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.