Tonight is my last night in Dublin—or indeed any foreign country. While there’s a certain truth to the idea that I’m ready to be home again, I’m also already planning what to do on the inevitable trip back.

Ireland has always sung her siren’s song to me, calling me home to a place I had never been. While it’s possible that there’s some Irish blood—or really any blood from these islands—in my family tree, it would be in one of the branches that we just don’t know anything about. But even without that sure connection of heritage, something about the Emerald Isle has always felt like home.

I had been expecting a feeling of homecoming when I first set foot on Irish soil, when I breathed my first breath of Irish air. That didn’t happen. Instead I felt as though home were just around the corner, just beyond my grasp.

Today I took my first tour outside of the fair city of Dublin. We didn’t go far, but as soon as we had passed out of the citified area, I could hear that siren call again. I’m a city girl, yes, but I realized that what I really wanted was a cottage in the country where I could write.

I haven’t yet had time to explore my new theory, but it’s this: I think it’s the land of Ireland that calls to me, the history and mythology that has seeped into the earth. Cities differ from one to the next, it’s true, but they’re often more similar than not. It’s the country that poses as the true opposite of the city, and it’s the country of this land that still draws me homeward.