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!!!