Moving

Please check out my updated and slightly modernized blog at ....

willwalkforguinness.simplesite.com

Blogspot has been good to me over the past three years, but it's a bit cumbersome, slow, and is looking more and more outdated. I'll continue to blog (sorry!), but you'll just have to get used to finding it in a different location.

Time for a Guinness!

So Close and Yet....

I got up at 7:30, showered, dressed, and packed. I made it downstairs in time for the 8am shuttle to the airport, which was only about a mile away. The Irish Rain Gods were giving me one last dousing before I went airborne. The sky was dark and grey, much like my mood. I was homesick for both my home/family and for Kerry.

I made it through security, customs & immigration, and whatever the hell else by 9am. That's a fecking record because you have to wait through three different queues and go through three different screenings before getting to your gate. Oh, and you have to fill out paperwork regarding what you've brought back with you. The government official I had didn't bother to ask me a damn thing about what I'd been doing in his country or what I was bringing back or whether or not I'd handled livestock (there are serious issues regarding transferring contagious diseases), as soon as he saw that I was from Islamorada, he started asking questions about the airport/port of entry that may open in Marathon. He's looking to transfer, see, and he thought I might be of help. I told him to use me as a reference. And that worked. I'd neglected to fill out my paperwork, handed him and empty form, and he grinned like a dunce and let me through. Maybe this day will go smoothly after all!

I found my gate in short order and checked the time. I had nearly two hours to kill, but even I knew it was too early for a pint. Good thing, because my only choice for food/beverage was a stand named "Irish Meadows". It was full of damn tourists; mostly Americans. My least favorite flavor. I bought a monster-sized water. Hydrating is key on long flights. One sip of clear stuff for every pint. It's scientific fact. No need to look it up, just trust me. I also bought an OJ (I wasn't back in the States yet, so I knew it would still taste good.), and a blueberry muffin.

I found a table for four, covered with empty coffee cups, dirty plates, and other crap. I pushed it to the side and opened the juice. I nearly spit it across the Irish Meadow when I discovered it was made with "extra pulp"! No. I don't do pulp. Argh. I recapped it and left it there for the next bum. I devoured the muffin, picked up my trash, and went for a walk. I knew I was in for a lot of sitting and my legs don't like that, especially after a trip of long bouts of walking. I went up and down, up and down, so many times, I knew who would be sitting where the next time I came through. When that got old, I went into the ladies room to brush my teeth and well, use your imagination.

Unfortunately, I'd wandered into the men's room. (First time this trip! I usually do this at least three times.) I abruptly turned around, but got my roller bag and monster back pack caught in the bags of an incoming man. We were hopeless stuck and a backup of men trying to get in/out quickly ensued. When I managed to untangle myself, I think I blurted out a very loud "for feck's sake" and stormed off, red in the face. I hate finding myself in the men's room. At farty-seven (yeah, that's how you pronounce it), you'd think I'd have learned to look at the goddamned sign on the fecking door.

I headed for my gate which was FULL to overflowing. Literally. I counted eleven infants/babies (by this I mean unable to walk yet) and at least a dozen walking toddlers. Oh Jaysus. I love babies, but not on planes. Babies on planes are worse than the clap. Not that I've any firsthand knowledge of the latter, but it seems right. I watched as the proud mothers exchanged the adoration for each other's offspring, always followed up with "how old is he/she?" Moms of small babies/toddlers must ALWAYS respond to this question in months. For example, the mother of a two-year old will reply, "She's twenty-five months".  A yearlng's mum will say her child is eleven months. Its code and it means something. Don't take this lightly. (In full disclosure, I did it too.) Women's ovaries control this particular phenomenon. Don't try to understand it and don't try to change it. Ovaries are powerful feckers.

As I was about to implode from all of the crying and whining and bottle-making, our Aer Lingus representative apologized for what would be a "short" delay and told us to come back in tirty (yes, tirty) minutes for an update. I went for another walk. Anything to put some space between me and the crying ones...anything except another men's room. Tirty minutes later, we were told to come back in another tirty.

Two-and-a-half hours later, we were on our way. I watched two movies and read. I was sitting next to a man who left Dublin fifty years ago and moved to Queens. He's lived there ever since and considers NYC his home. I didn't trust him much after that. I found out later, that my gut was right. He nicked my breakfast bar! I shit you not. About an hour before arrival, we were given a cucumber and mayo sandwich (um, no) and a breakfast bar. My neighbor devoured his sandwich in short order. I asked him if he'd like mine, too. He graciously accepted and put it in his carry-on, beneath the seat in front of him. He also slipped his breakfast bar into the side pocket of that bag. I left my breakfast bar on my table, I figured I might need it later. When I got up to use the ladies/men's room, I left the bar on my seat. It wasn't until we were deplaning and I saw two breakfast bars in the side pocket of his carry-on, did I realize he'd taken mine. I said nothing, but found it irritating nonetheless. If he'd asked, I'd have given it to him. While we walked off the plane, I considered slipping my hand into the pocket and taking it back. That's when I realized how tired I must be.

We landed about three in the afternoon at JFK and my connecting flight to Fort Lauderdale had left at two. While still in the air, my Dougie had been trying to get me booked on the next flight, which was scheduled to leave about 3:45. He sent me a text to that affect, told me to go to the Jet Blue counter, and demand to be put on that flight - they wouldn't allow him to do it over the phone. When I got to the counter, they handed me a boarding pass....for a flight that left at 6:45pm. I asked about the earlier flight and they looked past me and said, "Next!"

Welcome to America.

I was exhausted, the whirlwind was finally catching up with me. I called Dougie to tell him the new plan and was surprised to find tears in my eyes and a voice that wouldn't work. Yep, I was tired, which meant I was crying. Oh shit and feck, too. Dougie assured me we'd figure it out and told me to relax, find a place to sit and have a pint. Thankfully, JFK has more beverage-serving options than Dublin. I found one near my gate and sat. And sat. And sat. After twenty minutes, no one would serve me, despite my repeated, "Excuse me" attempts for service. I realized why. I looked - and smelled - homeless. My t-shirt and the long-sleeved sun shirt I wore over it were stained with...heaven knows what. My hair was...clean, but tangled. No make up. Flip-flops exposed my battered feet and unattractive little toe with black nail.

I took the hint, gathered my bags, and kept walking. I found an open-air sort of bar, with seats inside an actual gate. I thought I might have better luck there and I did. There didn't have Guinness or Carlsberg on tap. I settled for a Bud Light bottle. It tasted like dirty water. I got a call from my baby girl, the first time I'd heard her voice since I'd left home. It made me even more homesick and, in spite of her exuberance about Central Park and all of the exciting things she was doing, I was a wet blanket. I apologized and she told me to cheer up. I cried again after we hung up. Jaysus, woman, pull yourself together.

I arrived in Fort Lauderdale about ten. The last shuttle to the Keys had left at nine. I was too tired to rent a car; I knew I'd never be able to successfully navigate a two-and-a-half hour drive home. Gracious friends in Miami offered to let me crash with them, but again, I didn't feel capable of the fifty-minute drive in a rental to their house either. In the end, Dougie found me a room near the airport, with 24/7 airport shuttle service, and food service until 1am. I need to pay him for his travel agent services.

I arrived in the hotel, a Sheraton, which was very nice...and gigantic in comparison to what I'd gotten used to in Ireland. The lobby was about the size of Kenmare. I dropped my bags in the room and called room service (I couldn't take any more ungracious looks about my appearance/odor). Once it arrived, I took a very hot shower and crawled into bed where I ate half of a chicken quesadilla and drank a glass of wine. I didn't watch TV or blog or do anything. I ate, turned off the light, called Dougie to say goodnight, and crashed. It was about midnight. I may have cried again...I was soooo close to home and yet, so very far away.

Last Hurrah

I went to bed early last night, uninterested in hanging with the large crowd gathering below in the pub. I've had great success and met so many kind and wonderful people on this adventure, but my sole purpose for coming these last three-hundred-fifty miles was to spend time with a ninety-five year old man. He's not well and I can't see him, so I'm turning in early so that I don't have to think about it. What's more distressing than not being able to see Padder is that no one seems to understand or appreciate the journey I made for one special old man; not even Joe. I'm sure I'm overtired and not seeing things as clearly as I could, but it seems that no one else is terribly sad about Padder's deteriorating health.

"It's what happens, no bother," is what Joe said.

In spite of the loud, raucous laughter coming from below, I drifted off to sleep quickly. As always, the windows were open to let in the cool night breeze. I had dreams of Yoda last night...or was it Padder. Hard to tell the difference. I believe they are equally wise.

Although I know that breakfast comes with the price of a night's stay at Joe's, I sneak out the front door and head into town. There's a breakfast place at the top of the hill, just past the newstand. I don't recall the name, but last summer I had boxty for the very first time in that quaint little shop and it's been calling my name ever since. My mouth waters as I make the short walk. Boxty is...sort of like leftover mashed potatoes, mixed with Irish magic, shaped into cakes and fried in butter. It's very healthy, low fat, and good for your heart. It is not the equivalent to our version of the potato cake. It's a potato cake on steroids and crack and meth and sugar. In part, the difference is due to Kerry butter, the other parts remain a mystery.

My stomach threatens to shrivel up and die (yeah, right) when I discover that the place is closed on Sundays. Sad as I am, it makes me glad to recognize how important family time is to the Irish. For example, it's now half nine and nothing in town is open yet except the church and the newstand. People are enjoying a relaxing Sunday morning with the families - the way it should be. With boxty out of the question, I head back to Joe's for toast and coffee.

Today is the HUGE semi-final match between Kerry and Cork. I soooo very much want to see this game, but it begins at two and I'm planning to catch the one-something train to Dublin, which gets in about four-thirty when match will be over. There's no chance of watching it on the train. I feel slightly cheated. (Aren't I a greedy article? I feel that's what my proprietor from the farm in Black Valley would have called me.) I've already had so much adventure, you'd think I'd be happy...but like every spoiled toddler, I want more.

Over my last cup of coffee, I pull up the Irish Rail schedule one more time. The last train leaves Wesport (about half and hour away given the road construction) at 5:45 and arrived Dublin at 9:10pm. If I take that train, I could extend my stay in Newport, put off going to Dublin for a bit longer (not a big Dublin fan), AND see the match. That was one of the easier decisions of the past few days and my heart feels lighter for having made it.

Joe's wife lets me store my bags in the office (I don't want to occupy a room when I know it needs to be cleaned...and de-stunk) and I head out to enjoy a typical Sunday morning as a local. I wander back into town, the grocery and a coffee/scone shop have opened. I decide to check out the church, but then remember what day of the week it is and realize that's a bad idea. I keep wandering as I realize the only things I've brought back for my girl are stones and shells that I've collected. Nothing else. A small miracle happens when I walk past a small gift shop as the owner is opening. I found a little something for her there that I think she'll love, but I can't tell you what it is just in case that adorable little thing is checking up on her mum. Anyway, I feel better knowing I have a little something for her. Dougie is getting a bear hug and a home-cooked meal - that's the best gift I can give him.

I'm antsy. I feel like I should have my pack strapped on with a destination in mind. I don't feel right just wandering at a snail's pace, but remind myself that's what this day is about. I see an old man reading the newspaper on his front stoop and that gives me an idea. I head back to the news stand and sort through the options. Like the States, there are too many choices. How much news could there be?

I choose the fattest one, a small bottle of OJ (I never drink the stuff at home. I don't like it, but here it tastes yummy.), a Diet Coke (I think this is number three since leaving home), and a chocolate bar. I'm feeling reckless. I carry my treasures down to a small park by the river and sit at a picnic table. The sun is out is full force and I'm too warm. I strip out of my long-sleeved shirt which smells reminiscent of a barn, and drink my cold OJ as I skim the front page.

This is a good time to point out that the Irish, much like the English, don't fancy very cold drinks. They don't use ice as a matter of routine, nor do they chill drinks much, if at all. I prefer very icy, cold Diet Coke and have been fantasizing about a big 'ole glass full of ice and my favorite soda. Fantasizing about a drink is weird, but that's what a lack of ice and cold drinks can do to a girl. Before selecting a soda, I felt each and every bottle, trying to find one that had even a slight chill. There were all the temperature of an armpit and who doesn't love that?

I drink the juice first because it, unlike the soda, has a bit of a chill. It's down in three gulps. I open the soda and sip it as I go through section after section of the paper. The tide is coming in and the river's edges are expanding. The town is slowly coming alive as the church bells ring and there's a short traffic jam as parishioners rush home to start their day. Families with small children arrive at the adjacent playground. Every time a child shouts "mummy!", I look up in case it's my own. Old habits never die. Families on bikes meander by and the pubs start putting out umbrellas over the tables outside their doors. One minute, the sun is beating down on me and then the Irish Rain Gods decide enough is enough. An enormous black cloud comes out of nowhere, morphing the sky into something straight out of Independence Day. I know where things I headed. I gather my trash and paper and head for Joe's. I almost make it when the sky opens. I'm drenched but smiling. I love how quickly the weather turns.

I step into Joe's coffee shop, where I had breakfast. After serving it's guests, it opens to the public and serves food and take-away until mid-afternoon. I order a cup of coffee (something I also never drink at home) and hunker down by a table near a window. Fortunately for me, there's an available plug so I charge my phone, sip my coffee and dive into the sports section to read the trash about today's match. God, I love the Irish newspaper! This is a snippet from just one article about the Kerry/Cork matchup:

"At hafltime, as the Derry lads trooped, shell-shocked, back into the changing room, manager Matt Trolan met them with the immortal line, "Shit in the nest again lads, cup of tea in the back room."
As Eamonn Coleman put it afterwards: "That's what's wrong with Derry teams. Far too fucking nice."

Cork have been far too fucking nice for far too long. High time they got off their knees today and justified their nickname. Otherwise, they face another decade of tea in the back room at half time."

I don't suppose I need to tell you that would never appear in an American paper. I also probably don't need to explain that the journalist was suggesting that Cork services Kerry in the back room on their knees, but I wanted to anyway because it tickles me to do so. Historically, Kerry has spanked Cork time after time while Cork just sits back and takes it. Everyone is betting that the same will happen today. Having been a Miami Dolphin fan for most of my life, I'm not so quick to jump on the bandwagon. Sometimes, the team everyone knows will win ends up getting the game handed to them. (Just ask Tom Brady about my team. When he's done crying, he'll explain it to you.)

Joe's pub opens at one and I'm the first one inside. I want a good seat. I order a pint and get mentally set to deal with a big crowd, the majority of whom I suspect will be routing for Cork. I remind myself to keep my joy quiet; no loud outbursts. (That's not easy for me when it comes to football. Ask my family and dogs.) At half past, I'm still the only one in the pub. When throw in happens on schedule, I'm still alone. Then I realize that Mayo doesn't give a rat's ass about Cork or Kerry. If Mayo was playing, there wouldn't be a seat in the house, but these people have better things to do.

I shout and yell and jump and clap and have a good, 'ole rowdy time all by myself. The bartender is an adorable girl I remember from last year. She laughs at my antics, but doesn't say much. Joe comes in twice when I'm yelling at the ref. He shakes his head and goes back to work. In the end, it was a tie. Unlike in America, ties aren't allowed - the two teams will rematch next Sunday. (Dougie - can we get this on TVsomehow?) As I feared, all that negative press spurred the Cork Rebels (yes, that's their name and the fans wave Rebel flags...odd, but true.) to get off their knees and fight. It was a great match and I can't wait for the rematch.

My cab comes early, I don't get a chance to say goodbye to Joe, and just like that, Newport is lost in the rear view.

I spent three hours+ on a train with a young mom and two-year-old from hell. She was tired, the poor thing, and screamed, kicked, and cried from Newport to Mayo. Guess what's even better? When the trolley finally came by ninety-five minutes into the trip (yes, I was counting the minutes), they were out of wine and the two beers that they had were room temperature. I bought a water and tried to pull a Jesus, but was unable to turn that mineral water into merlot.

I arrived Dublin and got into a taxi. I arrived at my hotel around ten, changed into different smelly clothes and went downstairs for food. The bar was semi-busy, but I didn't speak a word to anyone. The vibe was definitely not Kerry; no one was interested in small talk and telling stories. It felt very American-city and it didn't feel nice. I took my food to go and ate in my room.

It's midnight. I have to be up by 7:30 to catch the 8am shuttle to the airport. Tomorrow will be a long day, but at least I'll see Dougie and the boys (Mr. Bear and Boozy). Lauren is still on her NYC adventure and doesn't come home until Wednesday. Now that Kerry is far behind me, I just want to get home. I'm homesick and miss my family.

I'm ready to go.

Lists

As my solo adventure comes to a screeching halt, my head is filling with two lists...one of all of the things I miss about home and the second is a list of all of the things I'll miss about Ireland. Reconciling the two seems nearly impossible from my current position, but I'll get it sorted one of these days.

What I miss about home:
My family - including Mr. Bear and Boozy
A glass filled with ice and then Diet Coke (I haven't seen ice cubes since leaving home)
Pizza
Pasta
Cooking for my family
Properly cooked beef
Hot sauce
Salt, pepper, and other seasonings
Dolphins and manatees
Sleeping in the same place each night
Food Network, The Cooking Channel, and Netflix
Clean clothes
Always having a car at my disposal

What I'll miss about Ireland:
Lush, green countryside
Donkeys, cows, horses, sheep, and goats
Farmland and barns
The musical sound of the Kerry brogue
Gaelic football
The homey atmosphere of a proper pub
The ability to trust complete strangers without a care
Delicious beer
Irish brown bread
Kerry butter
A slow, deliberate breakfast on old china
Newspapers that print "fuck" and "shit" and "dick" as if they were everyday words (oh wait, they are!)
Stores (including groceries) close early and open late to allow for family time
Having to slow down to allow sheep and goats to cross the road
Hearing the sound of livestock coming through my window at night
Chilly Irish rain
Windy, one-lane roads
Traditional Irish music sessions
Castles, ruins, churches, and abbeys
Ancient cemeteries full of Celtic crosses
Having to burrow under heavy covers at night to stay warm while the wind whips in thru the window
The Irish people's view of the human body (women don't have to be a size two to be beautiful)
Rugged, isolated coastlines awash in crashing waves
The unpredictable and ever-changing weather
A culture that embraces exercise (cycling, walking, running, football) as much as beer drinking
Irish humor
Irish manners
...but most importantly, I'll miss my heart because I left it back in Kerry.

Observations and Lessons Learned

As I spend my last night in western Ireland on this trip sitting in my room, eating a sixteen euro dinner consisting of baguette, salami, emmental cheese, and wine, I thought it might be a good time to share some of the tings (yes, tings) I've learned and/or noticed. It took me a few weeks to gather all of this very important data and I'm sharing it with you for free. You are welcome. You may thank me in the form of plane tickets back here to conduct more research.

Warning: if you're easily offended, this is not the post for you. Don't say I didn't tell you.

Here goes:
- You've heard me piss and moan about the Irishman's inability to measure distance on several occasions. I finally found a Mic who could adequately explain the phenomenon. I must credit Derry From Kerry, The Beer Man, with this brilliant unveiling.

The Irish Mile is a regular mile plus a little bit more, but often that "little bit more" is longer than the original mile.

- I recommend not ever asking for "a ride". I strongly suggest you ask for "a lift". A ride is something that refers to an act between two consenting adults and has nothing to do with a vehicle, unless of course you're still in high school are are NOT my daughter. I learned this lesson the hard way. Trust me. No asking for rides unless you're ready to be ridden. There is no getting around this.

- Irish men are prematurely grey. It's not a bad thing, because although it's obscenely unfair, we all know that salt and pepper hair can actually make a man even sexier, but it does not typically have the same effect for women. The vast majority of these boys are grey in their early turties (thirties). Is it the Guinness? I need to conduct more research.

- A proper Irish goodbye on a phone is a grand thing to witness. Both parties will say "no problem" at least twice, but usually three or four times, regardless of the content of their conversation. That will be followed with "bye, bye, bye" - said very quickly - when speaking with a casual acquaintance. When speaking with a close friend or family member, there must be at least five "byes". There are no exceptions to this rule and this only happens over the phone, not in person.

- The Irish are a horny lot. I could go on for pages on this topic, but I won't. Trust me. Viagra should be outlawed in Ireland because these Mics shouldn't have access to it. It's similar to giving diet pills to an anorexic. Guinness makes these men see double and feel single.

- Mayonnaise is a food group. It's served with chips (fries), roasted potatoes, sandwiches, cereal, toast, candy. Okay, maybe not that bad, but the amount of mayo in Irish cole slaw is unfreakingbelievable....and it's just fine with me.

- There are two sizes of Irishmen. Fit and trim or fat. There is nothing in between. I know this seems like a gross generalization, but I believe it to be quite accurate. There's a large contingency that runs and cycles religiously and then there's another that is allergic to exercise. I cannot apply this same generalization to the women of Ireland.

- Irish cheese puffs are not the same as American ones. I can't decide if they're good or not. More research is needed on the "Cheese flavor maize snacks".

- The speech of the Irish changes drastically when they are in groups. Speak to one Irishman and if you've an ear for it, you'll understand him fairly well. Let one of his mates join in and you might as well put in ear plugs. Not only do they speak much more rapidly, they throw in slang that most of us don't know, perhaps a few Irish words, and then some bullshit just to add to the confusion. The Irish are great tricksters and love to fuck with your head.

Forward, March!

I went out for a quick pint with the Killarney guys. They were hilarious and did everything within their power to show me a good time, but my heart wasn’t in it. I went back to my hotel and weighed the options. I’m not sure how long it lasted, because I woke up with the lights on, contacts still in my eyes, around 1:30am. I peeled out my contacts, killed the lights, and crawled under the covers.

I got up at 7:30 and packed. I still didn’t know where I was going. I had three choices, as I saw it. I could spend six-plus hours on a train and then find a way to Achill Island, where I had a room booked, or I could take a train to Tralee and then bus to Inch, where an inn said they might possibly have a room available but wouldn’t know until about 3pm, or I could train to Dublin, where I’d be assured to find accommodations.

Problems with those options:
- One of my top priorities for this trip was to return to Minard Castle in Annascual on the Dingle Peninsula. Without a car it would be difficult. I had to see Minard again…however, the entire peninsula was booked. I checked EVERY B&B/inn/hostel in Dingle, Annascual, Inch, and Dunquin. Nothing was open. Traveling there without a guaranteed room seemed foolish.

- Getting to Achill would mean an entire day of public transportation. It would also mean spending one  only night, getting up and finding a way back to Westport before having to spend another entire day using public transportation to get back to Dublin. That isn’t a good use of limited time in the Motherland.

- Going to Dublin would mean ….being in Dublin. Ick. Enough said.

In the end, I chose the option I liked least; a full day of travel. I’d booked a room for two nights on Achill and they’d given me their last. I’d already screwed them out of one night the day of the dreaded accident; I felt guilty about screwing them out of another.

I  had a cup of coffee and brown bread and got a cab to the train station. Unfortunately, I’d forgotten that Killarney’s station isn’t like Dublin…there’s just a few benches and a toilet. No vending machines, no newsstand, no pub. I had two hours to sit and wait. As luck would have it, an older couple came and sat next to me. They were from County Clair and had recently celebrated their fifty-first wedding anniversary. 

“I said I do and got fifty years,” the husband joked. 

He had four teeth in his mouth. His wife laughed, just like she probably always does when he makes that joke. They were adorable and brightened my mood. By the time the train arrived, we’d talked about all kinds of things. I helped them stow their bags in the overhead, although they didn’t like to ask for help. They had booked seats, which means their names were displayed on the digital readout over their seats. As soon as they were settled, I left them to find a seat. I had to wander through four carriages before I found an empty one.

The train from Killarney to Mallow was a little over an hour. I grabbed my bags and jumped off. A few minutes after my train pulled away, another came into the station. I rode that one to Portoloise, then another to Portarlington, and then took a fourth to Wesport.

It was on the last train that I met an amazing person named Emmett Heneghan who, among other things, runs a surfing school in Mayo. He will be the first person to circumvent the Motherland on a paddle board!!! He paddles an average of seventeen miles a day, usually about four or five miles from shore. Unless you’ve seen some of the rough sea conditions around Ireland’s coast, including weird tide actions, you may not be able to appreciate the magnitude of his accomplishment. It’s absolutely incredible. He was on a short break as he waited for the weather to turn more favorable.

Anyway, while I was schlepping cross country in trains, Dougie was back home trying to find a place for me to rent a car in Wesport. Turns out, Doug and Emmett suggested the same place. Unfortunately for me, by the time the train arrived, their offices were already closed….and the last bus had already gone. It was a choice between bagging Achill altogether (where I knew I had accommodations) or try to find something in town and leave the Achill people holding the bag. I didn’t think that would be very nice, so I spoke with a couple taxis. Fifty euros to Achill was the best deal I could make. When he found out where on Achill I actually wanted to go, he added another tenner. Sixty euros for a taxi made me ill, especially because none of these guys take plastic. It's cash or nothing. I was beginning to get nervous as my euros dwindled down to mostly coins. I have to find an ATM...soon.

After ten hours of travel in two taxis and four trains, I arrived at Lavelle’s Seaside House tired, hungry, and eager to walk around or swim or something other than sit. My room had a lovely double bed – very high off the floor – and two windows facing the street. I changed into clothes that may have been moderately less stink y(remember that I left home two weeks ago) and headed straight for Mickey’s Pub, which is attached to Lavelle’s. So, yeah, my idea of exercise became pint lifting rather than walking.

After ordering a pint, I asked for a menu. I'd seen a sign for fresh crab claws on the front door and the idea of local seafood made my stomach growl. The crabs would have to wait - they'd stopped serving food at 6pm, so I had a bag of crisps. Who needed real food? Real food is overrated. Besides, just ten short hours before, I’d had two pieces of brown bread and butter.

Two locals sitting a few seats down began chatting me up, asking questions about my travel. (These Irish are very suspicious of a woman traveling alone, but they sure do want to talk all about it.)

“You’re a bit of a queer hawk, there.”

That seems to be the general consensus. They don’t like the idea of a woman traveling alone for whatever reason. I don't care. They can think what they wish.

The bartender was a cute young boy who reminded me so much of Peanut when he was younger. Turns out, his name is Paddy Lavelle and he’s seventeen. Paddy Lavelle! I shrieked and told him that was my name, too. He was less enthusiastic than I’d have liked, but then again, he’s a teenager. Then I showed him a picture of Peanut and he didn't think he looked anything like my gorgeous son. Funny, though, his uncle was one of the locals next to me and he agreed that the resemblance between them was uncanny. Paddy shook his head and left the bar to throw darts until he was needed again.

Eventually, I met Paddy's mother and her sister, his aunt. The whole family works at Lavelle's/Mickey's. It didn't take long before they pulled me into the fold. We sat round a big table, making craic. I laughed so hard that my face hurt from smiling. About ten-thirty, the aunt and uncle took me with them to a pub down the way. The sunset was beautiful; the sky fierce. We only stayed for a pint and lots of laughter before going back to Mickey's. It was nearly two when I begged off. I headed for bed, they ordered another round. More power to 'em!

Paddy's aunt put her number in my phone before I left. She wanted me to cancel my booking in Newport and instead come with them to their house to spend the next night. From there, they offered to take me to Dublin where they were heading on Monday to pick up their son. The kindness and generosity of the Irish never, ever ceases to amaze me. It was a tempting offer - they were a LOT of fun and it would save me a lot of money - but I'd booked a room with Joe quite a ways back and I really wanted to have a pint with him and Padder. In the end, I didn't have to make a difficult decision about what to do because in her slightly intoxicated state, Linda had buggered the number when putting into me phone. I wish them all the best, thank them kindly for their friendship, and hope to meet them again.

I slept until 8:30, showered, dressed, and then wandered to the dining room for breakfast. Since I’m no longer walking long distances, the bacon buddy is a thing of the past. Fruit, toast, and coffee. Nothing more. (However, that toast is slathered with fresh Kerry butter. I can’t get it at home, so I’ll indulge while I can.) The dining room was full of runners eating low-calorie breakfasts. There was a half-marathon that morning to raise money for cancer research. I slathered my butter without shame while they nibbled on granola and yogurt. While entering my butter coma, I tried to come up with a more cost-effective way to get to Newport. I didn't want to spend another sixty euros on a cab. Eventually, I found an online bus schedule indicating that there was a bus at noon from Achill sound to Newport - perfect! I asked Paddy's mom if there was an island taxi that could run me down to the sound. Five minutes later, a car arrived with two blokes inside. The one in the passenger seat hopped out, put my bags in the backseat, which was full of car parts, food wrappers, and empty soda bottles.

We had fourteen minutes to make the bus. When I asked the driver what the chances were that we'd get there on time, he told me not to worry, if we missed it, he'd follow it to the next stop. (Would that happen in the States?) We drove a one lane "road" through some fields among sheep and cows, the two of my car-mates doing one helluva stand-up routine. John was the driver and half-owner of a taxi business and Owen operates horse-and-carriage tours around the island. They were both lively and entertaining. As I nearly shit my knickers every time we almost hit a sheep, they seemed oblivious to the potential disaster waiting to happen. We made it to town with four minutes to spare....then we discovered the bus had left at 9:15 that morning.

Aw crap. I asked John if he had time to drive me all the way to Newport. He said he would - for a fee of thirty euro - but he couldn't take me for about forty-minutes because he had a run to make on the other side of the island. I didn't mind one little bit. Spending time with John and Owen was a much better option that sitting on a bus. 

Yay! Another adventure was unfolding. John drove me all over the fourteen-mile long island, checking out cliffs and ocean vistas, views atop mountains where the wind nearly flung me over the side, and finally the castle tower that belonged to Ireland's Pirate Queen, Grace O'Malley or Granauile. Her clan built the tower in the early 1400s, but she used it as one of many strongholds along the western seaboard as she dominated the waters in the mid 1500s. Unfortunately, I was unable to get in, although there's no door blocking entry. My way was blocked by a locked gate. I asked John and Owen if they thought I could get away with climbing over. John has lived on Achill for his whole life and failed to understand my fascination. He said I could see it just fine from the road. I explained that I wanted to touch it and be inside it. 

"Fecking crazy is herself."

Reluctantly, I got back into the car. I'm grateful to have seen it at all. If not for John and Owen, I'd never have gotten close.

Three and a half hours after picking me up, the boys delivered me to Joe Reid's Black Oak Inn in Newport. I hugged them both goodbye and eagerly went inside to see Joe and enquire after his uncle, who I was so anxious to see. Unfortunately, Joe was out, so I stowed my bags and headed down the street to a pub for some lunch. Lauren, Doug, and I had been there before. It's comfortable and has really decent food. From there I found an ATM (I feel relieved) and then walked a mile and half or so to a cemetery. Eventually, I wandered back to Joe's and waiting for him to arrive while I had a Guinness and began working on this blog. I'd gotten behind during the  rental car accident drama.

Joe just walked in and I was happy to see him. We shook hands and I asked after Padder. I was saddened to learn that his uncle is unsteady on his feet and uses two crutches (maybe he means canes?) to walk. I asked Joe if he thought he might be up for some company, just for a few minutes. He said he'd call and find out. Unfortunately, Padder has the flu and is bedridden. I can't see him. I'm this close and I can't see him.

I extended my trip just to come to Mayo to see Padder because I realize my opportunities to see him are limited. He's less than a mile away, but...I hope Joe tells him that this American came a long way just to hear his charming Irish brogue and see the twinkle that still sparks in his grey eyes.

Friends in Right Places

Leave it to friends like Mr. Mike Griffin, aka Bob The Horse's Owner, to help me make lemonade out of a shit storm.

After showering and putting on CLEAN clothes that I've not seen since I left them in Killarney ten or twelve days ago, I walked back into town. Mike had planned accordingly, and when I neared the village circle where the horses and carriages congregate to drag tourists all over town, they all started singing. All of them. I've no idea what they were singing, but it was heartwarming. Who can feel sad with fifteen or twenty mics who smell like horses and leather all singing at the top of their lungs. Then they gave me some more words of encouragement and sent me to Murhpy's for lunch and a pint.

I normally enjoy being in pubs - even alone - but today's events have left me feeling a bit out of sorts. I'm not complaining and not trying to whine. I'm just not myself. I wandered around town for a bit, bought a Sudou book. and then headed back to my hotel to crash for the night. Pints with the guys no longer sounds like fun.

As I headed for the roundabout, the clopping of horses hooves got closer and closer. I stopped and stepped aside only to find Mike and Katie! He told me to get in. He and Katie wanted to show me around. He asked where I wanted to go, so I suggested Muckross Castle, if it wasn't too far for Ms. Katie. He pished and said that she loves the castle. (I highly doubt she gives a feck about the castle, but it was nice of him to say.) He sang and told lousy jokes in between my questions about training horses.

We arrived at the castle, which was beautiful. He said he and Katie would wait while I had a look-see. The sun had come out again (it does that on occasion) and the sky was beautiful. I tried to hurry because I knew they were waiting but...it was a castle. I did my best to make it quick and given my record, I did pretty well. When I returned, I asked if I could just pet Katie for a bit before she had to work again. Mike told me to have at it.

Ms. Katie is Bob the Horse's sister and much larger. She's also more friendly and - if it's possible - smells better than her brother. She was very affectionate and rubbed her forehead against my...um...chest...over and over. Eventually, Mike admitted that Ms. Katie has a bit of a boob fetish. I told her to go right ahead and do what she wished; I'd much rather get felt up by a horse than Mr. Happy Hands any way!

Turns out that Ms.Katie also loves mint livesavers. Mike keeps rolls of them in his pockets and she nibbled at them until he takes them out and hand feeds her two or three. She did have lovely breath.
After twenty minutes or so of loving on - and being loved on - by Katie, Mike drove me back to the village square. We said goodbye for perhaps the fourth time today, but this time I gave him a bear hug and didn't let go until it was awkward. Then I hugged tighter.

I came back to my room to put together a solid plan for tomorrow. I feel like today has been wasted. I've taken two buses, a taxi, and a horse carriage ride but haven't accomplished anything. I didn't put in any miles on the road and I wrecked a car. I feel restless and a bit blue.

Then I smell my hands. They were full of wonderful horse and leather smells. It makes me feel better. Then I remember that I somehow managed to make good friends in this small village so far from my home; friends that look out for me and are trying to make me happy. Then I look out my window and see the mountains and know that I climbed over them. I have much to be happy about.

I need a Do Over

I was determined to get out of the Armore House in Kenmare without having to deal with Mr. Happy Hands again. I paid in full last night, fully intending to be out of the place by 7:30am.

I got up early, showered, and packed. I snuck down the dark hallway at 7:15am, knowing full well the bus didn't arrive until 8:30. I figured I'd grab a bite in town. I went to the entry way where I'd left my boots. They were gone. I searched all areas of the house that were open to guests; they were no where to be found. I looked outside on the front porch - nothing. At 7:45, he unlocked the kitchen and came out into the common area. After I wished him a good morning, I enquired about my boots. He said he'd kept them in his room to "keep them safe".

I've stayed in a lot of European B&Bs. Never has anyone felt the need to protect my boots. Typically, walkers stuff them with newspaper and leave them piled in the entry. Nobody wants someone else's hiking boots. Weird. I slipped them on, without tying, and headed out the door. Once out of his neighborhood, I properly tied them and adjusted my pack. I was shocked to find that nothing was open in the village. There was no place to buy a coffee or a roll...I sat on the side of the road by the bus stop and waited. Others began to arrive by 8:15. One of them was an Irish character from Cork named Frank. What a piece of work he is. He's like the crazy uncle everyone has, except he's harder to understand.

I arrived in Killarney about half nine and made my way to the International Hotel, where I'd booked a rental through Budget. Liam was working the counter and not at all pleased that I was so early. (Apparently, I'd booked it for noon.) He fussed but finally said that he could find me a car. After the paperwork was done, he escorted me from the one room office, locked the door, and set off for the car park to retrieve my car. I heard a shout from across the street. It was the adorable old guy who owns Bob the horse (remember my first picture from Killarney, taken about ten days ago?) He remembered me and came over to chat. I told him my plans and he said that he wished we had time for a pint. I promised we would get together next time. Liam arrived with the car and gave me a demonstration. I was off.

My first stop was my B&B, where I'd left a bag. Check. After that, I stopped at a shop for a Diet Coke (second one since leaving the States) and a muffin. I jumped back into my little Nissan and off I went. I was cautious, but not nervous. I'd done it before and I have a GPS to tell me how to get to Minard Castle in Annasucal, on the the Dingle Peninsula, before beginning the six hour drive to Achill Island.

I was heading down Muckross Road, and things were congested. There was construction on one side of the road and huge signs on wooden tripods on the other. It was fine. Then an enormous tour bus came barreling up the other lane, taking up part of mine. I breaked and hugged my lane as closely as possible. There was a deafening crash and I was covered in glass shards. I thought someone had thrown something through my window. Turns out, I clipped a construction sign, ripped off the side-view mirror, and shattered the passenger window. As soon as I could function again, I pulled into an apartment complex. I was covered in glass....in my hair, on my face, in my clothes. My Diet Coke and muffin were very glassy. I held back tears as a man came to the driver's side to see if I was okay. I wasn't really able to answer. He opened the door and helped me out. With my rolled up map, he brushed the glass off of me while I stood there dumbfounded, trying not to cry.

Once I was able to speak again, he told me to go down the block to a Nissan dealer. He said they would Hoover the car and replace the window. He told me that it happens all the time on that road. I didn't believe him, but thanked him for his kind concern. He really was a nice man.

I was really rattled, but made it to the Nissan dealership. They'd watched the whole thing. They were pretty nice and called Liam (they're all friends) and I was directed to drive back to the agency. I didn't really feel up to it, but told myself to put on my big girl panties and just freaking do it. I made it back without further incident. Liam was waiting outside.

He told me to get out of the car as he paced the street. Then he told me that he "couldn't trust" me and said he would not be able to allow me to drive one of their vehicles. He went into the office to do the paperwork, while I collected my things from the car, Onlookers gawked at the clumsy American woman who'd managed to blow out a window less than half a mile from the office. To the rescue came the owner of Bob the Horse. Just as I was about to cry, he gave me a bear hug and told me it was nothing. Happens every day. He reminded me how much worse it could have been. He smelled like horse and I felt better. Liam came back out and told me to "step on it"; I had a report to file and sign. Bob's owner told him to feck off. Then he hugged me again and told me that he'd be waiting for me.

After half an hour of being humiliated, I was charged for one day's rental, a full tank of gas, GPS rental, and insurance charges. I was still trying not to cry. Onlookers were still looking. I felt like I was under a magnifying glass until I heard Bob's owner (I still don't know the man's proper name) singing at the top of his lungs. It was some ridiculous song about "she wrecked the car and thought I would be mad but I love her" or some such shit. It made me smile. Then I really cried. It finally came out.

He put his around around my shoulders and took me over to hug Bob. Bob whinnied in agreement that sometimes shit happens and let me rest my head on his neck for awhile. Then my good friend called a friend who drives a cab. He told me I'd be able to rent a car at Kerry Airport. We said goodbye (again) and promised to meet for pints next summer.

Twenty-five euros later, I was at the airport. Long story made short is that there wasn't one stinking car available!! Not one! Liam must have put out the word, the rat bastard. I waited two hours for a bus back to Killarney because it was only six euro and I'm running out of cash. I walked to the train station, knowing I could train to Westport and then probably get a bus to Achill Island. (Not my preferred way to travel; I'm too old for a long day of buses and trains and shit. Unfortunately (or not?), I missed the last train. The next one doesn't leave until tomorrow morning. I walked back into town where the carriages are. Bob the Horse's owner ran to greet me. "Did ye crash anodder?" he asked, before breaking into fits of contagious, Irish laughter. I told him to feck off and said he owed me a pint.

He said he'd make good on that and as soon as he'd off the clock, we'll have pints and lots of craic. I sure could use it.

I wandered town looking for a room. This is a HUGE weekend in Killareny. They are expecting 25,000 cyclists to come for a race around the Ring of Kerry and there's a HUGE game on Sunday; Kerry vs Cork. I wish I could be here for that because I love the game, but I'll be on a plane. (If nothing else goes wrong.) I finally found a single at the Castle Lodge, not far from the main drag. I showered and decided to quickly blog today's events thus far. I hoped it would help me to "get over it". I'm feeling blue and still a bit shaken, and pissed off too.

I'm starving because all I've eaten to day is one bite of muffin before it got showered in glass. It's gotta be at least 3pm and my belly is angry. I'm heading off to town to find a bite and then wait for Mr. Bob the Horse's owner to join me for pints.

I hope the rest of the day is better.....

Waterlogged and Um....

I'm not sure where to start. I thought yesterday was weird. Ha! Not even close.

I was awakened before 4am by the rooster. It crowed every ten minutes or so until I forced myself out of bed at 8:20. It was THE most comfortable bed and the most beautiful room I've slept in since this adventure began. I think once you get used to the sound of a rooster, you don't notice it, but clearly I'm not used to it yet. I did dose during those four and a half hours, but it wasn't normal sleep. Oh well. I'm on holiday!

The Lady of the House - Maureen - and I are cut from the same cloth. We were fast friends and if I lived in Sneem, she'd never get any work done because we'd always been getting into trouble. Hers is the cleanest and most comfortable B&B Iin which 've had the privilege of staying. She also makes a mean breakfast. I had planned to leave by 9am...at 11:30, she and I were hugging goodbye. I was really sad to leave. When I return to Kerry to live, we will be good friends. Thank you, my friend, for your kind hospitality. You are one of a kind!

When I left the Coomasig View B&B, it was pissing rain. I didn't mind. I had only eighteen miles to cover. Hahahaha. That many miles in pissing rain is a not a good ting. Electronics, clothes, food, and everything in between gets waterlogged after a few miles because nothing I own is truly waterproof. However, I love to walk in the rain and for the first several miles, I had a great time. I've not picture to share with you from today's walk, although the vistas were stunning. Mr. Cell Phone doesn't like Mr. Rain, so I left him wrapped in a plastic bag (courtesy of Maureen), crammed into the middle of my pack. I did the same with the laptop and hoped for the best.

I regret having no pix to share. The fog was spectacular. Immediately, it wrapped around me like a blanket. A damp, wet blanket, but a blanket nonetheless. We don't have fog in the Keys, so to walk through it as it obscured the mountains, the road, everything was...magical. I really enjoyed the first many miles. Unfortunately, unlike yesterday, there were no pubs along the way. None! Who designed an eighteen mile stretch of road without putting in a single bloody pub?!

At some point, my belly clamored for food. All I'd eaten for breakfast was a piece of toast; I just hadn't been hungry. After about half a mile, the trees made a nice canopy over a stone wall, providing a wee bit of shelter from the pissing rain. I climbed up and sat, my bum instantly soaked. (I knew that would provide a terrific view for the traffic approaching me from behind.) I pulled a baguette and salami out of my pack and made a crude sandwich. It was about the best damn thing I'd ever eaten!  I lingered for only ten minutes or so before hopping off the wall and re-shouldering that bloody pack, but it gave me enough of a boost to push me through another few miles.

The remainder of the miles aren't worth discussing, although, to be fair, I should say that the vistas were still gorgeous. My toe didn't give a rat's ass about vistas and after a good bit, neither did the rest of me. As I was about to stick out me thumb and hitch for a lift, the most amazing ting happened.

Do you recall my knight in shining armor from yesterday? The Heineken Man? Well, shit and feck too if he didn't magically appear again today. Yep, he did. Derry from Kerry stopped and took me the rest of the way into Kenmare. I don't know how far it was. I was only conscious of the steam rising off my body and fogging the window of his truck. I apologized for the way I smelled and in true Irish fashion, he replied, "You're grand". What a nice man. I smelled like the working end of an old water buffalo. Eventually, it became too much for our man and he put down the windows, letting in the cold and rain and fog. I tried not to let it hurt my feelings.

Derry The Beer Man dropped me off on the main drag and drove off into the rain to do what Beer Men do. (It must be the greatest job ever.) I went into the closest pub for a pint and a meal, hoping that the bartender would be kind enough to ring my B&B to let them know that I was in town. (By this time it was 7:30pm, far past the expected arrival time.) I waked into the pub, which had real, taper candles on each table. The glow was warm and inviting, but I felt immediately unwelcome. The bartender looked at me, but didn't speak. I said hello and told her that I would like a pint and a menu. That's when she wrinkled her nose and suggested that I sit outside. More than surprised, I explained that I was already cold and wet and preferred to stay indoors. She led me to a table in the far back, nearest the toilets, although there were many other closer spots available. After nearly twenty minutes, it became clear that no one planned to serve me. I gathered my wet things and showed them me arse.

I went across the street to The Atlantic Bar and was instantly greeted by the warmest smile I'd seen behind a bar all week. The bartender welcomed me warmly and when I explained that I was a bit damp, she poo-pooed me and pointed to seat at the bar. After ordering the toasted special, I asked for a favor. She was only too happy to oblige. I asked if she'd ring my B&B to let them know that I was in town and would be there after getting a bite. Long story short, my innkeeper had somehow lost my booking. I produced an email confirmation, which the bartender read over the phone. She promised to have it sorted and said she'd ring back as soon as she had.

Before I continue, let me say that the bartender was lovely. She told me that if the innkeeper couldn't find me a room, I could stay with her. Does that ever happen in America?!?! I was blown away by her kindness. (And I stunk!)

About an hour and two pints later, I was picked up by an older gentleman named Tom. He drove me to a bit of an outdated B&B. It's well-worn and not the most tidy, but I was happy to have a warm, dry bed for the night. Tom carried my pack to my room at the far back of the house and closed the door behind us. I wasn't the slightest bit creeped out; it was late and he had other guests that he didn't want disturbed. Then he inquired about my limp. I told him about my toe. He told me that he was a former football coach and was schooled in sports medicine. He insisted that I remove my socks so that he could take a proper look at it. I knew how bad my feet stunk and was sure that as soon as he got a good snoot-full, he'd be gone. Nope. He nearly caressed that smelly, sweaty foot, moving my toe this way and that as I hollered. I nearly knocked out the few teeth he has left when he pressed a bit too hard and my knee-jerk reaction (literally) nearly knocked him out of the chair. His professional opinion is that I dislocated it and that it hasn't been property put back into place. He kindly offered to do so, at which point, I kindly showed him to the door. He hugged me goodnight and successfully copped a boob from the side. What is happening to me? Why does this happen with 80-year-old men and not hot thirty-somethings? Shut up and don't answer.

After the groping was done and the door was locked, I showered. Twice. I still felt gross. I wouldn't have been surprised if he'd sucked my damn toe. It was feckin' weird. I've not felt this uncomfortable in a B&B since a place on England's Coast to Coast when the man of the house waked into my bathroom while I was on the crapper. As if that in itself wasn't terrifying enough, he kept waking in until he was close enough to put his hand on my shoulder and squeeze, as he told me "I'm not even here". Um, yeah, you bloody well are and you're touching me!!!

I am sleeping fully dressed with my heavy pack blocking the door. If he tries to come in, I'll hear him. I'm sure that won't happen, but I fell better knowing the way is blocked.

I'm getting up early and walking to the bus stop (I declined a ride from Mr. Happy Hands.). I'm planning to catch the 8:30 bus to Killarney (about thirty or forty mins away). Upon arrival, I go pick up my rental car (I've no idea where it is or how to get there) and then go back to the B&B in which I spent my first night to retrieve my bag. Then I'll drive to the Dingle Peninsual to Annascual to once again visit Minard Castle. (I left my heart there a year ago.). When I've had my fill, I'll drive north to Achill Island. It's almost a six hour drive. I'll be there for two nights - at Lavelle's Seaside House. From there, it's on to Westport to stay with Joe Reid. I look forward to meeting again with his dear Padder.

Wish me luck that Mr. Happy Hands doesn't make the huge mistake of disturbing me in my sleep. He will come out on the losing end of that, I promise you. My apologies for no photos. It was too rainy. In fact, I emptied my pack and every sock, shirt, and gaitor is hanging from something. I doubt it will all be dry by morning, but I'll find a place in Achill to do laundry. I'm not willing to hang my skivees out this window; I don't want it to be interpreted as encouragement!

Good night!!!

Skivvies in the window and other unbelievable tings (yes, tings)`

Today was an unusual trail day all the way around. I did practically nothing according to the routine that naturally established itself over a week ago when I left Killarney. To begin, I didn't leave my B&B until 11am! Normally by that time, I've several miles under my belt. However, my gracious innkeeper wasn't ready to transport bags (including this old bag) until then, so I lingered over breakfast and blogged about it. That in itself was out of the ordinary - I don't normally have time for that sort of thing.

By the time we said our goodbyes and I dashed into the shop in Caherdaniel for a few things, it was nearly noon. I had my first Diet Coke since leaving Islamorada. It was good and yucky at the same time. I loved how loudly it made me belch, but that might have had something to do with how quickly I guzzled it. I belched so loudly that a man raking some sort of shit off the side of the road jumped. We had a wonderful conversation afterwards. Turns out, he can belch on command. He proved it and we had a few hard belly laughs until his mobile rang and we had to cut our frivolity short. What a character he was. As I walked away, a white Heineken beer truck passed me. I took it as a sign that the day would be grand.

At the shop, I also bought a baguette and a package of salami. I was determined to eat these ones and not give them to Owen. (They are still in my wet backpack...which reminds me that I should pull them out to dry.) The day's views out of Caherdaniel were spectacular! (Have I already told you that 'caher' means fort? Now I have.) They were so spectacular in fact, that after forty-five minutes, I realized that I'd only walked about two miles but had taken a butt-load of pix. I knew I had to put some road behind me if I was ever to make the fifteen miles to Sneem. However, the landscape had other plans.

Wildflowers, heifers, bulls, seascapes, abandoned old stone houses, calves, and god knows that else distracted me. But really, isn't that the whole purpose of walking? To soak in the wonderful vistas along the way? If I was in a hurry to get there, I'd have hopped a bloody bus.

Another unusual circumstance, was that I walked right past two places in which I could have stopped for a pint. Normally, those opportunities are few and far between on the trail and I never let one go without stopping in for a couple. Today, however, I forced myself to keep going. I had a late start and had much ground to cover. I didn't like having to pass them by. Neither, apparently, did the universe because by the time the third opportunity presented itself, I had to cave.

In the oh-so-quiet village of Castlecove (don't you love the name?), I stumbled upon a pub called "The Black Shop". Not sheep, but shop. Don't ask me, because I don't get it. It was nearly underground and very dark inside. It took my eyes a few moments to adjust. I was alone. I cleared my throat (how American of me) to get the attention of whomever might be around. From the back room came an adorable old man who'd clearly had a battle with throat cancer. He had the cover thingy on his throat (don't judge...i'm tired and you know exactly what i'm talking about) so don't get all uppity because i can't remember its proper name.). Seventy minutes and four pints later (YES! four pints! It's all his fault.), I insisted that I had to go. He told me that if I waited a few minutes, I could have a ride to Sneem. I thanked him, but told him that I didn't want to cheat.

While we shared pints, he told me about his four-hundred year old pub. He'd lived in Ireland most of his life and then for some hair-brained reason moved to Boston. When he learned that the old pub was for sale, he moved back and bought it. The memorabilia he has on the walls is priceless; his stories are even better. We hit it off right off the bat. He asked me my toughts (thoughts) on the English. I've been in this rodeo before. I pretended to spit on the floor. He laughed so hard, he had to take the cover off of his troat (throat) tingy (thingy) and hack up a wad of crap. Then he recovered it and said, "Those roots run deep, cailin." (That word means girl in his language and it's been many a year since someone called me a girl.) We talked about a lot of things, but when I told him of my dream to move to Kerry and buy a farm he said, "The heart knows when it's home, cailin.", and he's right. It does.

I hated to say goodbye, but there was ground to cover. He insisted that I take a picture of the two of us. As he put his arm around me and grabbed my fat roll he told me what a sturdy, solid woman I am. I believe that's an Irish compliment.....He also insisted that I put his mobile in my contact list and let him know the minute I arrived in Sneem. I did as directed. He walked me to the door and told me that a cousin of his is selling five acres with an old, stone house just down the road. He said it would please him to call me neighbor. I hugged him tightly and promised that we'd meet again. He asked one last time if I wanted to wait for a lift, but I told him that I really wanted to walk. When I got to a bend in the road I looked back. Mr. Brendon was still standing there. We waved and I turned away...but I'll be back.

Pints of beer have magical properties. Duh. I tend to walk faster after having a few...at least for a couple of miles, but then my bladder tends to occupy most of my brain power and I slow down. There was NO WHERE for me to attend to the call of nature. There was a barbed-wire fence on both sides of the road and the ticket (thicket) wasn't deep enough to hide me, plus it's tick season. The ideaof getting a critter in my under carriage kept me from stopping. Every time I had to jump into the ticket to avoid being hit by a car, my bladder thought it was time to let go. I was nearly ready to drop trou and pee in the road when the Heineken truck went by a second time. I licked my lips as it passed.

As he drove out of sight over a hill, I daydreamed about walking over that hill to find him waiting for me on the side of the road. Ha. That stuff only happens in cheesy romance novels.

And my life! As I crested the hill, I saw the truck on the side of the road. It had pulled off in the first safe place available. The engine was running. I sped up, wondering if I was hallucinating. As I approached, the driver put down his window and shouted a greeting. I asked if he was heading to Sneem and he pointed to his passenger seat. In my excitement, I almost got squashed by an oncoming Volkswagen. I had to jump back into the ticket while my beer man grinned at me.

If you know me at all, you realize there is NOTHING more appropriate to arrive as my hero than a beer man driving a beer truck. Nothing. A knight in shining armor on a white horse, I mean white beer truck. Derry drove me to the front door of my B&B while we chatted about all things Irish. I asked if Mr. Brendon had sent him and he thought for a moment. Then he laughed. He said that he had recently been there and that the old man had mentioned an American and directed him to give her a lift if he saw her, but he didn't make the connection when he passed me. He'd pulled over to call the office. He said he thought I looked "sturdy and solid". when he passed me and didn't think I needed a lift..again, these damn Irishman don't really know how to compliment a cailin.

He said that he wished he could join me and me walking mates at a pub, but that he had a father-daughter dance to go to - which I thought was just wonderful - but said that maybe he could catch up with all of us in Kenmare. Who better to include in a pub night than a beer man?!

After he drove off, I walked to the front door of my B&B. After taking off my wet boots and sliding off my pack, I rang the bell. No one was home. I put my boots back on, pulled the pack back on, and headed into town. I had to pee! About a mile later, I found meself a pub. By then it was raining like hell. Two hours later, I was mostly dry and happy. I figured the innkeepers had to be home.

What a beautiful home! The lady of the house and I were instant friends. She and I could get into trouble. Fast. But that's for another adventure. For now, I'm happy to be in for the night. My room is gorgeous; a queen-sized sleigh bed with matching wingback chairs, and a very nice desk. It's sturdy and solid like this cailin.

As I headed for a hot shower, I brought all of my nasty walking clothes with me. I smell so badly, I offend myself., but then I've walked about a hundred miles in them...without washing them. I scrubbed them as well as I could, then scrubbed meself. The clothes are hanging outside my windows. I only hope each piece dries by morning. I also hope my innkeeper doesn't mind that my skivvies are hanging out of a window.....

Mr. Brendon and I have exchanged a handful of texts. I never expected a man in his late seventies/early eighties would text, but he does. It warms the heart to see how quickly a fondness for another person can develop. Like Mike in Waterville, Mr. Brendon of Castlecove has stolen my heart. What a lucky, solid cailin I am.

Morning Musings

I'm sitting in the dining room of my B&B, where my gracious hostess is serving FEBs (full English breakfasts) to four Germans, one Englishman, a French woman (I'll tell you about her shortly), and another couple from some country I'm unable to pinpoint because they don't speak. Hard to guess based on their dress. I think they're hikers, but they look far too grumpy to be doing it properly. (Proper hiking requires pub stops whenever possible. They look like they've not darkened the door to a pub in many moons. No wonder they're grumpy.)

The Englishman is a fisherman. He felt it necessary to wear his fishing vest and waders to the breakfast table. All of his bits and bobs are clanking as he cuts into his blood pudding, rashers, and sausages. He looks rather silly, but it must be the look he's going for. He claims to have caught a mammoth salmon yesterday, which is keeping cool in the innkeeper's icebox. He slams his china teacup around like it's a Turvis tumbler and clears his throat often. I suppose he wants to be noticed, so I refused to acknowledge him. I'm childish that way, but you already know this.

The Germans keep saying "koochan" over and over. I know that's not the proper spelling, but I can't be bothered to google it. The wifi here is slower than me climbing The Gap of Bunghole. Koochan is a word I grew up with, although there's no guarantee we used it properly. We used it to refer to coffee cake. It would seem that our German diners are in search of something sweet, rather than a FEB. What I found so rude is that the youngest of the four Germans, who is thirty-five if she's a day, shook her head and pushed the plate away when our hostess placed a FEB in front of her. She wrinkled her nose and said, "Nine" (probably also misspelled, but I'm sure you follow). Our lovely innkeeper looked confused because she asks each of us in the evening what we'd like for breakfast the next day. After having agreed to a FEB (which is a boat load of food; rashers, sausage, broiled tomatoes, toast, fried egg, brown bread, and blood pudding), she refused it and asked for pancakes. I'd have barked "nine" right back at her and spoon fed her every morsel of that breakfast! Alas, our innkeeper is a much nicer person than I, but you already knew that, too.

The English fisherman just left. The innkeeper whispered to me conspiratorially that his "mammoth salmon" was barely more than a minnow. We had a good laugh before realizing he'd walked back in. I'm glad I'm not the only one who does that sort of thing. I felt badly for the innkeeper, but I thoroughly enjoyed the look on Mr. Fisherman's face. If I'd been on top of my game, I'd have snapped a photo. Priceless.

So, Miss Fussy Pants now has her pancakes and is pushing them around her plate with her nose crinkled. She is actually picking off the plate of the woman to her left, whom I assume is her mother. She didn't want her own FEB when it was served to her, but now she's devouring her mother's food and ignoring her special-made pancakes. I'm shaking my head as I bang away at my breakfast table set for two, occupied by one. (Again, this scene makes me lonely for my girl.)

The UQC (unidentified quiet couple) just left the table and walked directly into the innkeeper's kitchen as if they own the joint. For the record, that's a no-no in any B&B. There are private, personal spaces not to be entered by guests, and that's definitely one of them. You'd think the closed door would have given them a clue....so, they came out, collected their wet boots from the porch and carried them back into the kitchen. It seems they've asked our innkeeper to somehow, magically dry their wet boots. On the porches of most B&Bs that welcome walkers, is a stack of newspapers. The best cure for west boots is to stuff them with newspapers and then remove them after one hour and replace it with another hunk of newspaper. By morning, the boots will be dry. These silly walkers neglected to do that and now want our innkeeper to microwave them.

This is quality entertainment that you'd normally have to pay for and here I sit, enjoying it all for free.

Ms Fussy Pants also just walked into the kitchen. My mouth is hanging open at the behavior of these guests. Apparently, the Princess is in need of Greek yogurt. The fine Irish yogurt with fruit that our hostess have already provided isn't sufficient. Seemingly nonplussed, our innkeeper came out carrying a large tub of Greek yogurt, complete with a serving spoon. The hospitality of the Irish is wasted on these ill-mannered boobs.

I'd planned to eat only toast and coffee, but was served rashers, a fried egg, broiled tomatoes, sausages, and toast. I will eat as much as I possibly can and then hide the rest in a napkin. I'd hate for my hostess to think I don't appreciate her hard work. So, maybe I need to give Ms. Fussy Pants a break, maybe she didn't order a FEB last night, but I can't forgive her reaction to it.

I'm alone in the dining room now.

Well, I was momentarily. The innkeeper came out and we gossiped about how rude people can be. She's now sitting down for a well-earned cuppa while I finishing my morning musings and then pack. I want to be ready to go when she is. I appreciate very much that she's driving me to Caherdaniel (where I'd have stayed last night if I didn't take a day off). From there, I'll walk about fifteen miles to Sneem, where I intend to find Vivian and Owen to share a few pints. The thought of spending the evening laughing with them, catching up on their adventures since we parted ways three days ago, will keep me plugging along today.

Currently, it's slightly overcast, although the sun is trying to peak through. Things can change in the blink of an eye, so I'll be prepared for sun, rain, snow, and wind. Once a girl scout....

I hope you enjoyed reading this nonsense as much as I enjoyed witnessing it. More later, once I'm safe and warm in my B&B with a belly full of pints.

Slan.

A Day of "Rest"

In the same way that I fell asleep last night, I woke to the sound of waves crashing outside my window. My room was cold and I dreaded the thought of leaving my warm, heavy covers, but I'd neglected to eat dinner and so I was ready for some vittles - something other than Advil and coffee. I showered (I think I had frost on my bits the moment I stepped from the bathroom) and headed downstairs. The previous night, my innkeeper asked me I could wait until nine to eat and, of course, I told her I could.

She greeted me warmly as I tucked into a table set for one (that sight always makes me miss my walking partner, my baby girl, so very much). I asked her whether or not she could accommodate me another night if I rearranged my schedule. She was more than happy to do so and told me to stay in the big room. (That room is meant for two or three, but she insisted that I stay there.) It was official. I was having a rest day. No walking. Just relaxation and reading and such.

I ate two pieces of toast, three Advil, and a cup of coffee and then headed back to my room where I was instantly ansty. My routine dictated that I should pack and set off. I didn't know what to do with myself, so I set out to explore Waterville. Five  minutes outside my B&B, I ran into Vivian. (Remember the adorable, young Swiss girl?) She'd been very ill with a high fever and swollen glands the day before, and had taken a day off to sleep. She was attempting to walk to Caherdaniel. We agreed that she would take the main road and then get a lift if she felt worse. We also agreed to meet tomorrow night in Sneem for a pint or three. One of the greatest things about these distance walks is the people you meet and then continue to bump into village after village. (That is of course how we established our friendship with our dear friend, Owen.) An hour later, I'd covered the beach, the churchyard, and the main drag. I went back to my inn to enquire about a fort I'd heart about.

"Oh," said my lovely innkeeper, "it's just two miles south of the village."

Perfect! I thought. Four miles without my pack is nothing and I'll walk slowly. Two-and-half miles later, I'd still not found it, my toe was especially ornery (I guess it thought a day off meant just that) Silly toe.), and a nasty dog blocked the road. All of those things convinced me to turn around and go home. Oh, and when I left the B&B, it was warm and sunny. Fifteen minutes later, I was in a nasty downpour with one hellavu wind. Ireland summers. I am convinced there was sleet, but no one seemed to notice but me.

However, I considered it a highly successful venture, because I met cow after cow after bull after calf after steer after cow after horse after calf.  You get the idea. What a marvelous morning! I cooed and called to so many four-legged beauties and most of them were receptive. (I smell better than I did yesterday.) In spite of not finding the fort, it was a wonderful, rainy walk and I have about forty pictures to prove it.

I headed back into town and stopped at the Chemist's shop for more Compeed (Bandaids on crack. They are amazing.) and a tube of IcyHot. My trick calf that I tore years back feels left out because of all of the attention the little toe is getting, so he decided to pull some crap and demand his turn. I shall slather him with IcyHot and hope for the best. Once done at the Chemist's, I did what any self-respecting Irish lass would do with a free minute on her hands. I tucked into a warm, dry pub.

I sat reading  magazine I'd bought about Irish gardens - in a corner by the fire - when who should stumble in but Mike! Remember the 87-year old with the amazing tenor voice? (If not, visit my FB page and listen to him sing Danny Boy. Be prepared to cry.) He sat down with me and shared a pint before wandering off. I had bowl of soup and brown bread while talking to Pat, another fellow I met yesterday at The Lobster. He was supposed to be fishing, but decided a day of pints sounded more rewarding. Any surprise these are my people?

Eventually, I wandered to the shop at the top of town to buy some cheese, bread, and wine before heading back to my inn. That will be the most perfect dinner as I sit in my room, smelling a peat fire, and watching the ocean crash against the rocky shore. When my innkeeper asked how I enjoyed the fort, I tried to gently explain that her way of measuring distance was slightly off kilter.

"Get in the car," she said.

I did. She drove while I belted out "Jaysus!" every few meters when she barely avoided oncoming traffic or the stone wall on either side of the road. I nearly fouled my britches as she careened around blind bends. Lawdy be, who teaches these people to drive?!

Four-and-a-half miles later, we arrived. The fog had rolled in, blanketing what would have been an impressive view. That was just fine with me. I love, love, love fog. It makes things like forts and castles that much more magical. We got out and wandered around. When we got to the board that explained the site, she honored my request to read it in Irish. The sounds of her native language rolling off of her tongue were very moving. I asked if I could record her, but she said she'd be too self-conscious, so I tucked my phone away and tried to make her voice a permanent memory. What a lovely lady she is, indeed.

Then we drove back. Jaysus.

It's early yet, but I'm in for the night. I have another long walk tomorrow (I think 15 miles). My innkeeper is going to drive me to Caherdaniel (where I'd planned to spend tonight in a hostel...can't say I'm sad to miss that. I'm too old for that shit.). From there, I'll walk to Smeed.

For now, it's a relaxing night of reflection, appreciation, and happiness. I have walked seventy-eight miles in a week (including two side trips). I'm proud of that accomplishment. I only have a few more walking days before I rent a car and do things a little differently. I'm very pleased at what I've been able to do. My toe is slowing me down, but that little bastard can't stop me.

I wish I could share this view, these sounds, and these feelings adequately. I know how very lucky and truly blessed I am.

Slan.

On The Road Again

In spite of having a nice room in a very clean, updated house, I didn't get much sleep. Besides the heartbeat in my toe that kept me awake, I was trying to decide what to do about today. I said I wouldn't worry about it; and I didn't want to, but my brain wouldn't let me off the hook that easily.

At 6:30am, I gave up on sleep and took another shower. Then I studied the maps, hoping to find an alternative to walking the Kerry Way (a very serious steep day, both up and down for 20.5 miles) without schlepping along the main road (the Ring of Kerry for 12 or 13 miles). The Way would be impossible with my toe in its current condition and walking the Ring of Kerry is for those with a death wish. Drivers take ridiculous chances to pass - on blind curves - and drive way too fast.

I continued to mull it over at the breakfast table, where I downed four Advil and a cup of coffee. I ate some toast, but didn't even touch my bacon. (I'll be honest, I was a little concerned about my lack of interest in bacon.) I waffled between calling a cab to take me around to the local sites before delivering me to Waterville and biting the bullet. In the end, I packed up and headed off. I'm not ready to call it quits just yet, but I dreaded another walk - even if it was only twelve or thirteen miles.

The views even from the start were spectacular. I'm so happy to be near the water again. When I move to Ireland, it will certainly be in Kerry, but now I realize that it also has to be near the water. I require it.

I was walking into a strong wind and couldn't help but notice how badly I stink. In spite of at least one shower a day, often two, I smell like shit. Showers aren't terribly effective when you put the same damn smelly clothes back on. Don't judge. My pack weighs at least twenty-five pounds; I can't carry spare clothes.

As I sporadically pressed into the hedge to avoid being flattened by speeding cars, I had the privilege of being close to several groups of cows and sheep, and even a few horses. One particular group of milkers was right next to the thicket where I hid from oncoming traffic. They were close enough to touch and one brave girl let me do just that. As I was rubbing her forehead, she snorted. Then she screwed up her snotty nose and blinked a few times before walking upwind. Her compadres followed. So...yeah, I smell bad enough to offend bovines. What an accomplishment. I hope that's engraved on the medal waiting for me at the end of this adventure.

I walked away, doing my level best to keep my head high. It wasn't easy.

What also wasn't easy was ignoring my foot pain. Enough of that.

I saw lots of beautiful cows. At one point, there was a large field to my right, full of sheep mowing down the field. As I stood near the fence, again to avoid being hit, one of the lambs bleated at me. I replied in my best sheep voice. What happened next was hilarious and unbelievable unless you were there. I must have said something politically charged about same sex marriage or the rebel flag because they all chimed in. I don't mean there was random bleating every so often. Oh hell no. Every bloody sheep in the field had something to say. I kept repeating myself, too. The noise was deafening. Then I started to laugh. I mean belly laugh. Sheep are easily led...which makes an old phrase about them make more sense. I kept bleating and laughing and bleating and laughing until I had to...well....attend to some personal business. As I squatted among the wild fuchsia, I noticed poison ivy below. I'll keep you posted on how that goes. (Just what I need.)

Today's walk, while only about twelve miles, was difficult. My toe just isn't healing like I'd hoped. (No, I haven't ripped off the nail yet. Yes, it's still purple.)

I stopped at a gas station about two miles outside of town and bought an ice cream. I took off my pack (hallelujah) and ate it while sitting on a stone wall in the sun. Across the road was a church and cemetery. I daydreamed until my treat was gone and then shouldered the load for the last bit.

WATERVILLE!! I may have found my new home. It's on the water. Duh. The ocean is so different from home. It's more rugged, severe, and dangerous. I wandered through town, soaking in the coastal vibe until I found my B&B. As always, I removed my boots and left them outside, entering the porch in stocking feet. (Wow. There's a phrase I've not used in a lifetime. Does anyone else still say that?) An older woman met me and I gave her my name. She told me that Patti had already checked in. Um, no. Unless you have two Patti Lavells (god, I hope not).

Turns out my innkeeper thought that the woman who showed up earlier in the day was me because she was traveling alone. That lady didn't have a reservation and the innkeeper - thinking she was me - put her in my room. I dug out the email confirmation that I received back in December when I made the reservation. (See, there was a reason for carrying that shit over fifty-seven mountains.) She had only one room left...the family room.

Yep, I'm in the biggest, most beautiful room in the house. It overlooks the sea and has two big ole beds. My windows are open and the salty smell of the sea is flowing in. Unlike our waters at home, I hear the waves crashing below. (Imagine how it will be to fall asleep to that sound tonight!)

I changed into my cleanest of dirty clothes and headed out in search of a pint and some lunch. What I found was legendary. I wandered into The Lobster. The front was clean and bright and looked like family dining. I kept walking to the back where it was dark and dingy. Oh yeah. It was a room of mostly old men watching a Gaelic football match. The youngest of the group offered me his bar stool, which I accepted with a gracious thank you. That's when the games began. They had a yank in their midst. Lawdy be.

I watched two matches with those adorable guys and never paid for a pint. They wouldn't let me. When I tried to buy a round, they threatened to throw me into the sea. Seamus, Danny, Frank, Paddy, and others whose names I don't recall gave me a really fun welcome to town. The eldest , Mike, used to play Gaelic football professionally in his youth. He sat closest to me and schooled me on the game. And what a game it is!!! American football is for pansies compared to this sport. It is full-on craziness and I found my new favorite sport.

When the last match was over, my dear teacher left for the afternoon. He promised to be back when the traditional Irish music begins at 8pm...because he sings with them!! I came home, too, to jot down some thoughts and to avoid being half in the bag when he returns. He said they play for three hours and I intend to hear it all. He has to be in his early eighties if he's a day. He looks like the grampa I never had but always wanted. I'll be sure to get a video of him singing and promise to share it with you.

As I left the dark, back room, there was all matter of hollering and shouting. I promised to return and that I will. I look forward to spending time with that rowdy group of old Irish men.

...and that's exactly what I did. Those crazy Irishmen didn't disappoint. I stayed near the front, where the musicians set up, but those boys stayed in the back and made quite the ruckus. It made me laugh just watching them afar. I didn't need to be a part of that circus to enjoy it.

Please check out my facebook page to see a video of Mike singing Danny Boy. He brought me to tears and I hugged him tightly when it was over. What a voice. What a kind, sweet, old man.

I'm back in my room, watching big waves roll in and listening to them crash. Is there a better sound on this earth? My windows are open wide and the sea's briny scent is way better than my trail-stink. This is the lullaby we all dream of. Sweet dreams.

Slan.

Settling In

I spent a bit of time down in the pub at Caitin's last night, listening to the music. It was very nice traditional stuff...and then the musicians played Frank Sanatra's New York, NY and Michael Jackson's Billy Jean. I went to bed. Let me clarify; there's nothing wrong with those songs, but I didn't fly across the pond and walk sixty miles to hear them. Funny thing, though, from my bed, the music was just as loud as it had been downstairs. I let them sing me to sleep. That was 11pm.

I woke with a start at 3pm, as people began to wander upstairs to their rooms. They weren't quiet about it, but I didn't mind. I had a private room. I had to wander down the hall to the "toilet", but it wasn't a huge deal. At four am, the Irish boys were still crooning. I still didn't mind. About 4:30am, someone tried cramming their key into the lock of my door. I told them they had the wrong room. They told me to feck off. I rolled over and went to sleep. At 8:30am, I woke, somehow very well rested.

I'd slept eleven hours since arriving at the hostel, in three separate chunks, and I felt ready to face the day. My toe felt the best it had in days - I'd been off of it for practically 19 hours.

I went downstairs to the kitchen, made a cup of instant coffee, and downed four Advil. That was breakfast. I packed up and headed off in a light rain. (Let me say that for $35 euro, I got a private room with a single bed, a shared toilet, three pints of Smithwick's, a beef stew dinner and dessert, a cup of coffee, linens, and a towel. If you are ever in Kells, you must go to Caitin's. What a freakin' bargain.)

The size and color of my little toe convinced me that climbing back to the trail head was not a good idea. It had to be two miles uphill, just to connect with the Kerry Way, which would be uphill and down hill all day. (That's the worse thing for this trick toe.) I decided to cheat and take the road (the Ring of Kerry) all the way from Kells to Cahersiveen. It was kind of cheating because I wouldn't be climbing mountains, but not really because I'd still be walking.

About two miles into it, my belly said it needed food. Its timing was perfect, because I stumbled upon a restaurant/shop/ hostel. A sign on the door indicated that take away was upstairs. I took my stinky self up there, wearing the same clothes I've been wearing for five days. When you carry everything on your back, there is no changing clothes after a shower....you get clean and then put your stinky clothes back on. Disgusting, but that's how it's done.

I walked into a huge dining room, which was completely empty, except for  a young girl behind the counter. When she asked if I wanted breakfast, I asked if I could get a sandwich for take away. She went back into the kitchen to set about making that happen when I heard a voice behind me. Sitting at a table was an older gentleman that I didn't notice on my way in. He was wearing a tweed jacket with elbow patches, slacks, and dress shoes. He had no food or drink on the table in front of him.

Him: "How's the foot?"
Me: "Excuse me?"
Him: "Are ye gettin' by?" (He points at my bad toe.)
Me: "How'd you know?"
Him: "I was at Caitin's last night. Saw you sufferin'."
Me: "I didn't see you."
Him: "Hmmmm. Pull out yer map."

I just stared at the man until he asked me again to take out me map.

Hin: "Since you don't want to climb, you should take the road to here. Then take the cycling path - across the road will be a white-washed cottage. The woman inside will give you directions. From there, just take it to the end, where it will meet with the main road again. You'll be fine."
Me: "Cheers. Thank you so much."
Him:"My name is Paddy."
Me: "I'm Patti!"
Him: "Aye."

At that point the young girl called me back to the register to pay. I thanked the man again and walked to the register. As I dug out the correct change, I mentioned how much I appreciated the kind gentleman's help. She looked confused and asked,"What man?"

The dining room was empty. I paid for my sandwich and got the hell out. What just happened? There was a man there who helped me find an alternative route and then he was gone. Was I the only one who saw him?

Eight miles later, after walking past many farms full of heifers, bulls, sheep, and dung, I arrived in Cahersiveen. What a perfect day of farm walking. My Dad would have loved this day's walk. No surprise that my B&B wasn't ready. I dropped my pack and poles and headed into town. I discovered that a castle was on the outskirts. My toe felt the best it had in days, so I went for it. Three miles later, I walked up to Ballycarbery Castle. Unlike other castle experiences I've had, I couldn't wait to get away from this one. It wasn't a pleasant place to be. Surprising, because I always find it hard to leave them. Not this one. I couldn't get away soon enough.

So after walking ten miles, I walked an additional six to see a castle. It was certainly beautiful, but not a place that my soul wanted to stay. I stopped at a pub on my way back to the B&B for two pints. The rain was relentless, the wind was howling, and I was smelly and soaked. I soon left and stopped at a shop where I bought a loaf of bread for dinner and headed for my B&B. After a hot shower, I'm hunkered down. It's raining like hell and the wind is howling, (this is summer?)but the radiator in my room is working, so I'm getting warm and dry. I don't know what tomorrow will bring. It's almost 21 miles to Waterville and I don't think I can walk that far...however, I did 16+ today, so it's possible.

Many thanks to the man who showed me the alternative route - whomever you are! Cheers and Godspeed.

I miss my family. I love Ireland. Somehow I have to reconcile the two. My heart is here...and so are my heifers, donkeys, sheep, goats, and chickens.

Slan.