldn’t see it. When I met a baby goat, I concentrated on feeling the creature’s curious tongue on my hand. Another time, as I felt my way along a wall with my hands, I came across some stinging nettles, but the irritation was a small price to pay for exploring the world through touch.
The Cliffs of Moher, which the writer experienced through the sounds of puffins chattering and the tide roaring.
Although unable to see the spectacular vastness of the Cliffs of Moher, I could hear the puffins chattering away and listen intently to the sea, the tide roaring in and rushing out. I thought fondly back on my past views of this horizon, now a sweet memory, as I focused on living in the moment with all my remaining senses.
At a roadside stand, I listened to a fiddler playing a tune, and I moved in time with the music. I have long loved the instrument and even tried to learn in my 30s. Now, my white cane, normally used for detecting objects and environmental changes, became my dancing companion. A cane is often seen as pitiable, but I was proud to have it with me, helping me back to this land that felt like coming home.
