Tralee to Camp

After a very comfortable slumber, complete with colorful dreams of singing Irishmen, I woke before 7am. I peeked over at Lauren, not surprised to find she was still in the grips of a deep slumber, burrowed beneath her down quilt.  The windows were open, letting in the chilly morning air.  It brought with it the sounds of morning traffic and sidewalk conversations.  I closed my eyes and tried to slip back to sleep, but was too excited about our adventure.

Before going to bed the previous nights, we'd made arrangements with the inn keepers to take breakfast at 8:30.  I had a lot of time to kill.  After a hot shower, I tip-toed around the room reorganizing our gear and packing away regular clothes to be transported along with our laptops to the next night's accommodations.  I began waking Lauren around 7:45 and finally dragged her down to the dining room at 8:20.

We met Kerry's lovely wife, Mary.  Talkative and friendly, she made us feel very welcome.  In the wrong B&B, you can feel uncomfortable sitting at a dining room table, clinking the owner's silver and drinking from their tea cups while they cook for your in their kitchen.  Not so with Mary.  She's no Margaret Brunskill, (Remember her from our Coast to Coast Walk?  She and her husband, Les, are the proprietors of the Brooke House in Shap and no one can match her legendary hospitality.) but she tried and we appreciated her efforts.

We dilly-dallied over our respective plates - Lauren had scrambled eggs, broiled tomatoes, toast, and tea.  I had toast, tomatoes, bacon, and coffee.  If you followed our last travel blog, you might remember that I became seriously addicted to bacon buddies.

What:? you say.  Get a crayon and write this down; you will thank me later.  Generously slather toast with butter - do not let me catch you using spray butter or margarine.  Go big or get the Hell out of the Motherland.  Top the buttered toast with bacon.  Make into a sandwich and devour.  Wipe your face with back of hand and make another.  Can you manage it from there?

After breakfast, we strapped on our gaitors, pulled on our boots, settled our tab, and headed out to the town grocery to stock up on provisions for our 11 mile walk.  Less than two blocks from the B&B, we spotted Owen, Lauren's dwarf, walking on the other side of the street.  There was much grinning and waving of arms.  He looked like he was in a game of Frogger as he tried to cross the main road.

After a short reunion, we set off in the direction of Camp.  We didn't do very well.  I blame the dwarf.  He's walked this damn trail before, so I didn't feel the need to consult the map or the check for signage.  I was too busy oohing and ahhing over the views.  Suffice to say, we were lost in short order.

There's one thing you should know about dwarfs.  They don't like to admit to being lost.

"They've changed the route!!!  They do that every so often to preserve the heather," he said.

Lauren and I exchanged a knowing look and pulled out our map.  Yep, we were lost.

Not a great start to be sure.  After wandering down the wrong lane for a mile or so, we hit a dead-end, turned around and headed back.  As we stood on the side of the main road, consulting the maps again, the Dingle Way Gods sent an angel our way.

A small car approached from another lane and I waved.  The driver stopped and after hearing we were lost, insisted on delivering us to the trial head himself.  We crammed ourselves into his clown car and listened to him talk about walking.  I didn't hear much of it, my left ear is still completely blocked and it hurts like the dickens.  Its hard to concentrate on much, but his voice was lovely.

Our wonderful friend saved us at least an hour and a half of back-tracking and we couldn't thank him enough.  He insisted it was nothing and was gone again as quickly as he appeared.  I hope someone does something kind for him today - in fact, I told him so before he drove away.  He just smiled and patted my hand that was resting on his door frame before tearing off at lightening speed around tight corners.

Snatched from the lost and put back into the found, we started off again.  The trail was sooooo reminiscent of England's C2C.  The trail was littered with big rocks, boggy patches and small streams.  Although the view was stunning, we were forced to look at the ground to keep our footing.  After a couple of hours, we stopped to rest on a rock, nibble a baguette and drink water.  During a brief consultation with the map, we patted ourselves on the back because we'd already covered almost half the day's distance.

The joke was on us.  An hour or so later, the dwarf's demeanor turned ugly when he realized we were no where near where he'd judged us to be.  (This is one reason I don't look at the map very often.  I follow the trail and occasionally look for markers, but I don't obsess about it.  This may be another reason why we are often lost.  That's only a guess.  However, the point of the walk is to enjoy the journey.  Lauren's dwarf wasn't enjoying the journey because he was too busy being frustrated about how much further we had to walk.)  He decided we had three or four more hours of walking.

Talk about a buzz kill.  Lauren and I shrugged and kept walking.  And walking.  And walking.  What other choice was there?

Our progress was very slow as the terrain became more difficult to navigate.  I lost my balance once, fell a short distance into a mucky mess.  Lauren slipped on the downside of a ladder (these allow humans to cross fences while keeping livestock inside) and fell down four rungs to the bottom.  Neither of us were really hurt. Lauren's dwarf is so low to the ground that he doesn't fall, and even if he did, he wouldn't admit it.

I noticed Lauren's lilly-white skin was turning a brilliant shade of pink, but it was too late to do much about it. Owen gave her his sunblock, but the damage had been done.  Who would have predicted a FL Keys girl would come to Ireland and get sun burned?  The wind was blowing pretty regularly too, so we're all a little wind burned, but my girl got the worst of it.

We crossed seven or eight gurgling streams that were picture-perfect.  You'll have to trust me because I didn't get any pictures.  The uphill climbing takes its toll.  There's just no way to train for this kind of terrain in Islamorada and it'll take a few days for our legs to adjust to the strain.  By the time we finally arrived in Camp (12 miles or so and six hours later), we had spaghetti legs and and sore feet.  To the left was a steep, uphill drive to our B&B.  To the right was a down hill entry to a pub.  I'm confident you know which one we chose.

A couple of pints of Smithwick's, a pitcher of water, and some good food revived me.  I was ready to walk again.  Lauren's mood went the way of her dwarf because her skin continued to turn a deeper red and she was in pain.  It was time to go.  The pub owner graciously offered to drive Owen to his B&B, which was another kilometer or two uphill.  I hope it improved his mood.  We agreed to meet him at the church at the other end of town at 10am tomorrow.

When we made it up our B&B's steep drive, we were greeted by John Doyle, owner of the lovely Camp Junction House.  We left our boots outside (he promised to bring them in if it rains tonight) and he showed us to a comfortable room.  A quick rummage through my first aid supplies was disappointing.  I had nothing to treat Lauren's burn and she was in a bad way.  I padded in my stinky socks down the hall until I heard voices. Mr. John Doyle was chatting with other guests in the lounge.  I inquired about a Chemist (that's local speak for Drug Store) only to learn that the nearest one was back in Tralee and already closed.  He indicated that the town store was also closed.

I guess my poker face needs work because he quickly asked what was wrong.  Within minutes, we had "after sun" in our hands.  Apparently, John called his sister and she brought him what she had in her medicine chest at home.  How kind!  Lauren headed for a cool shower and I set off outside to pull on my boots and head down to the pub to buy a few bottles of water with which to rehydrate her.  The owner has eagle eyes. He came outside and asked where I was going.  Upon hearing my response, he insisted on driving me into town.  He wouldn't take no for an option, so I hopped into his car.

His eyebrows went sky high.  "There's no way under God's Heaven you're driving this car!"

Opps, I'd gotten in on the wrong side.  It's hard to change a 46-year-old habit.  I slid over to the passenger seat and buckled up.  We flew at high speed up a steep hill and around hairpin curves.  If I hadn't been dehydrated, I'd have pissed my pants.  We screeched into the parking lot of a gas station where I bought 5 litres of water and a fresh bottle of "after sun".  (Call me a dumb ass because I didn't buy any sunblock for the rest of the walk.  Argh!)

I tried to thank John, but he wouldn't let me get a word out.

"Hush.  Hush, now.  That's enough of that.  You need a shower.  You stink."

That was fair.  I did stink, but getting something to soothe Lauren's painful burn and parched mouth had been my biggest priorities.  That was approximately three hours ago.  She has slathered layer after layer of meds to her arms, chest, neck and face.  She is RED, but I'm hydrating her and babying her the best I can with a non-working ear and sun burn of my own.

Tomorrow will be here soon enough and I can only hope my girl is in better spirits and a lot less pain.  I can ignore my ear, the cold sores and my burned skin, but I can't ignore a hurting, unhappy Lauren.

We were given many gifts today by some very generous people.  I don't want to be greedy, but I'm hoping the Dingle Way Gods shield the powerful Irish sun tomorrow with thick, UV-blocking clouds and that Lauren wakes up pain free and happy.

Until then, it's a few Advil, more cold sore meds and lights out.  Sweet dreams.  I know mine will be.

Tralee

We made it to Tralee and tonight - for the first time in my life - I heard the music of my people and my soul is happy.  Perhaps I should start at the beginning.

We got up around 9am (after being up for 40 consecutive hours) and had a small breakfast before setting out to explore more of Dublin's offerings.  We wandered and shopped, making friends with a darling named Marie.  From her shop, we bought socks, leggings and scarves, but we walked away with much more.

Like me, she was raised in a strict, Irish Catholic home with a mother named Joan.  The similarities between us were uncanny and we instantly connected.  Lauren loved her, too.  They admired each other from the get-go and the three of us quickly raised such a ruckus that the shop owners in the open-air market nearest her thought she'd reunited with mates.  She's a dear girl and when we return to Dublin in a couple of weeks, hers will be the first stop.  We miss her already.

After a few hours of wandering the city, shopping and laughing, we popped into a pub for a quick bite before heading to the train station.  Lauren had fish and chips and I had the best bowl of mushroom soup I've ever tasted.  I love that the Irish add butter and cream to everything.  Cholesterol and fats be damned.  You only go 'round once and these people aren't wasting a minute.

Back at the hotel, we collected our bags and took a cab to Heuston Train Station.  Our cabbie was a badass and we made another new friend.  His accent was legendary, as was his sense of humor.  I corrected his English with every word, while he reminded me that it was his country and he could speak anyway he damn well pleased.  It went on like this for ten or fifteen minutes.  Our goodbye was long and drawn-out and we wished he was coming to Tralee with us, but his wife and my husband might not understand.  We shook hands and parted ways.

The train ride was quiet and comfortable.  We saw lots of cows and sheep.  Both make me happy.  The mountains grew ever closer.  Interestingly, they looked blue in the afternoon light and I can't wait to meet them in person.  They are calling us.  (Lauren swears she can't hear them, but I do.)

I bought an airplane-sized bottle of Malbec from the dining car (in addition to some snack for my girl).  They gave me a plastic wine "glass", which seemed better than swilling it from the bottle, although drinking wine from plastic seems wrong.  I poured it anyway, only to find that there was a small hole in the bottom of the "glass".  Perfectly good Malbec began spewing all over my hand, the pull down tray, my lap and the floor.  Panic caused me to try to pour the wine back into the bottle, while it continued to pour out the bottom.

Have you ever tried to pour wine from a glass back into the bottle?  Don't waste your time.

I finally got the messed cleaned up and ended up with less than half the wine to pour down my throat.  The rest was everywhere else.  At least I provided comic relief for the other passengers.

We arrived in Tralee shortly before 7pm and took a cab to the Greenview House.  Its a quaint B&B run by a wonderfully kind family.  They were very welcoming and I felt like I was visiting relatives.  We were greeted first by the daughter, who is in her early thirties.  She's visiting from Dublin and no longer lives here, but its obvious that she misses her home.  Later, we met the Dad.  Kerry is the stereotypical Irishman and he happily recommended his favorite pubs.

We had a pint at Sean Ogs, then crossed the street to the Abbey House where Lauren had a scrumptious mushroom and leek pie.  It was probably her favorite meal thus far.  I had a roasted red pepper, brie and apple ciabatta sandwich and a pint of Perone.  Lauren devoured some sort of apple crisp with vanilla ice cream and then we crossed the road a second time.  What had been a completely empty Sean Ogs when we left, was CRAMMED full of sweaty people when we returned to listen to the traditional, live Irish music.

After several minutes of being bumped and elbowed, a nice group of Frenchmen invited us to join them at their table.  Yes.  Really.  Nice Frenchmen exist.  The group consisted of one man, whose English was slightly better than my French, his wife and another couple.  None of the others spoke any English.  It didn't really matter.  We clinked glasses (they drank Irish coffees) and tapped our toes to the infectious beat.

Grinning like a drunk Irishman, I glanced at Lauren frequently, hoping she was loving it as much as me.  But she wasn't drinking, so....she just didn't have the same experience, but she tried to look like she was because she knew I was in Heaven.  I drank only one pint, thanked our French comrades, wished them a happy trip and we walked back to our sweet B&B.

Never before have I heard music the likes of what I heard this evening.  The group consisted of a guitar, fiddle (not violin) and accordion.  I've learned you need nothing else.  Wow.  I am hooked.  I'm fighting the urge to be a bad parent, leave Lauren asleep in her bed and run back to  Sean Ogs for more music.  But we all know that I won't.  My Mommy urges are bigger than my Irish ones and they will prevent me from leaving her side.  However, it won't stop me from singing in my head and tapping my toes in my bed.

The windows are open.  The air is crisp.  Hell, it's down right cold, but the quilts are thick and warm.  I'm cozy in my bed, happy to be in Ireland at last.  I can't stop grinning.  I never want to.

Tomorrow will come soon and with it, the requirement to walk to Camp.  It's only 11 miles, but a good portion will be uphill.  I'm not afraid because I know that throughout the day, my mind will replay tonight's music over and over.  My heart is happy and my soul is home.

And So It Begins

We’ve been in Ireland for over twelve hours and already it’s been an adventure.  Hell, it was an adventure

getting here.  Let’s start with that.

I shouldn’t share all of this crap because it’ll give you ammunition in future arguments, but when I dish dirt, I dish it on everyone involved, not just those around me.  I know I come out of this looking like a dufus, but I don’t care.  I’m in Ireland and nothing else matters.

We rented a car and drove to Miami’s crazy zoo of an airport.  That was fairly uneventful except for making an ass of myself at the gas station.  I didn’t know which side of the car held the tank.  Hell, I’ve seen people make that mistake with the car they drive every day.  Lauren and I laughed when I busted a U and pulled up to the other side of the pump…and my gas tank was still on the wrong side.  Color me blond.

Once inside the airport, we walk dozens and dozens of American Airlines check-in counters.  After what seemed like a couple of miles, we finally saw the US Airlines check-in!  Yay!

Boo! 

It was for First and Business Class.  Our tickets read “poor white trash”, so we kept walking.  There was only one other US Air line, so we joined it.  At the risk of sounding racist, we were the only pale-skinned people in line.  That’s really not unusual in Miami.  Everyone was of Hispanic descent and pushed baggage carts PACKED with huge packages wrapped in clear plastic.  Out of the blue, five or six more would join a group of three or four already in line.  That sort of behavior always puts my nose out of joint as my Dad would say.  At Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary, these people would have been known as “budgers”.  I’m grown up now and call them jerks.

More infuriating than the budgers was that while there were six US Air attendants behind the counter, only one was dealing with customers.  The other five checked their cell phones and talked.  While I attempted to guilt them into working with an uppity stare, little girls with long, straight hair and high-heeled sandals ran around the waiting area and screeched in Spanish.  Lauren The Child Hater glared at them while I silently prayed for them to wet their pants or throw up; anything to get their family to step out of line.

After almost forty minutes, I left the line and approached one of the lazy US Air employees.

“Where are chew going?” she asked.

“Dublin via Philly,” I said.

She stared at me without speaking for several moments before saying, “This is the line for Cuba.”

I’ll wait while you finish giggling.  Make it fast, I’ve got things to do.

“Okay…where do I go ?”

She pointed at the First and Business Class line.  “But I’m in economy class,” I said.

“It doesn’t matter.”

Of course it doesn’t.  Just ignore the signs about First and Business Class and jump right in.  Duh.  I rolled my eyes and thanked her in my best Ricky Ricardo imitation.  She didn’t look impressed.

Thirty minutes later we were sitting in an “Irish Pub”, having a snack and waiting for boarding time.  Forty minutes after that, the flight was full, the attendants had given their mindless demonstrations and we were ready to back away and taxi down the run way.

Wait a minute. 

No, wait ninety minutes.  The emergency brakes wouldn’t disengage and the plane was stuck.  Rather than drag us and our hundred tons of baggage off the plane and cram us into a replacement aircraft, they called maintenance.  An hour and a half later, we backed away from the gate.  I was what they call a disgruntled passenger.

It was an uneventful flight.  I watched “Gone With The Wind”, reciting all of Scarlett’s lines out loud for my neighbors to enjoy.  That killed almost four hours.  I tried to sleep, but let’s just say the “poor white trash” section of the plane doesn’t offer any leg room and my chair’s laid back position was a generous ninety degree angle.  Sleep wouldn’t come.  I watched a documentary about chimpanzees that reminded me of my plan to adopt a small monkey when Lauren leaves home. 

Customs and Immigration went quickly.  We found a cab, gave him directions and pretended to understand what he said for the next twenty minutes.  He dropped us off in a rather seedy-looking part of town.  Our “Guesthouse” didn’t resemble the website on which I’d found it, but hey!  We’re not picky girls.  We can handle a less-than perfect, campy sort of hotel.

Good thing, because we were staying in a shit hole.  

We were given a key and sent to the second floor, which was confusing because our room was actually on the fourth.  Oh, I forgot to mention that there was no elevator and the staircase was very narrow and the corners were sharp.  Once inside our prison, I mean room, we found two beds and a bathroom.  The wifi we paid for didn’t exist.  There was no room thermostat and the temp up there was very stifling.  (This coming from two chicks who live on a tropical island!)  The ceiling wasn’t equipped with a fan.  The TV was a six-inch screen bolted to the wall, about four inches from the ceiling.  Below it was a piece of paper taped to the wall, proudly listing all six channels it received.  The bathroom was one step above camping.

Lauren and I have slept in worse.  We’d grin and bear it.  We set off to explore Dublin and exhaust ourselves so that we’d sleep like the dead when we returned later in the day.  At nine pm, after being up for almost 36 hours, the room was hotter than ever and we simply couldn’t live with it.  I asked the proprietor for a box fan.  He told me to open the window.

We walked to the Temple Bar area and told our sob story to every nice hotel reception staff we found.  Fast forward a few hours, we are settled into the beautifully plush Brooks Hotel.  We moved out of the slum, told the landlord we wouldn’t pay for the room because they couldn’t deliver the services for which we paid (in truth, I was prepared to split it 50/50), he told me to “F*&# off” and my Irish temper, finally in its native land, was set free.)  Suffice to say, the place has been slammed all over the bonny city of Dublin, I won’t be paying half a Euro for the shower I took there, and we’re comfy in our new digs.

The lovely cab driver who took us from the Brooks Hotel to the Glen Guesthouse to collect our things and then back to the Brooks Hotel wouldn’t charge us the full fare.  He’d heard the whole story and “was embarrassed” by the behavior of the Guesthouse.  He was a very kind man and I tried to pay him the full fare.  In the end, we split the change and he wished us a safe journey through the Dingle.  His biggest concern was that our hearts would be hardened toward the people of Dublin because of the behavior of just a few.

Silly Cab Driver Man.  We met so many kind and generous people today; Bill the 78-year-old English Rico Suave who drinks pints all day long and laughs at his stories harder than anyone else, the helpful gentleman at the Tourist Office who directed us toward the better part of town and apologized for the Glen Guesthouse, the servers at O’Shea’s who let us hog their pub’s fire and filled our bellies with delicious soup and bread, last but not least - the kind ladies at the counter of the Brooks Hotel who welcomed us in and gave us shelter.

Once settled in our posh room with three beds (yes, three!), we ordered bowls of creamy vegetable soup and a cheese board from room service.  I have a bottle of Italian red wine that I bought from a corner shop earlier today.  Bottled waters sit on the bedside tables.  It’s almost time to end this very long day. 

Although I’m tired, my boots are calling.  They smell adventure.  Dublin is nice, but it’s not what we came for.  We want great expanses of green, salty breezes and country pubs.  That dream is but a four-hour train ride away.  The Dingleberry Forest is around the corner. 

Now it’s time to dim the lights and rest.  We’re going on over forty hours without sleep and I know when to quit.  I’ve been combating cold sores and an ear ache that has grown steadily worse all day.  At this moment, I can’t hear out of my left ear.  No matter.  It’s nothing a good night’s sleep won’t cure.

Dreams of the Dingle Peninsula are good for a cold.  Isn’t that what Grandma always said?

One More Day!

Pinch me.

We leave for Ireland tomorrow!!  Tomorrow!

The months of planning and daydreaming have finally brought us to the day before blast off.  There's much to be done, of course.  Lauren and Dougie are sleeping in (I was too excited), but when they eventually wake, I'll start pulling out the packs, rain gear, boots, walking poles, etc and begin organizing it into piles.  I haven't decided the best way to pack everything or what we're taking in terms of checked bags and carry ons.  It'll sort itself out soon enough.  It always does.

I've been gathering first aid supplies over the past few days.  I have enough to open a small hospital, but I consider it to be insurance.  If I carry it, we won't need it.  I will be able to treat cuts, burns, muscle aches, tooth aches, sprains, sun burn, cold sores, upset stomach, diarrhea, constipation, fungus growths, and pink eye.  If anyone needs a tourniquet, we're screwed.  Thanks to Saint Paddy, there's no need for a snake bite kit.

You may recall I mentioned the need to buy a small pack like the one Lauren's dwarf loaned her in England. She has a big pack like mine, but it was overkill.  It just wasn't necessary.  The small pack clipped around her waist and allowed her to carry important stuff like passports, wallets, hats, gloves, cell phones, camera, and food.  It was easy access, too.  Much easier than digging through a huge pack.

Well, I never found one.  BUT - thanks to the kind and generous soul of my friend and favorite bartender, Kim, we have one!  She took a weekend trip to DC and spent her precious tourist time testing/trying on packs and bought us the one pictured to the right.  It's perfect!  Thanks, Kimnmy!

I'm committed to taking just one checked bag for the two of us.  We don't need a lot of crap.  We learned when walking the Coast to Coast, that once you find an outfit that keeps you the right temperature and is comfortable for climbing/scrambling/jumping, you tend to wear it every day.  We pretty much wore the same thing every day for sixteen days.  Stop making that face!  We washed everything in the sink at night and burned out several hair dryers trying to get all of it dry by morning.  More than once, we set off for the day in damp leggings and soggy socks.

My walking partner just dragged herself from under the covers because her belly is demanding nourishment. I've agreed to make apple-stuffed crepes and then we pack!

Tomorrow...we hop a jet to my Daddy's homeland.  Big Len, I hope you're watching from your John Deere in Heaven.  This walk is for you.

Five Days!

Are you tiring of my countdown?  You'll only have to deal with it for FIVE MORE DAYS!!!

Can you believe it?  All these months of planning and daydreaming and Guinness drinking are coming to an end.  It's almost time to pull on those boots, strap on that pack and start hiking!

The Dingleberry Forest Gods have tried to help me prepare in small ways.  Our usually bright blue skies have been overcast and painted in moody greys since the weekend.  We've actually had rain, too.  (A rare thing here.)  The sky resembles what we will see across the pond...but it's going to be very different.

I've been watching the weather on the peninsula.  I know we're in for some high winds, blowing sideways rain and cool temps.  It's been a steady 55 (low 40's at night) with some rain, but they've had beautiful clear days, too.  The forecast for the start of our walk is low sixties and rain.  For me and the Goo (that's my girl), that is perfect walking weather.

We love walking in the rain.  Even the sideways kind that stings the face.  It certainly reminds you that you're alive.  Maybe it's because we don't get much rain here or maybe we're just odd, but rainy walks are the best walks for us.  I'm confident we'll have a healthy diet of them next week.  (Doesn't that sound smashing?  "Next week"?!)

I just need to plow through the next few days of work and then...well, then the magic happens.

Seven Days!

Seven days!  Only seven and now I realize there are all kinds of things not yet done.  What the hell have I been doing?

Oh yeah, practicing my Guinness consumption.  I've gotten to be respectable.

At 5am this morning, I bolted straight up in bed, yanked by anxiety from what was a lovely dream about the Partridge Family attending Alice's funeral.  I was there, of course, the Brady's include me in everything.  I was sitting with Greg, Peter, and Bobby - away from the girls.  The boys like me better than their sisters.  Who doesn't, really?  We all got tired of Marsha, Marsha, Marsha and her nearly perfect hair, teeth and skin.  What I would have paid to see her with a bad case of acne...

Anyway, I was yanked from my dream by the realization that I never booked a room in Dublin.  We arrive after a looonnngg trip from Miami at 8am.  We're going to spend the day being tourists, crash early, scarf some breakfast and catch a train to Tralee.  But, hello?  Booking a room would be a good idea.  I jumped out of bed and did just that.  One step closer.

Now remains the issue of currency.  Oddly enough, we'll be expected to pay for our nightly accommodations and pints.  Most places in the Dingleberry Forest don't take plastic; they're too remote and country for that sort of thing.  It's cash or nothing.

I plan to ask Doug to make a bank run to exchange dollars for euros.  He enjoys that sort of thing, or at least that's what I tell myself to ease the guilt of asking him to run errands for my adventure.  It works just fine.

Lastly, I remembered that Lauren needs a smaller pack.  During our English Coast to Coast, she borrowed a small waist pack from her dwarf.  No, not a fanny pack. Dwarves don't like those damn things.  It was a pack that strapped around her waist and we used to keep our passports, wallet, guidebook (when it wasn't crammed into my waistband), hats, gloves and food.  I need to buy one.  It proved much more sensible than having her carry a big pack on her pack.  That's what I'm for.

My ginormous pack (internal frame) carries our emergency blankets, first aid supplies, extra socks, toilet paper (you walk for 18 miles after drinking a few pints of Guinness and see what happens), water and food.  Yes, we both carry food.  We learned early on, we could never have too much food.  Never.  Never ever.
I even carried a bottle of wine most days.  I'll leave it at that.

So, I'm off to tie up a few most loose ends.

RIP Anne B. Davis.  May you be the Queen of Heaven's Meatcutter's Ball.  This Guinness is for you.

Rental Car It Is!

Decisions have been made and bookings are complete.

Having received much valued advice from an Irish friend, I've decided to rent a car the day after we finish hiking the Peninsula and drive the 3-4 hours to Westport.  I'm sure it'll be more enjoyable.  We'll be able to stop when we see a castle or ruin that calls to us and then there are the inevitable pubs....

Doug doesn't arrive from Dublin until 3:30pm or so, which gives me and Lauren all day to make the trip.  I'm looking forward to driving the countryside and stopping as we see fit.  Can you picture it?  Me and Lauren wandering the Irish countryside in a teeny European rental?  Will it be another "Vacation" movie in the making?  Chevy Chase, where are you?

Having made up my mind, I booked the rental this morning, as well as our train from Castlebar back to Dublin.

Twelve days.  Twelve days of daydreaming and anticipation...and Guinness drinking.

Poor me.