I didn’t expect to feel something familiar so far from home.
Ballinastoe Woods is in County Wicklow, Ireland. I read about it online—something about misty trees and winding trails—and felt drawn to it. I took a bus, then walked the rest of the way. It was colder than I’m used to. My fingers were tucked into my jacket pockets most of the time.
The trees there are tall—taller than anything I’ve seen back home in Bangladesh. They almost touch the sky, and the way the fog drifts through them… it’s like walking through a dream that doesn’t want to end.
I wandered alone, as usual. A few cyclists passed by, their tires crunching on gravel, but they disappeared quickly into the trees. Then it was quiet again.
There’s something strange about Irish woods. They don’t just feel old—they feel wise. Like they’ve seen people like me before: the quiet ones who don’t say much, who walk slowly, who look more than they talk.
At one point, I stopped on a wooden path that stretched into the forest. The wind brushed through the pine branches, and for a second, I forgot I was thousands of miles away from Dhaka. It felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.
I don’t know if I’ll ever be back. Maybe not. But now, a part of me will always be walking through Ballinastoe—soft steps on the damp wood, a little lost, a little found.
Thanks for being here,
– Just a quiet traveler, somewhere in the woods
If you enjoyed this post, you might like my other blog, The Quiet Pour, where I share quiet moments of reflection and thoughts on the simple pleasures of life. Come join me for a peaceful sip.