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“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Dublin. The local time is 8:45 AM. Please remain seated until the captain has turned off the ‘Fasten Seat Belt’ sign.”

Cordelia rubbed her eyes, bleary from a sleepless flight, and peered through the small oval window as the plane crawled its way toward the gate. The sky overhead was covered in thin gray clouds, wispy enough to give hope that they may break at any moment and let in the cheerful rays of the June sun. But for now the weather was as muted and shifting as her feelings.

She’d been jittery with excitement when she boarded the plane at JFK but now that she’d landed in Ireland, her stomach was tying itself in knots. Was this a mistake? Leaving her home, her friends, everything she knew in New York and crossing an ocean to spend the summer on a tiny island in the middle of nowhere? It had seemed like such a perfect opportunity when she’d made the decision all those weeks ago.

“You need a break,” her best friend Liz had declared one afternoon as Cordelia sat on her couch going through some photos she’d taken in the West Village that day.

“I’m fine,” Cordelia had insisted, despite every photo on her reel being all wrong, as if she’d forgotten the basics—the rule of three, negative space, everything that made a photograph interesting.

“Cord, if your frown gets any deeper it’s going to become permanent. You should go to an island somewhere,” Liz had said. “Get away from New York for a while. Live on a beach. Sip fruity cocktails. When was the last time you had any real fun? Or did anything that wasn’t photography-related?”

That wasn’t fair, Cordelia thought. Liz knew better than anyone how hard these past two years had been for her.

She used to be so confident in herself—Cordelia James, street photographer. Star of her graduating class at the School of Visual Arts. Mentored by the great Philip Watson. She’d spent days on end walking the streets of New York with her camera, waiting for the right moment to capture and share on her popular Instagram feed. And with that popularity came financial success: She’d had a show in a gallery in Chelsea, where her work had been purchased by rich housewives desperate for something “cool and edgy” to hang on their walls. And she’d gotten a deal for a coffee table book: New York Minute, it was called. It did okay. But the publisher never asked for a second one.

And then Cordelia’s father died. Her biggest champion and her fiercest advocate. He’d inspired her love of art, lifted up her dream of being a professional photographer, and never insisted she get a “real job” like her mother always harped on about. His death was brutally sudden. One day he was texting her about getting tickets to the latest Broadway revival and the next he was just … gone. A brain aneurysm right in the middle of his Intro to Shakespeare class.

For months, Cordelia could barely stand to pick up a camera. By the time she finally surfaced from the ocean of grief and began crawling back toward normal, Philip had moved to Chicago, the gallery had moved on to other up-and-comers, and her Instagram following had dwindled. Worst of all, her camera had felt like a stranger. She’d look into her lens but she couldn’t see.

She’d lost her patience. Street photography was all about patience. That and good humor. Cordelia had been seriously lacking in both for a while. She felt like a wet rag wrung dry too many times, damp and crumpled and pathetic.

So she’d taken Liz’s advice and started looking into vacation spots. But all the places in Bermuda or the Bahamas were massively expensive. She had some savings and a modest inheritance from her father, but she didn’t feel like blowing it all on one extravagant summer vacation.

Then a listing had caught her eye. Cozy cottage nestled in the heart of Ireland’s picturesque Inishmore, the ad had read. A quick Google search told her that was the largest of the three Aran Islands off Ireland’s western coast. Rent free and small stipend if willing to do some menial housework and look after elderly neighbor. Must stay from 1 June–31 August.

Cordelia had jumped to book it.

As the plane came to a jolting stop, Cordelia’s mind began to spin fantasies of learning life lessons she never would have if she’d stayed in New York. This “elderly neighbor” appeared in her mind as a wizened sage taking Cord under her wing, encouraging her the way her father used to, the way her mother never seemed to be able to do. Spending her days roaming the green hills of Ireland with her camera (she’d never been to Ireland before, but wasn’t everything green there?), reconnecting with herself as an artist, taking stunning shots of craggy vistas that would have the photography world melting at her feet. And in the evenings, she’d sit by a fireplace with the old woman and soak up quaint Irish words of wisdom. She’d come back changed. Happier and more at peace with the world.

This is going to be great, she told herself as she unfastened her seat belt.

She reached under the seat in front of her for her striped canvas tote bag that contained the two most precious things in her possession. The first was her phone, the lifeline to her friends and family. She turned it off airplane mode and waited for her international plan to connect so she could text Liz and her brother.

The second was her Fujifilm X100V. It was small, perfect for street photography and well-suited to travel. But more importantly, it was the last gift her father had given her, one month before he died.

“Have you ever thought about maybe, like, taking a break from photography altogether?” her brother Toby had asked hesitantly when she told him about the trip.

As if that were possible. Going without her camera would be like leaving her leg behind—it was a part of her. Besides, Ireland was going to rejuvenate her love for her craft.

The thought put a spring in Cordelia’s step as she made her way to the baggage claim. Her phone finally pinged.

HELLO HAVE YOU LANDED YET???

She grinned at Liz’s enthusiastic greeting.

Just got off the plane. Getting my bag now.

Ten bucks says it’s raining, Liz wrote back.

Cordelia laughed. Liz had insisted it would be raining the whole time she was there. Even though she was the one who’d come up with the idea for Cordelia to take a vacation, Liz couldn’t fully hide her disappointment that Cordelia would be missing their summer trips to Jones Beach, tanning in Central Park (as if Cordelia was capable of getting a tan), outdoor concerts at SummerStage, and watching the sunset from her rooftop. In turn, Cordelia had reminded Liz of all the crap parts about being in the city for the summer—the oppressive humidity, the smell of rotting garbage, the unexpected drips from air conditioners.

Nope, she wrote back with a winky face. But it’s cloudy.

While she waited for her suitcase, Cordelia messaged Toby to let him know she’d landed, then reviewed her travel itinerary. Getting to the Aran Islands wasn’t easy; she had to take a taxi to Dublin, then a train all the way across the country to Galway, and then a bus to Rossaveel, where she would catch the ferry to Inishmore.

It was a lot to do in one day and now that she was off the plane, the jitters were coming back. Not because of the trip ahead—she had plenty of time to catch the train. Cordelia liked to be fastidiously early, another trait she’d inherited from her father. No, these were nerves of hope and possibility, of the certainty that this summer, things were going to change.