I Took My Daughter to See the Eras Tour in Ireland—And Lived to Tell the Tale

The day I decided to have a baby on my own, I met a famous Irish movie star at a Sam Shepard play and asked if he wanted to be my anonymous sperm donor. When he apologized that he’d recently had a vasectomy (“I’m fixed, darlin’!”), I asked if he knew Colin Farrell.

Which is to say, I’ve always been obsessed with the Irish. Growing up in Massachusetts in a tight-knit Jewish family that never drank much or mingled, many of my friends were from wicked fun and wickedly funny Irish families, who socialized like it was a high art. I idolized them, and all their shenanigans.

My Irish fetish never faded. And why would it? Samuel Beckett. Sharon Horgan! Sweater weather. The Boston Celtics. Irish twins. Irish goodbyes. Irish coffee. Lucky Charms! Normal People. The Hot Priest! Stoicism. Chitchat. Guilt. Humor! Hell!

When I did indeed get pregnant with an anonymous sperm donor (not Irish, as I ultimately didn’t want to deal with the sunblock) my mother urged me not to name an innocent child “Siobhan Shelasky.” So instead, I leaned into mainstream Irish grandma-core, and named my baby Hazel.

Hazel is now nine years old. And a lot has happened. I met a great guy (a quarter Irish!) when she was a baby, and we’ve since had another child, a boy, named River. We all love each other very much—but possibly not quite as much as Hazel loves Taylor Swift.

So, with the news that The Eras Tour was coming to Dublin, coupled with my uncanny attachment to Ireland, we (well, I) decided to plan a family trip there. Hazel and I would go to the concert, and then the four of us would explore the country I’ve romanticized forever.

In case our travel plans went sideways, I waited until the airport to tell Hazel about the concert. To maximize the reveal, I pulled some strings to get us into the new, super-luxe Delta One lounge—the It girl of all airport lounges, according to the deities at Las Culturistas. We sat down at a bistro table that felt like we were in Balthazaar, and I handed Hazel a present of 30 friendship bracelets, code for: We are going to Taylor Swift! We screamed. We cried. Then instantly, a beaming tween ran over and asked Hazel if she wanted to swap bracelets, and if they could be friends. Then another Delta One Swiftie came over. And another! Each time, my heart swelled.

On to Dublin. I was told by my jet-set literary agent that the Shelbourne was the place to be, and she was right. The lobby, restaurants, and lounges were aflutter with bubbly, attractive people all day and night. (More than once, I thought to myself, “To be single and child-free and sitting at that bar….”)

Photo: Courtesy of the Shelbourne

Instead, though, I paced nervously while considering our journey to the Aviva Stadium, overwhelmed by the minutiae that go into attending a massive event in a foreign country. The heroic team at the Shelbourne, however, took special care of all its Swiftie guests, of which there were hordes. Dublin as a whole, that weekend, was a sea of young women shimmering in watermelon Glow Recipe and Forever 21 sequins. (I wore a more sensible look of a black tee with chunky rhinestones, mom jeans, and white Freda Salvador flats.)

The concert was, needless to say, heaven on a homemade scone. Hazel sang and danced for hours straight. I too sang and danced, while sporadically crying my eyes out every time I looked up at the steel blue sky, thinking about everyone I’ve ever loved, and anyone I’ve ever lost. (Ireland will do that to you—it’s heavy!) The friendship bracelets and free hugs came faster and more feverishly at the show. I’ve never seen such an extroverted, inclusive, open-hearted community as the Swifties. And I’ve been to BravoCon.

Photo: Getty Images

But the come-down, plus the jet lag, was rough—and by day three in Dublin, even Hazel was ready to leave the electromagnetic Swiftie scene to chill in the countryside. Our first stop was Dromoland Castle, in County Clare, a sprawling country pile set on 500 acres of wildflowers, lily ponds, golf courses, tennis courts, and helicopter landing strips. (Think Saltburn meets Logan Roy meets Champagne all day.) Once we got over the shock factor of staying in a proper castle and being treated like real-life royalty, we took a falconry lesson with a falconer named Clementine and a hawk named Aria. We relaxed in the drawing room over chicken goujons (for the kids) and frothy iced lattes (for us). We strolled through the woods, with little fairy abodes galore, making wishes for ourselves and each other and the world. My mother always says old money loves no money (which doesn’t really track), but nevertheless, it might explain why I felt the love at Dromoland.

From the castle, we drove inland toward Cashel Palace in County Tipperary, a grand manor owned by ultra-wealthy horse people who have exceptional taste in art, rugs, upholstery, sconces, settees, sea-salted chocolate, and staff. Think: your fabulous and rich Auntie’s country house, and then give her a couple more million, and an “equine concierge” who looks a little like Emily Blunt. The best part about the Cashel Palace, for me, was the location. We had the Rock of Cashel, a spiritual and historical wow, in our backyard, and a charming Irish town in the front, which meant I could easily pop out to escape my kids who were, at this point, in their “murder each other” era. With the whole intimate yet palatial, run-by-a-prestigious-family, dazzling nature of it all, the Cashel Palace reminded me of my favorite hotel in the world, the Grand Hotel Villa Serbelloni on Lake Como.

Photo: Courtesy of Cashel Palace Hotel

Which leads me to mention that Ireland is… not Lake Como. The July weather—chilly, rainy, with seldom sun—can be disheartening. Symptomatic of that, none of the sundresses that I packed worked, which sounds superficial but is shorthand for—vulnerability alert—I kind of looked like crap, a mild indignity on holiday. Luckily, baggy clothes are probably for the best. The food in most of Ireland, while hearty and honest, is what one might call gut-unfriendly. (Would a wee kale salad kill ya?) But if it sounds like I was turning on Ireland, I was not. Not exactly. I was just a bit worried that the absence of good hair days (on my end) and decent avocado toast (on their end), might make for a destination that was not particularly… sexy. Which is fine, as it was a family trip, but would I actually yearn to return?

As I wondered about that, we made our way south to a seaside hotel in Waterford that was the one wildcard reservation. I had a Hotels.com gift card that could cover something special, and so I rolled the dice and went with a random place I had never heard of or read about called The Cliff House in the fishing village of Ardmore. After an hour on the road, with little expectations, our eyes began to widen at the aquamarine water ahead. A flowery, beachy, superchill oasis—straight out of an indie film directed by Sofia Coppola—was up around the bend. And it slowly unfolded to be what I would call: Irish Malibu. Suddenly, not only was Ireland crazy stupid sexy, but it was finally in a healthy relationship with the sun.

Photo: Courtesy of Cliff House Hotel

The Cliff House was built so that every room faces the sea. The whole thing has a funky 1970s feel. I sort of anticipated a washed-up rockstar to surface from the bar, but instead, cheerful friends and families perched on a big cliffside terrace, drinking, smoking, gossiping—European summer style. For the first time all trip, I recited the three transcendent words: Aperol spritz, please? Back in our groovy room after swimming in the ocean, sunkissed and satisfied on every level, Hazel turned up Taylor’s apropos song, “Style”: And when we go crashing down, we come back every time… ’Cause we never go out of style, we never go out of style.

By now, I was beginning to feel a bit depressed as our very own Eras Tour of Ireland was drawing to a close. But we had a marvelous time. The country is as warm and welcoming as the band of Swifties. Our trip embodied The Tortured Poets Department and Folklore all at once. Best hotels. Deep thoughts. Crashing waves. I felt proud that I made the concert happen, just as I made my own motherhood happen. I always knew I’d give my daughter a happy life—I just had no idea the soundtrack would be this good.