It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. Actually, most of us had no idea what time it actually was. Somewhere between 2:30 pm and four in the morning, depending on the time zone. And yet, I doubt this is the real reason that our first two days walking the streets of Armagh felt more than a little like a dream. Despite the geographic closeness, I couldn’t feel farther away from London, where I spent the past week before hopping across the Irish Sea. Legally, I haven’t left Great Britain, except for my foray into the Dublin airport. Still, seeing the British flag billowing above the open green mall in front of the Presbyterian church, I can’t help but feel that it’s been grafted there, and that the tricolor banner would be a better fit.

London was a space for tea and scones, statues of British queens, feisty pigeons, and the Rolling Stones. Armagh, on the other hand… This is the land of the chieftains, of saints and warrior raids, a land where the land itself holds the key to who we are. Where London is foggy, Armagh is misty. The distinction is subtle, but striking.

I think the colors have more to do with it than anything. Britain’s whites, blues, and reds have a naval feel to them, something that belongs high above the mainmast of a merchant vessel sailing under the auspices of the East India Company. Ireland’s orange, white, and green have leapt from the flagpole and made themselves quite at home in the landscape of Armagh, whether or not they fly here. I’ve seen more shades of green here than in the whole rest of my life, from the vibrant shamrock of the mall to the deep forest green of the hedges lining the highway, the yellow-green of the fields on the side of the road, at least six other shades looking out the hostel window at the hill.

Yes, I may have just called up the Wikipedia page for “shades of green.” I’m from Michigan. Pretty much, if I think of outdoors, I think of cornfields or roadwork. I’ll be extending my vocabulary as I go along.

Even with my eyes closed, I would know that I’ve left home. The smell of burning peat is only just distinguishable from the smell of the family of chickens living right outside our window, and the wind is stiff but not cold. (Not warm either, mind.) My ears are still full of the sound of Irish accents, from the Belfast pronunciations of our guide Maria from this morning to the two older men in the pub last night chatting animatedly in Gaelic.

As I think back on the past day and half, I find myself trying to sort out what stereotyped beliefs about Northern Ireland I brought with me, and which I need to leave behind. Naturally, there are a good deal fewer shamrocks and leprechauns frolicking through fields of potatoes than my over-active imagination might have conjured, but there’s still a rippling feeling of Irish-ness just beneath the surface of everything I see.

The importance of ancient Irish heroes “from the mists of time,” for one thing. In the short while I’ve been here, I’ve heard the names of people I’ve read about mentioned in casual conversation: Cùchulainn, Brian Borù, Saint Brigid, Saint Patrick, Saint Malachai. (Let’s not talk about the terrible way I butchered the pronunciation of Cùchulainn in my head, either. Nowhere in that name does one make a sound like a choo-choo train.) This is an area that knows its own history and wants to share it. Which is lovely, because they’ve found at least one willing listener.

The way this town is already worming its way into my consciousness, for another thing. While picking up a sweater at a department store this afternoon (I packed for summer on the wrong continent, clearly), the clerk asked me if I would pay 5p for a bag, and I responded with the smallest hint of something Irish-sounding in my vowels. I don’t know where it came from. I wasn’t doing it on purpose. I’m terrible with accents. When I’m trying, my Irish accent comes out sounding like a Jamaican with a head cold.

Somewhere subconsciously, I want to belong here so much that it’s soaking into my language. I’ve been so thrilled at everything I get to listen to here that I end up producing it without thinking. I can only hope that I integrate the storytelling mists of Ireland as easily as calling mail “post” and saying “quarter past four” instead of “quarter after.”