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.