Mist, Myth, and Seals: A Memory from Ireland
I still remember the first thing that hit me.
Not the cold Atlantic wind.
Not the sound of waves crashing against the rocks—though they were there too.
It was the smell.
A soft, almost sweet scent of the ocean—salt kissed with something floral, gentle instead of sharp. It wrapped around me like a hug, the kind that lingers long after you pull away.
And then I saw them.
Seals on the Edge of the World
We’d driven along the Irish coast, chasing the kind of wild, rugged beauty I’d always imagined from books and movies. You know the places I mean—the road narrows, the sky opens wide, and you can’t quite tell where the land ends and the sea begins.
That’s exactly where we ended up.
The air was cool and damp, the kind that settles into your hair and sweater and softens everything around you. I walked toward the overlook, my shoes crunching on the gravel, feeling the mist brush my cheeks before I even saw the water.
And then, down below—scattered across the rocks like dark little commas on a page—were the seals.
They lounged and wriggled, occasionally sliding into the sea with effortless grace, as if gravity had never really applied to them. Some bobbed in the water, just their heads visible, like curious neighbors peeking over a fence.
I stood there and stared.
Time did that strange, stretchy thing—it could’ve been two minutes or twenty. I didn’t care. I was rooted to the spot.
The Sweet Smell of the Sea
I’ve smelled the ocean before—but this was different.
Maybe it was the curve of the coastline, or the way the wind carried the scent upward along the cliffs. Instead of sharp or briny, the air was gentle. Alive. It felt like the sea was breathing with me.
Every inhale carried the faintest taste of salt, settling on my lips. Tiny droplets of mist dotted my skin. I closed my eyes for a moment and let myself be there.
The distant roar of waves.
The soft flap of wings overhead.
The low murmur of nearby voices, hushed as if no one wanted to disturb the magic.
It was one of those rare moments when everything in my body whispered, Remember this. Don’t rush. Stay.
And I listened.
Imagining Selkies
As I watched the seals glide between rock and water, my mind drifted the way it always does in beautiful places—toward stories.
In Irish and Scottish folklore, there are selkies: seal folk who can shed their skins and walk on land as humans. Creatures caught between worlds, pulled by the sea and the shore all at once.
Standing there, it felt almost impossible not to imagine it. These weren’t just animals; they felt like quiet keepers of old stories. I pictured a selkie woman on some hidden beach, her seal skin folded beside her, staring out at the same horizon—wondering which life to choose.
Maybe that’s what drew me in so completely. The sense that this place was layered with myth and memory. The seals became more than adorable little ocean potatoes (which—to be clear—they absolutely are). They became symbols of that in‑between space we all recognize.
The part of me firmly rooted in Iowa—cozy, landlocked, surrounded by fields, seasons, and familiar roads.
And the part of me that longs for the unknown: cliffs and crashing waves, legends whispered through sea mist.
For a few quiet minutes on that cliff, both parts of me felt like they could exist at the same time.
A Moment I’ll Always Carry
There’s a very specific snapshot my brain saved from that day:
I’m standing at the edge of the overlook.
My hair damp with mist.
My hands tucked deep into my coat pockets.
Seals dot the rocks like a secret only the sea understands.
The ocean stretches endlessly beneath a soft Irish sky.
And I’m just…there.
Breathing. Watching. Existing inside this small pocket of time where nothing matters except the rhythm of the waves and the gentle, curious eyes of a few seals.
I think that’s why I remember the smell so clearly. It’s like the ocean stamped itself into my senses, just to be sure I wouldn’t forget:
You were here.
You felt this.
It was beautiful.
From the Sea Back to the Midwest
Eventually—of course—we left. That’s the thing about travel. No matter how magical a place feels, you always have to fold yourself back into regular life again.
But sometimes, back in Iowa—unloading groceries, chasing my kiddo through the living room, or walking the dog down a familiar street—I’ll get a sudden flash of that Irish coastline.
The seals, like punctuation marks at the edge of the world.
The sweetness of the air.
The way the sky and sea felt like one wide, breathing thing.
It’s funny how certain memories burrow in quietly and make themselves at home. That day with the seals wasn’t a big, flashy milestone. Not a wedding or a graduation or anything meant for a scrapbook.
But it’s one my heart returns to when it needs reminding that the world is still full of wonder.
Those seals taught me something, in their own quiet way: you don’t have to live by the ocean to carry the sea with you. Sometimes it’s enough to have one perfect, misty, seal-spotted afternoon tucked safely away.
Why I’ll Never Forget It
Will I see seals in Ireland again someday? I hope so.
I hope I get to stand on another wind-whipped cliff, feel the mist freckle my face, breathe in that sweet ocean air, and spot those little heads bobbing in the waves. I hope I get to whisper hello to the selkies in my imagination—and thank them again for their stories.
But even if I never return to that exact spot, I know this:
That day is part of my internal landscape now. Just like the streets of my hometown and the rooms of every place I’ve ever lived, that cliff by the sea lives in me. When life feels heavy or loud, I can close my eyes and go back—the seals, the wind, the salt, the myth, the stillness.
And for a sentimental, easily-overwhelmed human like me, that feels like a gift.
This is the kind of moment I love sharing here—quiet, meaningful, and a little bit magical. If you’d like more travel memories, reflections, and everyday wonder in your inbox, you can subscribe below.
Cupcakes & Tea with Elizabeth 