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Ian, our guide, has let us loose, but not before sharing a legend: Anyone able to wrap their arms around the fabled cross will have a long-held desire come true.

Not just luck 鈥� Irish luck. And that鈥檚 exactly what I want on this bittersweet mother-daughter trip, at a time when everything in our lives seems to be changing. But I can鈥檛 reach.

We wander into nearby Glendalough forest, and I鈥檓 filled with an emotion I didn鈥檛 expect. Solace.

Sunlight slips among gnarled trees, making them glow like phantoms, and the moss creeping over boulders and tree trunks is a shimmering rich green I鈥檝e never seen before. Whispers of wishes and needs and Celtic luck mix in my mind, amid this eerie beauty, making all seem possible.

We鈥檝e come to Ireland 鈥� mother and daughter 鈥� because my baby鈥檚 leaving. She graduates high school this year and will follow her sisters into the wider world, leaving my husband and me kid-free. Is 20-odd years ever enough to be deep in the parenting trenches? No. No, it鈥檚 not.

I鈥檓 going to miss this girl. I miss her sisters. Motherhood鈥檚 been the best gig, and I鈥檓 not ready for its daily routines to be over. Nest? Empty. But amid my premature heartache: there鈥檚 joy, too. My girls, for so long 鈥渢he wee three,鈥� are ready for more, and maybe I am, too. But I鈥檓 not about to miss this time on the mother road.

Over nine days of travelling with my daughter 鈥� just the two of us 鈥� there鈥檚 minimal side-eye (I won鈥檛 miss that) and so much side-splitting laughter. Freed from routine, we鈥檙e given time without distraction, time to be better versions of ourselves.

We鈥檙e more joyful, more present, as we stand in the cobbled glory of Dublin鈥檚 Trinity College, sign our names to Belfast鈥檚 Peace Wall, scramble over cliffs in the country鈥檚 north with only showy yellow gorse separating land and sea, and stuff ourselves into lively pubs for hearty meals.

I love it all, but it鈥檚 the togetherness I cherish in even the smallest moments: shoring each other over slick basalt stones for photo ops at ; banging our bags, feeling frustratingly lost, through narrow pub doors for directions (and being wholly revived by a helpful, perfect barkeep with a charm-school smile); going on shopping sprees to Penneys, Ireland鈥檚 obsession and now ours, too.聽聽聽聽

We can鈥檛 see all of Ireland, so we base ourselves in Dublin, mixing city and country jaunts. We split our time, beginning on the River Liffey鈥檚 north side, at Hotel Riu Plaza The Gresham on central O鈥機onnell Street, Dublin鈥檚 main thoroughfare, where you can still see bullet holes from the 1916 Easter Rising in the General Post Office. Then, to explore the south side, we move to the boutique Fitzwilliam Hotel Dublin, adjacent leafy St. Stephen鈥檚 Green and bustling Grafton Street.

One early, still-dark morning, we board a tour bus to the , a three-hour drive away, in Ireland鈥檚 storied west. My daughter鈥檚 head falls gently on my shoulder. I say nothing, pulling her closer as I鈥檝e done so often. 鈥淚鈥檓 so sleepy,鈥� she murmurs as spring fields dotted with adorable lambs spool by.

The sheer cliffs facing the Atlantic started life as a river delta and, 300 million years ago, were part of the supercontinent Pangea. Today, this is a place of starting beauty and unusual flora and fauna, including Atlantic puffins, and basking sharks in the water below. From the visitor centre, built Hobbit-like into the hillside, to the fiddler serenade on the wind-whipped cliffs, everything astonishes.

The awe on my kid鈥檚 face is priceless as we gape at the cliffs鈥� Horcrux Cave, of 鈥淗arry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince鈥� fame,聽and pass the聽Leap聽of Foals.聽The latter is the site of a stirring legend: Druids, distraught with Christianity鈥檚 arrival, transformed themselves into horses and sought refuge in a cave. When they eventually emerged, they tragically聽leapt off the cliffs to their death.

As we drive through County Clare, heading to Galway, we marvel at the scenery, shuttling through the alien, moonlike region, spotting castles and cows in this impossibly harsh yet beautiful limestone landscape. Cracks and crevices in the rocks draw botanists, geologists and storytellers. Long linked with mythology, Ireland鈥檚 west, some say, holds portals to the spirit world.

In Galway, padded with pubs and claddagh ring shops, my girl gushes, 鈥淭here are so many cute boys our age,鈥� forgetting we鈥檙e not BFFs as we walk and talk. 鈥淥ur age?鈥� I laugh, nudging her shoulder.

Another day, in the midlands, in medieval Kilkenny, where residents eat, sleep and dream hurling, I take a mother-daughter selfie. I鈥檓 smiling. She鈥檚 shielding her face. Keep it, she says. It鈥檚 funny.

Ah, tiny treasures.

I shine at mothering, not at letting go. But on this trip to Ireland, I鈥檓 learning both. As I try, and fail, to wrap my arms around St. Kevin鈥檚 wishing cross, I realize it鈥檚 OK: Things change. Life brings new rhythms.

Arm in arm, as Leah and I travel this sheep-filled countryside, seeking out coffee shops and crumbling castles, my kid playing 鈥淭oo Sweet,鈥� the new Hozier drop, on repeat, we start to seep into and fill the quiet spaces in each other, a sense of mutual appreciation clicking into place. We鈥檙e like lost-and-found puzzle pieces.

I think of relationships, fluid and shifting, and start to understand that there鈥檚 more to come. I need to loosen my reach to let my kids grow 鈥� and to see how they return, in evolving closeness, wanting time together in new ways. I may not always get what I wish for, but always, always, at the core, I鈥檓 happy to still be Mom.