Wish You Were Here

"The question is not what you look at, but what you see."
-Henry David Thoreau

My Spouse and I visited the Cliffs of Moher in Ireland a couple of years ago. It was a first for both of us. We climbed a long and jagged path to reach the top- the sheer drop of 700 feet from the cliff into the grey and tumbling Atlantic Ocean filled me with a heartsick dread and I kept a reasonable distance away from the crumbly edge.
The wind up there would have frightened the most hardy of souls. We were there in March, a fierce and unpredictable season to be standing on the lip of the country. The few tourists roaming around were as astonished as Spouse and I: we had to bend down at intervals and grab the very grass we walked upon in order to save our bodies from being plucked by the sudden, determined wind and sent sailing into the salty air. I thought at times that my feet would not stay on the ground, such was the power and fury.
It was as alarming as that. From time to time the wind would shriek and howl and pull and grasp at us all, furious and impatient. I felt certain that the wind would not calm down until it had lifted somebody off their feet and spun them into terror.
If ever a force of nature seemed personified and to have intentions, it was there on the Cliffs of Moher.
Yet, here is the strange truth: it was exhilarating and I would not change a thing. I am grateful to have had the chance to visit the rocks so high above Ireland as the wind raged and seethed. It was humbling to be made to feel so tiny and useless against nature.
Stunned and wordless, Spouse and I descended the mountain to return to our car. As we were climbing into our vehicle we noticed a small van pull into the parking space next to us. Four or five tourists got out and began to take photographs of the sign which declared that they were officially at the Cliffs of Moher.
Each one posed beside the sign. Spouse and I thought that mildly amusing and rather quaint. So excited were they to be there that even the signpost was exotic.
And then those tourists did the most startling and puzzling thing: with photographs taken and proof of their visit gathered, they climbed back into their vehicle, paid the parking fee and left the Cliffs of Moher.
They went home, I imagine, and told their families and friends that they saw the Cliffs of Moher; or sent postcards declaring the same.
Until a person has the breath momentarily knocked out of them, both by the staggering beauty and by the force of the unyielding and mighty wind, they ought not to say they have seen the Cliffs of Moher.
It is to be felt and seen, up close and with hands firmly embedded in the jagged grass.