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.
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