Waterford Airport

World Heritage Sites Air Adventures: Whisky, Whiskey, Whales, and Gophers – Clairseach and Chopsticks Edition
Flight Log #003
Date: Monday, June 23, 2025
Weather: Sun dodging clouds, Atlantic breeze with a whiff of distant rain, visibility: clear enough to spot a gopher plotting mischief on the far side of the runway.
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If you’re reading this, you’re in for a tale that starts at 3,500 feet above the green heart of Ireland and ends with the kind of night that makes legends. I’m Liam Neeson, and today, Cropduster and I—plus Lani and Kai, the happiest dogs in the country—flew from Shannon, over Kerry, circled the ancient stones of Sceilg Mhichíl, and landed in Waterford with a bottle of Redbreast 12 Year Old and a hunger only ramen and fire-cooked beef could satisfy.

We left Shannon with Van Morrison’s voice swirling through the cockpit, the sky a patchwork of sun and shadow. Cropduster’s hands were steady, the dogs alert, and the world below looked like it had been freshly painted for our benefit. Kerry slipped by beneath our wings, and then Skellig Michael rose from the Atlantic, beehive huts clinging to the rock like secrets only the wind could hear. I looked down and promised—if anyone tried to take this place, I’d find them.

Cork was a quick stop, but a vital one. You don’t pass through Cork without securing a bottle of Redbreast 12. I took possession of it like it was a national treasure, whispered a few words of reassurance, and stowed it safely for the journey east.

Waterford greeted us with open arms and the scent of something unexpected: ramen, Irish style. Sláinte Ramen served up a bowl that could bring a tear to a samurai’s eye—Waterford beef, wild mushrooms, Tramore seaweed, an egg so perfect it could’ve been painted by a monk, and a broth with just enough Redbreast to make you believe in miracles. Cropduster devoured his, Lani and Kai got their share, and I kept one eye on the door, just in case.

But the day wasn’t done. The C-130H thundered in, followed by the DC-3 sliding down like a memory. Their crews joined us, laughter and stories flying as fast as the planes themselves. Cropduster fired up the grill, McSorley’s apron flapping in the breeze, and soon the air was thick with the smell of charred vegetables, Waterford beef, and the kind of potatoes that make you believe in the land itself.

Then it happened: the sound systems on every aircraft synced as one, and Van Morrison’s “Into the Mystic” poured out across the tarmac. The sun was setting, painting the sky with gold and violet, and for a moment, every pilot, every dog, every soul on that field stood still. We listened, we sang, and it was as if the whole world held its breath—caught between the earth and the sky, between memory and hope. “We were born before the wind,” the song began, and I knew, right then, we’d gone into the mystic together.
The dogs chased each other under the wings, the whiskey flowed, and for a moment, the world felt whole.

If you’re wondering what it’s like to belong to a crew, to feel the thrum of engines and the warmth of friends, let me tell you: there’s nothing like it. And if you ever try to take this from us—this music, this food, this fellowship—I will find you. And I will make you sing along.

The fire burned low, the last song faded, and as Cropduster raised a glass, I looked around and knew: we’re the lucky ones.
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To close the night, as the Irish moon rose over wings and water, I thought of Yeats, and the peace he found in the heart of his homeland. So let his words carry us home:

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

—William Butler Yeats, “The Lake Isle of Innisfree”

End of log.
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