We're back in Islamorada, attempting to get our body clocks in sync with our surroundings. Going East is always easy for me - the beginning of every trip always is - but coming back West is a bitch. Reliving five or six hours (depending upon the time of year and if it's daylight's savings time) after being awake for eighteen hours is not fun, especially if those hours include flight delays and annoying American tourists.
I won't bore you with the details of our lengthy trip home because I'd come across as an ungrateful brat. Suffice to say it was typical airport stuff, but we finally caught up with each other in Miami (we were on different flights out of Dublin) and rented a car to come home. I drove while Doug slept and Lauren talked/texted with the friends she missed while we were off trekking.
I wanted to drive on the left, but resisted the urge.
The highways were bright and busy. I miss the twisty, green canopy-covered country roads of Kerry and Mayo. There are no cows, sheep or donkeys for many, many miles. I miss them, too.
At some point yesterday, after taking out the dogs - who are so happy we're home that they never leave my side...which makes for a very crowded bathroom - I needed to write. I pulled my wheeled computer bag that I'd carried for three weeks over to my desk and unzipped the compartment that stores my laptop. It was empty. Frantically, I searched every compartment, finding all of them sans laptop.
Aw feck and shit, too! I must have left it in Customs. At Dublin Airport, I had to remove the laptop once while going through security and then a second time while going through Customs. I must have forgotten to put it back the second time. What if some bad guy took it and is savvy enough to pull personal information out of its memory? Credit card numbers, our home address, information about the kids, SSNs? The list running through my head was endless.
Dougie and Lauren were still asleep, doing a better job adjusting to the time change than me. I knew I needed to call Dublin's Customs and Immigration Office immediately. I sat down at my desk to look up the info online...but my laptop wasn't there. I may have had tears in my eyes. Thankfully, Dougie recently allowed us to upgrade to big girl phones, so I grabbed my iphone and found the number.
I spoke to a very kind man who said my laptop hadn't been turned in, but suggested I call at a more civilized hour. I'd failed to consider it was 2:30am in Dublin. I filed an online report for my missing laptop via my phone and waited. I needed to stay busy or I'd go crazy.
I decided to make an Irish-inspired breakie. I started with a vegetable tart and while it baked, I made boxty. While the tart cooled and the boxty fried, I made bacon, too. As is always the case, just as the food is almost ready, the family woke and joined me in the kitchen. Two nieces were with us - they'd stayed with Bear and Boozer while we explored Ireland. It was a nice meal and helped to keep my mind off how bad things could be regarding my lost laptop.
Once Doug's belly was full and he'd had a cup of coffee, I broke the news.
"I've something to tell you and you're going to be really pissed," I said.
He waited. He hears things like this from me often enough that he waits for more before getting excited.
"I left my laptop in Customs at Dublin. I've already called to report it missing, but no one's turned it in yet."
I waited for a string of bad words and a few fist poundings on the counter, but instead he smiled.
"No you didn't. I have it."
What!?!? It was true. The night before, he'd removed it from my laptop bag so he could order me a new battery. (As of late, if I'm not plugged into a socket, the battery is good for only forty minutes or so.) Talk about relief! I hugged him tightly and sighed.
My laptop was safe at home. My personal information was, too. Do you know what else I was worried about? I've begun two new novels, each one is upwards of 200 pages already, and I don't have them backed up on anything. If my laptop had been lost, so too would those two books. There's absolutely no way I could recreate them. They'd be gone and I'd have been crushed.
As you can imagine, I'm so relieved and plan to back up both novels on multiple drives today. Without delay. Also on my list of to dos, is to mail a rum cake to Mr. John Doyle and his sister, the wonderful people at Camp Junction House for their extreme kindness to me and Lauren. It's a small gesture and certainly doesn't repay them for all they did. I also need to send off some thank yous to others who made our trip such a delight.
Between you me and the lamppost, I've begun to look at small farms for sale on the peninsula. Just out of curiosity, sorta. My head is still full of dreams of living on a small, clean farm with a few milkers, chickens, a donkey or two, goats and sheep. I don't want a full-blown agricultural production, just enough of a farm to keep me busy and surrounded by hairy, four-legged beasts to love. Imagine the fun Boozy would have with a donkey!! Bear is a bit of a herder with us, so he'd probably love to boss around a few goats and sheep.
There are, of course, rules to be dealt with regarding Americans moving to Ireland to live and Americans buying property. I've only just begun to research them, but I'm confident it can be done.
It's just a pipe dream for now, but one that makes me happy to chew on. I'd love to return to the life my ancestors enjoyed - except I want indoor plumbing and heat. Since there aren't many living, it's the best way I can think of to stay connected with those who've already moved on, including my Dad, who was also a farmer. I don't need a lot. I have more than I need. I love Islamorada and its marine mammals, but Kerry and Mayo have a different kind of hold on my heart.
You can't escape your roots, I guess. As a kid, I swore I'd never live on a farm or step in cow shit again. Forty years later, I can't think of a more wonderful way to live. Convincing Dougie may be difficult, but I've done it before. He understands how I feel about the Emerald Isle, at least to some degree.
Time travel is a funny thing. I traveled through time zones and into the past. I'm back in the present, but my mind is ever revisiting Ireland's old fashioned ways. Before long, I'll have to answer that call to keep alive a way of life that may someday be gone. For my Dad and all the Lavelle farmers who came before him. For me, too.
Friday, June 27, 2014
Tuesday, June 24, 2014
Mayo, Take Two
After hot showers, we put back on our less-than-clean clothes and headed off to breakie. I had boxty! Boxty, boxty, boxty! It makes the world go round. I've made it at home and I've shared the recipe in my newspaper column, The Island Gourmet. I do love boxty, but to eat it in Newport, Mayo, Ireland is a dream come true. One of the first things I'm going to make when we get home is boxty. Then brown bread and homemade butter. Then veggie tart followed by mushroom and onion pie.
By the time we wandered back to our B&B, it was almost 11am. Joe was waiting for us. He made a phone call to "Uncle" and then told us to head up the road to speak with him. No need to pack up/check out. We could leave our bags right where they were. Uncle was waiting! He told us to go up the road and look for the house on the right with all of the steel and iron in the front yard.
We took off, wondering if Joe's directions of "just up the road" would be in true Irish form. I figured we had about three-quarters of a mile before his homestead came into view. Imagine my surprise when we came across Joe just up the street from the B&B! We'd just left him behind at the front door and there he was, standing by a truck in front of a handsome house. Was he a vampire? He was at the B&B one moment and then up the street the next. Odd things were happening, that was for sure.
Joe pointed at the house behind him, claiming it as his own. A dog in the front yard did his level best to earn his keep by scaring us away. We thanked Joe for the directions and kept walking. I looked back every few seconds, waiting for Joe to apparate like a Hogswarts professor. I can't swear that's what happened, but the last time I turned, he and his truck were gone. Leprechauns? Turning back to the task at hand, I was blown away when the very next house sported a yard full of metal. To his credit, Joe is the only Irishman who can actually measure distance.
The front door was ajar, an indication that the resident was expecting company. I knocked and waited. Nothing. I rang the bell and waited. Nothing. I knocked louder and shouted, "Helloooo" and waited. I heard the shuffle of feet and hoped I looked okay/didn't smell too badly.
The most adorable elderly gentleman opened the door. He reminded me of the human form of Yoda; that's how cute he was. I stuck out my hand and introduced myself, thanking him for allowing us to bother him. He listened to the introductions and then bade us follow him into the sitting room. He refused to sit until we'd all made ourselves comfortable.
"A mbaineann tu?" he said.
"Excuse me?" I replied.
"A mbaineann tu?" he said again.
I smiled. "What does that mean?"
This is probably a good time to tell you how much I adore the sound of the Irish language. As if I don't have enough projects, I want to learn to speak it. What beautiful sounds.
"Who do you come from?" he translated.
I tried to tell my story slowly. It was clear that he was accustomed to speaking Irish. He sat directly across from me, perched on the edge of chair. He was close enough to touch. He listened, leaning forward slightly to rest on the crook of his cane. Again, the similarities between him and Yoda were strong. (I love Yoda, so please understand this is a compliment. This man was cuter and sweeter than words can express.)
I thought maybe he'd forgotten why we were there, because he took so long to answer. But eventually, in a thick brogue that forced me to use all of my brain just to understand his words, he began to describe the Lavelle households he knew of. The details he remembered about who married into which family, the names of sisters and aunts and deaths of spouses were astounding. He never stuttered or repeated himself. He was quite clear, although more than once he became frustrated with his memory and suggested that he was too old for such conversation. I called bullshit and encouraged him to continue, which he did with a twinkle in his eye.
Unfortunately, much of what he remembered involved the death of Lavelle's, although he directed to me to a home on the way to Westport whose inhabitants might have clues about my family. I held his hand and thanked him. He was shy and adorable. He walked us to the door, although I told him it wasn't necessary.
"I want to see you when I come back to Ireland," I said. We were outside his front door.
"Will ye bring a spade or a shovel?" he said. His eyes twinkled again, but there was a hint of sadness that time.
"Stop it! You'll be right here!" I assured him. Without once considering etiquette, I hugged him tightly. He was sturdier than you'd imagine a 94-year-old man to be. There's still a lot of life left in Mr. Kilroy - thank our Maker for that.
As we walked away, I remembered Luke Skywalker's words to Yoda when he promised he'd come back. I realized I must be overtired, if I was drawing parallels between my life and those played out in Star Wars. I mean, we all know I belong in The Dukes of Hazzard, right? Unless I was Han Solo's side kick - and by that, I don't mean Chewbacca - then forget it. Hazzard County all the way. I belong in a beat up pickup truck more than a star ship...again, unless I'm Han Solo's girl.
Back at the B&B, we found Joe outside with a friend, sitting at a picnic table and shooting the shit. When he saw me, he waved me over to inquire. After a few minutes, I learned that Mr. Kilroy (Yoda) was really and truly Joe Reid's uncle. In fact, he was also the uncle of the man Joe was speaking with. They described how Mr. Kilroy had suffered a heart attack two years earlier. Rather than call for help, he got on his bike and rode to the doctor's office.
I stood with my mouth hanging open at the image of Mr. Kilroy (who was then 92), biking to the doctor's office as he suffered a heart attack.
"It was all downhill," Joe explained with a laugh.
Those Irish boys are made of strong stuff. Strong and squishy at the same time. It made me want to run back to his house, let myself inside, and hug him again. I treasure the chance to sit at length with him and just listen to whatever it is he might want to tell me. I know I just met me man, but I'm tempted to use the "L" word. Very tempted.
I wanted to take Mr. Kilroy's picture, but I felt like I'd imposed enough. I was afraid to appear disrespectful, but next time I see him, I will ask his permission. I want you to see just how adorable he is.
We settled up with Joe and I wrote down the names of my ancestors (upon his request) so that should he have the opportunity to talk with anyone who had knowledge of the Lavelle's, he could try to help me out. I'll tell you what, Joe Reid is a damn fine man. The next time I go to Newport, I'm staying at the Black Oak Inn. In fact, I think I should plan a family reunion and we'll all stay there!
Regretfully, we left Newport in the rear view and drove to Castlebar. There was another large graveyard I wanted to check out. As luck would have it, the cemetery was directly across the street from our hotel. How convenient. Dead bodies outside my bedroom window. Just like on Canal Street. Perfect.
I was very surprised that, although we found a couple of Lavelle graves, none of them belong to me. Sadly, we moved on. We had to drive to Knock Airport to return our rental. I treasured every mile between in Castelbar and Knock...not just because they were my last moments in Mayo, but I really LOVE driving in Ireland and, if you don't mind me saying so, I'm damn good at driving a car on the wrong side of the road with a gear box where it doesn't belong. It was pure fun.
It was an uneventful trip to Knock. Lauren was in the backseat with her ipod. Doug was in the front seat, tired and quiet. I was left to my thoughts of Ireland and cows and family. We cabbed back to Castlebar, walked to a pub for some chow and then locked ourselves into our room for the night.
I didn't shut off my laptop until well after 1am, because I was trying to get caught up on this blog and it took seven or eight minutes to load each picture. I don't know why the damn thing was so slow, but it was and there was nothing to do but be patient. While I waited for pictures to load, I looked out our hotel window to the expanse of graveyard below. My favorite views often include a graveyard,so that one made me happy.
Many moons ago, I felt drawn to Castlebar. I was confident I'd find relatives there - living or dead, but hopefully both. However, I found either. Newport and Westport (each only about fifteen kilometers away) were far more fruitful. However, I've not given up. I have this feeling for a reason, and next time I come back, I'll spend some time with the local pastor and ask for help locating relatives. If I'd had more time, I would have already done that.
Castlebar was once a market town and a popular gathering place. Farmers brought produce and cattle to sell, women made their rounds to gather provisions for a few weeks, and men congregated in the pubs to swap crop stories and share information. That's the Castlebar I long for. Today, it's more congested and built up than I'd like, but the graveyard across the street houses some very, very old headstones. They are so old, in fact, that their engravings have rubbed off. There's no telling who is buried in many of the plots, and call it wishful thinking, but I believe there are Lavelle's out there. I just don't know under which of the worn out headstones they lie under.
Tomorrow we train back to Dublin. I don't want to. I want either to return to the Dingle Peninsula, buy a farm, and raise cows, sheep and donkeys or I want to be instantly transported back to Islamorada. I don't want to deal with Dublin and airports and tourists and baggage and tired, cranky assholes. I want to go back to the Dingle and gaze upon Minard Castle, where I heard people talking and smelled meat cooking over an open fire. I want to return to days of old. I want my Irish family around me.
I fell asleep gazing out the window at the Celtic crosses of hundreds of dead below. I'm sure that somewhere down there, is a Lavelle that I belong to. And they belong to me.
By the time we wandered back to our B&B, it was almost 11am. Joe was waiting for us. He made a phone call to "Uncle" and then told us to head up the road to speak with him. No need to pack up/check out. We could leave our bags right where they were. Uncle was waiting! He told us to go up the road and look for the house on the right with all of the steel and iron in the front yard.
We took off, wondering if Joe's directions of "just up the road" would be in true Irish form. I figured we had about three-quarters of a mile before his homestead came into view. Imagine my surprise when we came across Joe just up the street from the B&B! We'd just left him behind at the front door and there he was, standing by a truck in front of a handsome house. Was he a vampire? He was at the B&B one moment and then up the street the next. Odd things were happening, that was for sure.
Joe pointed at the house behind him, claiming it as his own. A dog in the front yard did his level best to earn his keep by scaring us away. We thanked Joe for the directions and kept walking. I looked back every few seconds, waiting for Joe to apparate like a Hogswarts professor. I can't swear that's what happened, but the last time I turned, he and his truck were gone. Leprechauns? Turning back to the task at hand, I was blown away when the very next house sported a yard full of metal. To his credit, Joe is the only Irishman who can actually measure distance.
The front door was ajar, an indication that the resident was expecting company. I knocked and waited. Nothing. I rang the bell and waited. Nothing. I knocked louder and shouted, "Helloooo" and waited. I heard the shuffle of feet and hoped I looked okay/didn't smell too badly.
The most adorable elderly gentleman opened the door. He reminded me of the human form of Yoda; that's how cute he was. I stuck out my hand and introduced myself, thanking him for allowing us to bother him. He listened to the introductions and then bade us follow him into the sitting room. He refused to sit until we'd all made ourselves comfortable.
"A mbaineann tu?" he said.
"Excuse me?" I replied.
"A mbaineann tu?" he said again.
I smiled. "What does that mean?"
This is probably a good time to tell you how much I adore the sound of the Irish language. As if I don't have enough projects, I want to learn to speak it. What beautiful sounds.
"Who do you come from?" he translated.
I tried to tell my story slowly. It was clear that he was accustomed to speaking Irish. He sat directly across from me, perched on the edge of chair. He was close enough to touch. He listened, leaning forward slightly to rest on the crook of his cane. Again, the similarities between him and Yoda were strong. (I love Yoda, so please understand this is a compliment. This man was cuter and sweeter than words can express.)
I thought maybe he'd forgotten why we were there, because he took so long to answer. But eventually, in a thick brogue that forced me to use all of my brain just to understand his words, he began to describe the Lavelle households he knew of. The details he remembered about who married into which family, the names of sisters and aunts and deaths of spouses were astounding. He never stuttered or repeated himself. He was quite clear, although more than once he became frustrated with his memory and suggested that he was too old for such conversation. I called bullshit and encouraged him to continue, which he did with a twinkle in his eye.
Unfortunately, much of what he remembered involved the death of Lavelle's, although he directed to me to a home on the way to Westport whose inhabitants might have clues about my family. I held his hand and thanked him. He was shy and adorable. He walked us to the door, although I told him it wasn't necessary.
"I want to see you when I come back to Ireland," I said. We were outside his front door.
"Will ye bring a spade or a shovel?" he said. His eyes twinkled again, but there was a hint of sadness that time.
"Stop it! You'll be right here!" I assured him. Without once considering etiquette, I hugged him tightly. He was sturdier than you'd imagine a 94-year-old man to be. There's still a lot of life left in Mr. Kilroy - thank our Maker for that.
As we walked away, I remembered Luke Skywalker's words to Yoda when he promised he'd come back. I realized I must be overtired, if I was drawing parallels between my life and those played out in Star Wars. I mean, we all know I belong in The Dukes of Hazzard, right? Unless I was Han Solo's side kick - and by that, I don't mean Chewbacca - then forget it. Hazzard County all the way. I belong in a beat up pickup truck more than a star ship...again, unless I'm Han Solo's girl.
Back at the B&B, we found Joe outside with a friend, sitting at a picnic table and shooting the shit. When he saw me, he waved me over to inquire. After a few minutes, I learned that Mr. Kilroy (Yoda) was really and truly Joe Reid's uncle. In fact, he was also the uncle of the man Joe was speaking with. They described how Mr. Kilroy had suffered a heart attack two years earlier. Rather than call for help, he got on his bike and rode to the doctor's office.
I stood with my mouth hanging open at the image of Mr. Kilroy (who was then 92), biking to the doctor's office as he suffered a heart attack.
"It was all downhill," Joe explained with a laugh.
Those Irish boys are made of strong stuff. Strong and squishy at the same time. It made me want to run back to his house, let myself inside, and hug him again. I treasure the chance to sit at length with him and just listen to whatever it is he might want to tell me. I know I just met me man, but I'm tempted to use the "L" word. Very tempted.
I wanted to take Mr. Kilroy's picture, but I felt like I'd imposed enough. I was afraid to appear disrespectful, but next time I see him, I will ask his permission. I want you to see just how adorable he is.
We settled up with Joe and I wrote down the names of my ancestors (upon his request) so that should he have the opportunity to talk with anyone who had knowledge of the Lavelle's, he could try to help me out. I'll tell you what, Joe Reid is a damn fine man. The next time I go to Newport, I'm staying at the Black Oak Inn. In fact, I think I should plan a family reunion and we'll all stay there!
Regretfully, we left Newport in the rear view and drove to Castlebar. There was another large graveyard I wanted to check out. As luck would have it, the cemetery was directly across the street from our hotel. How convenient. Dead bodies outside my bedroom window. Just like on Canal Street. Perfect.
I was very surprised that, although we found a couple of Lavelle graves, none of them belong to me. Sadly, we moved on. We had to drive to Knock Airport to return our rental. I treasured every mile between in Castelbar and Knock...not just because they were my last moments in Mayo, but I really LOVE driving in Ireland and, if you don't mind me saying so, I'm damn good at driving a car on the wrong side of the road with a gear box where it doesn't belong. It was pure fun.
It was an uneventful trip to Knock. Lauren was in the backseat with her ipod. Doug was in the front seat, tired and quiet. I was left to my thoughts of Ireland and cows and family. We cabbed back to Castlebar, walked to a pub for some chow and then locked ourselves into our room for the night.
I didn't shut off my laptop until well after 1am, because I was trying to get caught up on this blog and it took seven or eight minutes to load each picture. I don't know why the damn thing was so slow, but it was and there was nothing to do but be patient. While I waited for pictures to load, I looked out our hotel window to the expanse of graveyard below. My favorite views often include a graveyard,so that one made me happy.
Many moons ago, I felt drawn to Castlebar. I was confident I'd find relatives there - living or dead, but hopefully both. However, I found either. Newport and Westport (each only about fifteen kilometers away) were far more fruitful. However, I've not given up. I have this feeling for a reason, and next time I come back, I'll spend some time with the local pastor and ask for help locating relatives. If I'd had more time, I would have already done that.
Castlebar was once a market town and a popular gathering place. Farmers brought produce and cattle to sell, women made their rounds to gather provisions for a few weeks, and men congregated in the pubs to swap crop stories and share information. That's the Castlebar I long for. Today, it's more congested and built up than I'd like, but the graveyard across the street houses some very, very old headstones. They are so old, in fact, that their engravings have rubbed off. There's no telling who is buried in many of the plots, and call it wishful thinking, but I believe there are Lavelle's out there. I just don't know under which of the worn out headstones they lie under.
Tomorrow we train back to Dublin. I don't want to. I want either to return to the Dingle Peninsula, buy a farm, and raise cows, sheep and donkeys or I want to be instantly transported back to Islamorada. I don't want to deal with Dublin and airports and tourists and baggage and tired, cranky assholes. I want to go back to the Dingle and gaze upon Minard Castle, where I heard people talking and smelled meat cooking over an open fire. I want to return to days of old. I want my Irish family around me.
I fell asleep gazing out the window at the Celtic crosses of hundreds of dead below. I'm sure that somewhere down there, is a Lavelle that I belong to. And they belong to me.
Monday, June 23, 2014
A Day in Mayo
We woke late, nearly 9am, which is much later than we were used to doing on the peninsula. It was nice to linger under a heavy tick while the chilly morning air blew into our room. Getting out of bed wasn't so nice, but after a hot shower, we stepped into the cleanest of our dirty clothes and headed into town to find breakie.
We discovered a great secret! If you walk around the back side of a pub, where they store empty kegs, you may find the door open long before the pub is actually open for business. If so, sneak in like a tom cat and wind your way through the back halls by the toilets (this is what the Irish and other Euros call the restrooms) and make your way to the bar. Pretend you know exactly what you are doing. When approached, ask for breakie. Within minutes, you'll be served a wonderful breakfast with coffee or tea that's guaranteed to keep you going for hours.
Once our bellies were full, we jumped back into the car and headed out of town on the Mulranny Road in search of Carrickahowley Castle - known as Rockfleet Castle by the less-than-cool. We are cool, so Carrickahowley it is,
The road we took in search of it seemed very castle-worthy. Lauren and I discussed how unsurprised we would be if our car magically turned into a carriage. (She mentioned it would be helpful if the engine turned into a horse else I'd be pulling it whilst she wiped me.) She's such a sweet child.
As we rounded a sharp bend, BOOM!!! There stood a castle - a tower house much like Minard Castle on the peninsula where I had my "moment". It was on the edge of what was once deep water, but it's now shallow with rocks breaking the surface. The castle was....well,...wow. I came to a screeching halt and out of the car we bolted. Right to the side of the tower we went to touch the stone and press ourselves against it. Cold and hard and full of stories it was.
On the door was posted a sign indicating it had been closed for safety reasons. Our passage inside was blocked by a heavy wooden door and padlock. While I regretted the inability to get inside, I was grateful for the opportunity to walk all around it, touching each wall and all four cornerstones. The castle was built in the 1500's and was once home to Grainne O'Malley, the pirate queen. She and I'd have been fast friends, if I could find her.
In the recent past, if visitors to the castle found the front door locked, they went to the farm next door and borrowed the key from the farmer. We met that farmer's niece, but sadly her uncle has passed on and the castle is no longer open for visitors. While I'm sad to be kept on the outside, I'm so happy to be able to touch it. More than once, I laid my face upon the stones and pressed my hands to them...listening. What would this castle say if I listened long enough? The sound of a car engine disrupted our conversation. Two visitors from Germany arrived, who had been inside the walls of the castle just a few years back. The husband claimed to belong to the lineage. That's what they all say.
After another trip around the castle, touching and listening, we went on our way. I'll come back again during a rain storm, when the chances of other visitors interrupting my castle-time are slim to none. Until then, Carrickahowley, I'll see if there's a way to buy you and have you for my own.
Lauren and I had seen a sign post for an abbey on our way to the castle, so we made our way back and I'm soooooo very glad we did. What a treasure! Burrishoole Abbey is a place everyone should have the pleasure to visit. Hell, maybe it should be an obligation.
Where to begin? At first glance, you see the remains of a church, which is surrounded by a graveyard (the Irish don't say cemetery) packed with huge Celtic crosses. The grounds are on a small hill, the Abbey is at the summit with headstones all around, some of them about ready to fall into the water. There was no one at the Abbey besides me and Goo, and we were free to roam at will. Words can't do it justice; I doubt the photos will either. Suffice to say, the Abbey is breathtaking to those of us who love old churches, forts and castles. Those walls have seen so much history, it would take years to sit and listen to all of it. I stood against the walls and listened anyway.
After we'd scrambled through all of the Abbey's rooms, we began to search the church yard for Lavelle's. We found some here and there, but none of them obvious relations. Then my eagle-eyed girl made the find of the century. She found an old grave near the back left corner of a Patrick Lavelle and his son, Thomas. I've no proof, but I think these two boys are the real deal. I raised a few pints to Lauren that night for her terrific find.
We searched the entire graveyard, finding five or six Lavelle graves in all. After an hour or so, we moved on, knowing we needed to pick up Dougie from Westport traing station at 5pm. Westport was our next stop. Can you guess where we went first?
Lavelle's Bar. The place is owned by the very humble Christopher Anthony Lavelle. We don't know whether we're really related, but we agreed that I'd tell everyone we are. So there you have it. He's a soft-spoken man with a kind heart. The moment Lauren and I crossed the threshold, we were greeted by Mr. Lavelle. He can spot a Yank at a one hundred paces, that's for certain. He asked how we were enjoying our visit. I told him that I'd come all the way from the States to visit that particular pub, because I am a Lavelle. Well, let me assure you, that's when the conversation got interesting.
We spent an hour or so talking about lineage and history, looking at pictures on his pub's walls, and showing him the pix we'd taken at the Abbey. He made a call to a friend named Joe, asking about Lavelle's down thattaway. (The grave of Patrick and Thomas mentioned a town called "Furnace", and Chris obviously thought his friend Joe might know more about it.) He asked Joe about each and every name we gave him, happy to try to help us connect with living cousins - not just the dead ones.
I mentioned that we were staying in Newport and he asked where.
"The Black Oak...something," I said.
Chris smiled and pointed at his phone. "That's Joe's place."
"Joe Reid?" I asked.
Turns out, the Joe that Chris had called was the very same Joe who was the proprietor of the B&B that Lauren and I had booked for two nights! The man who could probably answer many of my questions was our innkeeper! Small, crazy world.
Not wanting to make a pest of myself, we left Chris to his business, but not before a long hug and a photo. I promised to bring Doug in for a pint when/if his train ever arrived. Chris said he'd be waiting and when we returned three or four hours later, he was! I introduced my husband to Chris, we had a quick pint, said another goodbye and we were off.
The next time I come to Mayo, Lavelle's Bar (Father's it's also called) will be my first stop.
We headed back to Newport, had dinner in a pub and then hunkered down in the lounge of our B&B for a night nap. As I sat pondering the past two and a half weeks, out walked a man I knew - although we'd never met. Joe Reid in the flesh and blood came to welcome us. After a hearty handshake and a round of introductions, I invited him to sit. (Some balls, right? The place is his and I invite him to pop a squat!) He asks what I'm after and after I explain it, he gives it some thought. A quiet man, Joe is. Reminds me of my Dad in a way. Doesn't say much until he really has something worth saying, and even then, it's quiet.
Joe excused himself and made a few calls, consulting one of the local boys sitting at the bar. If you remember the tombstone I posted of a Ceilia Lavelle, that was the grandmother of one of the boys he called. Pat's young and not interested in finding Yankee family. He tells Joe there's no way we're related and I let that go, although we've a Ceilia in our tree that looks suspicious. You can't force this sort of thing on people. Not everyone has the drive or the desire and for those that don't, people like me are a nuisance. I let it go, making a mental note to buy the kid a pint the next time I'm in town. I'll get him good and liquored up and then we'll give it a go.
Joe tells me of a man he calls "Uncle", who is 94 years old and knows everything about local families, where they lived, and who they married. It was well after ten and, no surprise, Joe suspects that "Uncle" is in bed. He tells me to check with him in the morning and hopefully, "Uncle" will come to the B&B or we can to see him. It sounds great, but I don't expect it to happen. I'm grateful to Joe for going out of his way to help me connect with family. What a great guy.
After one drink, we get Dougie upstairs to put him to bed. Within a minute of laying his head on the pillow, he began talking in his sleep. It's something he does often, but it freaked Lauren out! He snored and snored while Lauren and I tried to adjust to our new situation. We'd developed a routine after three weeks, and a lifted toilet seat and deafening snores had never been part of the equation.
If only we could cram Zak and Kaley into this room, my family would be complete. Oh wait - Boozer and Bear, too. And Momma and Baby Kitty as well. Perhaps we need a bigger room.
We discovered a great secret! If you walk around the back side of a pub, where they store empty kegs, you may find the door open long before the pub is actually open for business. If so, sneak in like a tom cat and wind your way through the back halls by the toilets (this is what the Irish and other Euros call the restrooms) and make your way to the bar. Pretend you know exactly what you are doing. When approached, ask for breakie. Within minutes, you'll be served a wonderful breakfast with coffee or tea that's guaranteed to keep you going for hours.
Once our bellies were full, we jumped back into the car and headed out of town on the Mulranny Road in search of Carrickahowley Castle - known as Rockfleet Castle by the less-than-cool. We are cool, so Carrickahowley it is,
The road we took in search of it seemed very castle-worthy. Lauren and I discussed how unsurprised we would be if our car magically turned into a carriage. (She mentioned it would be helpful if the engine turned into a horse else I'd be pulling it whilst she wiped me.) She's such a sweet child.
As we rounded a sharp bend, BOOM!!! There stood a castle - a tower house much like Minard Castle on the peninsula where I had my "moment". It was on the edge of what was once deep water, but it's now shallow with rocks breaking the surface. The castle was....well,...wow. I came to a screeching halt and out of the car we bolted. Right to the side of the tower we went to touch the stone and press ourselves against it. Cold and hard and full of stories it was.
On the door was posted a sign indicating it had been closed for safety reasons. Our passage inside was blocked by a heavy wooden door and padlock. While I regretted the inability to get inside, I was grateful for the opportunity to walk all around it, touching each wall and all four cornerstones. The castle was built in the 1500's and was once home to Grainne O'Malley, the pirate queen. She and I'd have been fast friends, if I could find her.
In the recent past, if visitors to the castle found the front door locked, they went to the farm next door and borrowed the key from the farmer. We met that farmer's niece, but sadly her uncle has passed on and the castle is no longer open for visitors. While I'm sad to be kept on the outside, I'm so happy to be able to touch it. More than once, I laid my face upon the stones and pressed my hands to them...listening. What would this castle say if I listened long enough? The sound of a car engine disrupted our conversation. Two visitors from Germany arrived, who had been inside the walls of the castle just a few years back. The husband claimed to belong to the lineage. That's what they all say.
After another trip around the castle, touching and listening, we went on our way. I'll come back again during a rain storm, when the chances of other visitors interrupting my castle-time are slim to none. Until then, Carrickahowley, I'll see if there's a way to buy you and have you for my own.
Lauren and I had seen a sign post for an abbey on our way to the castle, so we made our way back and I'm soooooo very glad we did. What a treasure! Burrishoole Abbey is a place everyone should have the pleasure to visit. Hell, maybe it should be an obligation.
Where to begin? At first glance, you see the remains of a church, which is surrounded by a graveyard (the Irish don't say cemetery) packed with huge Celtic crosses. The grounds are on a small hill, the Abbey is at the summit with headstones all around, some of them about ready to fall into the water. There was no one at the Abbey besides me and Goo, and we were free to roam at will. Words can't do it justice; I doubt the photos will either. Suffice to say, the Abbey is breathtaking to those of us who love old churches, forts and castles. Those walls have seen so much history, it would take years to sit and listen to all of it. I stood against the walls and listened anyway.
After we'd scrambled through all of the Abbey's rooms, we began to search the church yard for Lavelle's. We found some here and there, but none of them obvious relations. Then my eagle-eyed girl made the find of the century. She found an old grave near the back left corner of a Patrick Lavelle and his son, Thomas. I've no proof, but I think these two boys are the real deal. I raised a few pints to Lauren that night for her terrific find.
We searched the entire graveyard, finding five or six Lavelle graves in all. After an hour or so, we moved on, knowing we needed to pick up Dougie from Westport traing station at 5pm. Westport was our next stop. Can you guess where we went first?
Lavelle's Bar. The place is owned by the very humble Christopher Anthony Lavelle. We don't know whether we're really related, but we agreed that I'd tell everyone we are. So there you have it. He's a soft-spoken man with a kind heart. The moment Lauren and I crossed the threshold, we were greeted by Mr. Lavelle. He can spot a Yank at a one hundred paces, that's for certain. He asked how we were enjoying our visit. I told him that I'd come all the way from the States to visit that particular pub, because I am a Lavelle. Well, let me assure you, that's when the conversation got interesting.
We spent an hour or so talking about lineage and history, looking at pictures on his pub's walls, and showing him the pix we'd taken at the Abbey. He made a call to a friend named Joe, asking about Lavelle's down thattaway. (The grave of Patrick and Thomas mentioned a town called "Furnace", and Chris obviously thought his friend Joe might know more about it.) He asked Joe about each and every name we gave him, happy to try to help us connect with living cousins - not just the dead ones.
I mentioned that we were staying in Newport and he asked where.
"The Black Oak...something," I said.
Chris smiled and pointed at his phone. "That's Joe's place."
"Joe Reid?" I asked.
Turns out, the Joe that Chris had called was the very same Joe who was the proprietor of the B&B that Lauren and I had booked for two nights! The man who could probably answer many of my questions was our innkeeper! Small, crazy world.
Not wanting to make a pest of myself, we left Chris to his business, but not before a long hug and a photo. I promised to bring Doug in for a pint when/if his train ever arrived. Chris said he'd be waiting and when we returned three or four hours later, he was! I introduced my husband to Chris, we had a quick pint, said another goodbye and we were off.
The next time I come to Mayo, Lavelle's Bar (Father's it's also called) will be my first stop.
We headed back to Newport, had dinner in a pub and then hunkered down in the lounge of our B&B for a night nap. As I sat pondering the past two and a half weeks, out walked a man I knew - although we'd never met. Joe Reid in the flesh and blood came to welcome us. After a hearty handshake and a round of introductions, I invited him to sit. (Some balls, right? The place is his and I invite him to pop a squat!) He asks what I'm after and after I explain it, he gives it some thought. A quiet man, Joe is. Reminds me of my Dad in a way. Doesn't say much until he really has something worth saying, and even then, it's quiet.
Joe excused himself and made a few calls, consulting one of the local boys sitting at the bar. If you remember the tombstone I posted of a Ceilia Lavelle, that was the grandmother of one of the boys he called. Pat's young and not interested in finding Yankee family. He tells Joe there's no way we're related and I let that go, although we've a Ceilia in our tree that looks suspicious. You can't force this sort of thing on people. Not everyone has the drive or the desire and for those that don't, people like me are a nuisance. I let it go, making a mental note to buy the kid a pint the next time I'm in town. I'll get him good and liquored up and then we'll give it a go.
Joe tells me of a man he calls "Uncle", who is 94 years old and knows everything about local families, where they lived, and who they married. It was well after ten and, no surprise, Joe suspects that "Uncle" is in bed. He tells me to check with him in the morning and hopefully, "Uncle" will come to the B&B or we can to see him. It sounds great, but I don't expect it to happen. I'm grateful to Joe for going out of his way to help me connect with family. What a great guy.
After one drink, we get Dougie upstairs to put him to bed. Within a minute of laying his head on the pillow, he began talking in his sleep. It's something he does often, but it freaked Lauren out! He snored and snored while Lauren and I tried to adjust to our new situation. We'd developed a routine after three weeks, and a lifted toilet seat and deafening snores had never been part of the equation.
If only we could cram Zak and Kaley into this room, my family would be complete. Oh wait - Boozer and Bear, too. And Momma and Baby Kitty as well. Perhaps we need a bigger room.
County Kerry to County Mayo - I'm driving!
Our last sleep in Camp (until next time) wasn't great because my mind kept practicing how to drive on the wrong side of the road in a standard with a gear box in the wrong place. Top that with a sore throat and stuffy nose and you've got a rather unpleasant night. I don't get sick, but my body sure has been trying to do just that since before we left the States, but I refuse to give in. However, my insides seem to know The Walk is over, and they are losing the ability to fight back. So be it.
We showered and hustled to the dining room for breakfast to be greeted by gregarious John Doyle. The man is a charmer, that's for certain. He inquired after "our patient" and fussed over us. I had only toast and coffee (but the toast was slathered with Kerry butter - pure gold that is) because we're not going to be burning hundreds of calories in the car. I can't afford the extra calories of rashers.
Back in our room, we pack in a hurry. As I'm reorganizing - our boots and walking poles are no longer needed - I get a text from Dougie. His flight out of Miami had been delayed because of weather. When he finally got to Philly, he'd missed his connecting flight by ten minutes. They put him up in a flea bag motel and told him to wait. We were planning to pick him up at the Westport train station that afternoon, but he wasn't going to make it. Poor Dougie.
No sooner are we packed when John announces that our ride to Kerry Airport has arrived. We exchanged a great big hug and he wished us well on our quest to find family. A little piece of my heart stayed behind in Camp. It will be happy there until I can go back to collect it...hopefully next year.
Should you be so lucky as to find yourself headed for the Dingle Peninsula, you must go directly to Camp and visit John and his lovely sister; you'll thank me later. www.campjunctionhouse.com
Waiting behind the Camp Junction House was a van labeled "Paddy's Bus". Below that it read, "He will drive you to drink" You can find Mr. Paddy at http://kerrytourist.net/, but the site is currently under construction. This is an idea that could easily be translated to the Keys, but I'm never going back so someone else can run with it- but please give the man credit.
Paddy was fairly quiet on the drive from Camp to Tralee, where we were to deposit the dwarf. At the train station, Lauren and I got out to hug Own and take pictures. We wished our friend God Speed and good health, promising to keep in touch. In spite of his grumpy disposition, we love our dwarf and were sad to part company.
I don't know where you are now, Owen, but we wish you safe travels in your magic underpants and much happiness. Be well and stay grumpy until we meet again.
Back in the van, I struck up a conversation with our driver. Paddy was a character, to be sure. Turns out, he assumed the dwarf was my husband and that he didn't trust my driving so he was taking the train rather than risk his neck in a car. I may have given Paddy an ear full. Speaking with a thick brogue, he advised me how to drive in Ireland. Throughout the three-quarters of an hour it took to get to the airport, our driver educated me on safe driving practices. His help was truly invaluable.
When we arrived, I paid him far more than the going rate - he'd charged us next to nothing and gave us much. He insisted on waiting outside in his van until we had our car and were ready to go. At that point, he directed me to follow him - it was in the opposite direction of where he was heading, but he said he'd turn around later. I did as I was told and once I figured out the gear box, we followed along. A couple of cars snuck between our car and his van, so he pulled over, waving on the offending motorists, and then pulled back to lead us like a momma duck with her babies.
When Paddy figured I was comfortable and could be trusted, he turned off, waving us on straight and was gone from sight. I will forever be grateful for his fatherly words of wisdom and the care he took to be sure we were safe. Like so many others we've met on this adventure, I wish I could repay his kindness.
If you ever find yourself in Kerry in need of a ride or a tour guide, please call Dear Paddy. (I feel like an infommerical.) His email is: jobie62@hotmail.com and his phone is 0877538679. Please tell him the red-headed American walker and her daughter who were headed to Mayo to find family sent you. He'll remember, I've no doubt.
Lauren is a kick ass navigator! I handed her a map and told her where we needed to go. She was spot on in her directions. I'd never have made it as easily as I did without her there to shout and point. She's a terrific pointer.
What should have been a four hour drive turned into six or so, because every time there was a symbol for a castle on the map, we drove off course to find it. Ten minutes, forty minutes, we didn't care. However long it took to find each one was absolutely worth it to us. I'm so happy we drove instead of taking the train, because we never would have seen some really great castles and met some cute gas station attendants when we needed to replace our stores of baguettes, apples, and waters.
At some point, we realized we needed to buckle down and just get to Newport or we'd never make it. It was actually easy to do, until Lauren fell asleep for five or ten seconds and I veered off our route. She still hasn't forgiven me.
"I repeated what we needed to do at least twelve times and then I fell asleep for five seconds and you go the wrong way!"
The dwarf's disposition must have rubbed off, because she couldn't let it go. We eventually got where we were going, so I don't understand why she was so pissy. It could have been that her tape worm needed to be fed.
We checked into the Black Oak Inn, across from the Black Oak River in Newport, Mayo. It's not the Ritz, but the owner - Joe Reid - has a heart that makes it much classier and homey than the Ritz could ever be. After dropping off our bags, we walked a few doors down to a pub and tucked into a hot meal accompanied by a few pints.
I felt restless and asked our server if there was a graveyard within walking distance. (My gut told me that most of the Lavelle's I'd meet would already be dead.) She said that there were a few graves in the church yard, but there was a bigger one about a five minute walk from the pub. Yes! Lauren agreed to walk there with me.
As with all Irish measurement, it wasn't anywhere near a five minute walk, which Lauren pointed out to me again and again on the way there. About a mile from the pub, we found a very old cemetery tucked in a gully off the road. Like the cemeteries we'd seen from the road, the tombstones are tall Celtic crosses in front of a large burial plot marked off with a short cement lip. We split up and found four or five Lavelle graves, none of them obviously part of my family tree, but there's really no telling. Once we were good and sweaty, we headed back to our B&B, while Lauren pointed out again that the cemetery was more than a five minute walk.
The sky was turning pretty colors and the hills were green. I was happy and thankful to have a daughter who understands how important this search is to me. Never does she complain. I am lucky to have such a wise and generous girl as a travel partner.
Back at the B&B, we discovered the wifi didn't work in our room, so we headed down to the lounge/pub to sip another pint while Lauren talked with friends and I watched Ghana and Germany go at it during that night's World Cup game. While I sort of watched the game, I studied the old photos on the walls and listened to the locals gossip, just waiting to hear something about a Lavelle.
As we settled into our beds for the night, with our windows wide open, we heard the sounds of the pub's patrons below. They were smoking and talking, enjoying the night air. We didn't begrudge them their fun. Another brief text from Dougie told us that he was enroute to Frankfurt. Hmm, I didn't realize that was in Ireland.
I fell asleep happy for driving us all the way from Kerry on the wrong side of the road without killing us. In fact, we didn't have a single white-knuckle moment. I felt bad for Doug who left home two days ago and still hadn't arrived. I'd hate to be the United Airlines customer service rep he deals with when he finally gets to Dublin.
Good night, Mayo. I hope to find family within your boundaries and hopefully, some of them on this side of the grass.
We showered and hustled to the dining room for breakfast to be greeted by gregarious John Doyle. The man is a charmer, that's for certain. He inquired after "our patient" and fussed over us. I had only toast and coffee (but the toast was slathered with Kerry butter - pure gold that is) because we're not going to be burning hundreds of calories in the car. I can't afford the extra calories of rashers.
Back in our room, we pack in a hurry. As I'm reorganizing - our boots and walking poles are no longer needed - I get a text from Dougie. His flight out of Miami had been delayed because of weather. When he finally got to Philly, he'd missed his connecting flight by ten minutes. They put him up in a flea bag motel and told him to wait. We were planning to pick him up at the Westport train station that afternoon, but he wasn't going to make it. Poor Dougie.
No sooner are we packed when John announces that our ride to Kerry Airport has arrived. We exchanged a great big hug and he wished us well on our quest to find family. A little piece of my heart stayed behind in Camp. It will be happy there until I can go back to collect it...hopefully next year.
Should you be so lucky as to find yourself headed for the Dingle Peninsula, you must go directly to Camp and visit John and his lovely sister; you'll thank me later. www.campjunctionhouse.com
Waiting behind the Camp Junction House was a van labeled "Paddy's Bus". Below that it read, "He will drive you to drink" You can find Mr. Paddy at http://kerrytourist.net/, but the site is currently under construction. This is an idea that could easily be translated to the Keys, but I'm never going back so someone else can run with it- but please give the man credit.
Paddy was fairly quiet on the drive from Camp to Tralee, where we were to deposit the dwarf. At the train station, Lauren and I got out to hug Own and take pictures. We wished our friend God Speed and good health, promising to keep in touch. In spite of his grumpy disposition, we love our dwarf and were sad to part company.
I don't know where you are now, Owen, but we wish you safe travels in your magic underpants and much happiness. Be well and stay grumpy until we meet again.
Back in the van, I struck up a conversation with our driver. Paddy was a character, to be sure. Turns out, he assumed the dwarf was my husband and that he didn't trust my driving so he was taking the train rather than risk his neck in a car. I may have given Paddy an ear full. Speaking with a thick brogue, he advised me how to drive in Ireland. Throughout the three-quarters of an hour it took to get to the airport, our driver educated me on safe driving practices. His help was truly invaluable.
When we arrived, I paid him far more than the going rate - he'd charged us next to nothing and gave us much. He insisted on waiting outside in his van until we had our car and were ready to go. At that point, he directed me to follow him - it was in the opposite direction of where he was heading, but he said he'd turn around later. I did as I was told and once I figured out the gear box, we followed along. A couple of cars snuck between our car and his van, so he pulled over, waving on the offending motorists, and then pulled back to lead us like a momma duck with her babies.
When Paddy figured I was comfortable and could be trusted, he turned off, waving us on straight and was gone from sight. I will forever be grateful for his fatherly words of wisdom and the care he took to be sure we were safe. Like so many others we've met on this adventure, I wish I could repay his kindness.
If you ever find yourself in Kerry in need of a ride or a tour guide, please call Dear Paddy. (I feel like an infommerical.) His email is: jobie62@hotmail.com and his phone is 0877538679. Please tell him the red-headed American walker and her daughter who were headed to Mayo to find family sent you. He'll remember, I've no doubt.
Lauren is a kick ass navigator! I handed her a map and told her where we needed to go. She was spot on in her directions. I'd never have made it as easily as I did without her there to shout and point. She's a terrific pointer.
What should have been a four hour drive turned into six or so, because every time there was a symbol for a castle on the map, we drove off course to find it. Ten minutes, forty minutes, we didn't care. However long it took to find each one was absolutely worth it to us. I'm so happy we drove instead of taking the train, because we never would have seen some really great castles and met some cute gas station attendants when we needed to replace our stores of baguettes, apples, and waters.
At some point, we realized we needed to buckle down and just get to Newport or we'd never make it. It was actually easy to do, until Lauren fell asleep for five or ten seconds and I veered off our route. She still hasn't forgiven me.
"I repeated what we needed to do at least twelve times and then I fell asleep for five seconds and you go the wrong way!"
The dwarf's disposition must have rubbed off, because she couldn't let it go. We eventually got where we were going, so I don't understand why she was so pissy. It could have been that her tape worm needed to be fed.
We checked into the Black Oak Inn, across from the Black Oak River in Newport, Mayo. It's not the Ritz, but the owner - Joe Reid - has a heart that makes it much classier and homey than the Ritz could ever be. After dropping off our bags, we walked a few doors down to a pub and tucked into a hot meal accompanied by a few pints.
I felt restless and asked our server if there was a graveyard within walking distance. (My gut told me that most of the Lavelle's I'd meet would already be dead.) She said that there were a few graves in the church yard, but there was a bigger one about a five minute walk from the pub. Yes! Lauren agreed to walk there with me.
As with all Irish measurement, it wasn't anywhere near a five minute walk, which Lauren pointed out to me again and again on the way there. About a mile from the pub, we found a very old cemetery tucked in a gully off the road. Like the cemeteries we'd seen from the road, the tombstones are tall Celtic crosses in front of a large burial plot marked off with a short cement lip. We split up and found four or five Lavelle graves, none of them obviously part of my family tree, but there's really no telling. Once we were good and sweaty, we headed back to our B&B, while Lauren pointed out again that the cemetery was more than a five minute walk.
The sky was turning pretty colors and the hills were green. I was happy and thankful to have a daughter who understands how important this search is to me. Never does she complain. I am lucky to have such a wise and generous girl as a travel partner.
Back at the B&B, we discovered the wifi didn't work in our room, so we headed down to the lounge/pub to sip another pint while Lauren talked with friends and I watched Ghana and Germany go at it during that night's World Cup game. While I sort of watched the game, I studied the old photos on the walls and listened to the locals gossip, just waiting to hear something about a Lavelle.
As we settled into our beds for the night, with our windows wide open, we heard the sounds of the pub's patrons below. They were smoking and talking, enjoying the night air. We didn't begrudge them their fun. Another brief text from Dougie told us that he was enroute to Frankfurt. Hmm, I didn't realize that was in Ireland.
I fell asleep happy for driving us all the way from Kerry on the wrong side of the road without killing us. In fact, we didn't have a single white-knuckle moment. I felt bad for Doug who left home two days ago and still hadn't arrived. I'd hate to be the United Airlines customer service rep he deals with when he finally gets to Dublin.
Good night, Mayo. I hope to find family within your boundaries and hopefully, some of them on this side of the grass.
Sunday, June 22, 2014
Castlegregory to Camp - The Last Stand
How can it be? How can this part of the adventure already be over? Aw feck and shit, too. I'm not ready for that. Lauren, on the other hand, is probably more than ready. Having said that, she's been a great sport - no complaints whatsoever, in spite of her sunburn, sickness and sore body parts.
We had a long breakfast, probably hanging around the table a bit longer than we should. We finally set off around 9:45am, but we only about 8 miles to cover, so getting an early start wasn't terribly critical. (Famous last words.)
We set off and just around the corner from our accommodations, we walked by a field of mares with their colts. The babies were literally out cold. Fast asleep in the grass while their mamas ate and fattened up. Lauren and I are suckers for anything warm-blooded with fur and four legs, but horses are one of our biggest weaknesses. We stopped to talk to the mares, taking care not to disturb their colts. The baby nearest us was snoring! I'd never heard a colt snore, but I assure you it maxed out the cute scale.
We took pictures and adored the beauties until our dwarf walked away without us. He does that frequently, but he usually stops and turns around to make sure we're following. This time, he just kept going so we figured he was serious. We said our goodbyes (the colt was still snoring) and followed our impatient friend. Not too far after that, we came upon more horses. We stopped and called to them across the pasture and to our extreme joy, they came to greet us! Four of them! They were beautiful. Cappuccino brown bodies and head, turning dark brown in the legs and chest. They must have smelled the apples in my backpack, because never, ever, has any horse found me that interesting. The dwarf grunted and kept going. I've already told you they don't like horses. Across the lane from the horses was a pasture with the cutest donkey I've had to pleasure of meeting. He liked us, too. Again, it had to be the apples.
After several minutes, the dwarf was nowhere in sight. Lauren and I knew we had to say goodbye to our four-legged friends, but stayed longer anyway. The fun is in the getting there. Getting there means enjoying everything along the way.
Eventually, we said goodbye and raced to catch up with our friend. He was waiting impatiently by a fence post. When we reached him, he gave us "the look" and took off at a brisk pace. I wish I remembered the dark chocolate I'd taken specifically for occasions like those, but I was too caught up in thoughts of horses and donkeys, so I just trudged along, not worried about anything or anyone.
In very short order, we were back to beach walking. Try as I might, I couldn't help but pick up shells and rocks along the way. By the time we get home, my pockets will be so loaded down with crap, I won't be able to walk. The weather was almost perfect. The sky was overcast and the temps had cooled. I actually needed a second layer! Yay! Along the beach, we walked and walked and walked.
I was distracted by a huge green expanse between us and the sea because at least twenty horses roamed it. . . . without fences. They could have run into the road if they'd wanted to. Or into the sea. Or into my arms. They were simply free. The house and a barn of sorts sat on one side of the property and the horses were free to go where they wished. Try to imagine how much this slowed us down. (Clue: it was a lot.)
Then there was a lab mix of some sort that raced from his yard to bark at the dwarf. Rather than continue walking/avoid making eye contact, the dwarf stopped in front of his drive to engage in a staring contest. The dog continued to bark and express his overall unhappiness with our dwarf. Then he saw Lauren and me. Tail wagging and legs running, he ran to meet us and threw himself at Lauren's feet. She laid down in the road with him to deliver a well-earned belly rub. I acted similarly. The dwarf grunted. Eventually, we HAD to go, although none of us were happy with the idea - except the dwarf.
"Will we EVER get to Castlebar?" I said.
"We would if you two didn't pet every horse and cow we meet," answered the dwarf.
Like that's gonna happen. Silly dwarf. I really should have broken out the dark chocolate.
Lauren's pace slowed and slowed until her walk barely resembled her normal pace. Her color changed and so did her mood. Long story made short is that my girl was running a slight temp, didn't feel good and wasn't going to make it another four miles to Camp. I sent the dwarf ahead, so that he didn't have to slow his pace to match ours, promising to catch up later. I kept telling Lauren "just a little bit farther" for the next hour or so, but Castlebar just refused to come into view. She was fading fast.
Suddenly, I began to question our direction. Were we even headed toward Castlebar? Nothing resembling a town was in sight. We could see a few houses here and there, but nothing town-like. Lauren continued to get slower and meaner. I knew if I didn't come up with a solution soon, she'd likely go zombie and eat my brain right there on the side of the road.
I waved down the next car. The driver waved back and kept going. My shoulders slumped. He watched my reaction in the rear view and stopped.
After thanking him for stopping, I asked if we were going in the direction of Castlebar. He asked if we were okay and I said yes, but Lauren wasn't feeling well and I needed to get to town to call a cab. He assured us that the town was just ahead, about a four minute walk. (You know the Irish; a four minute walk could be three miles.) He said he'd have given us a ride, but the back of his car was filled with bikes and he had his 11-year old twins in the back seat. We thanked him and told him not to worry; we were fine. He mentioned that he'd passed us on his bike about forty minutes earlier. (I'd waved and shouted a greeting.)
He drove off and we felt better knowing we were headed in the right direction and that a ride to Camp wasn't too far away. Lauren's pace slowed even more and I struggled to walk slowly to stay with her. About five minutes later, a familiar car pulled off the road. The man with the twins hopped out.
"Get in! It's not far, but this is more for your spirit than anything else." The man had dropped off his girls and their bikes and came back to get us. I warned him that we stunk like sheep, but he wasn't scared. We piled in and thanked him over and over.
Write this down. He was the first and only Irishman to reckon distance properly. In only a couple of minutes we were in town. I told him he was a kind man and that I wished I could repay him. He said that he'd been helped by others and was just trying to pay it forward. I told him that I hoped someone did something nice for him that day. I meant it.
I took Lauren to the nearest pub for lots of water and a bowl of pasta. She devoured it and laid her head on the table. She wasn't moving without a fork lift. The proprietors called us a cab, which turned out to be the very same woman who'd picked us up there the day before when we'd found a "short cut". She still drove like a bat out of hell, but she was very sweet.
Upon arrival at the Camp Junction House, the owner John Doyle stepped out to greet us. He was larger than life, as always. He remembered to ask about "our patient's burn" and our walk around the peninsula. Even thought it was early by B&B standards - 3pm - he sent us directly to our room and offered to make a pot of tea.
I wish I'd taken a picture of Mr. John Doyle. He knows how to work a room and its no wonder his place is always booked full. He goes above and beyond to make each and every guest feel like they're staying with family.
Four hours later, I pried Lauren from her cocoon (bed) and forced her to join me for dinner. We ate and then went right back to our room. I did sneak out to join the dwarf for a couple pints of Guinness while Lauren laid in bed, soaking up Mr. Doyle's wifi. I knew she was in good hands and I was just across the street.
Sunset that night was ...breathtaking. I've yet to adjust to a 10:45pm sunset. While it does allow for one hell of a happy hour, it's just not natural. Please don't interpret that as a complaint. It's not. I've nothing to complain about.
I crawled into bed, wondering what tomorrow's adventure will bring. We're renting a car and driving all the way to Mayo. God help us. Alert the presses.
We had a long breakfast, probably hanging around the table a bit longer than we should. We finally set off around 9:45am, but we only about 8 miles to cover, so getting an early start wasn't terribly critical. (Famous last words.)
We set off and just around the corner from our accommodations, we walked by a field of mares with their colts. The babies were literally out cold. Fast asleep in the grass while their mamas ate and fattened up. Lauren and I are suckers for anything warm-blooded with fur and four legs, but horses are one of our biggest weaknesses. We stopped to talk to the mares, taking care not to disturb their colts. The baby nearest us was snoring! I'd never heard a colt snore, but I assure you it maxed out the cute scale.
We took pictures and adored the beauties until our dwarf walked away without us. He does that frequently, but he usually stops and turns around to make sure we're following. This time, he just kept going so we figured he was serious. We said our goodbyes (the colt was still snoring) and followed our impatient friend. Not too far after that, we came upon more horses. We stopped and called to them across the pasture and to our extreme joy, they came to greet us! Four of them! They were beautiful. Cappuccino brown bodies and head, turning dark brown in the legs and chest. They must have smelled the apples in my backpack, because never, ever, has any horse found me that interesting. The dwarf grunted and kept going. I've already told you they don't like horses. Across the lane from the horses was a pasture with the cutest donkey I've had to pleasure of meeting. He liked us, too. Again, it had to be the apples.
After several minutes, the dwarf was nowhere in sight. Lauren and I knew we had to say goodbye to our four-legged friends, but stayed longer anyway. The fun is in the getting there. Getting there means enjoying everything along the way.
Eventually, we said goodbye and raced to catch up with our friend. He was waiting impatiently by a fence post. When we reached him, he gave us "the look" and took off at a brisk pace. I wish I remembered the dark chocolate I'd taken specifically for occasions like those, but I was too caught up in thoughts of horses and donkeys, so I just trudged along, not worried about anything or anyone.
In very short order, we were back to beach walking. Try as I might, I couldn't help but pick up shells and rocks along the way. By the time we get home, my pockets will be so loaded down with crap, I won't be able to walk. The weather was almost perfect. The sky was overcast and the temps had cooled. I actually needed a second layer! Yay! Along the beach, we walked and walked and walked.
I was distracted by a huge green expanse between us and the sea because at least twenty horses roamed it. . . . without fences. They could have run into the road if they'd wanted to. Or into the sea. Or into my arms. They were simply free. The house and a barn of sorts sat on one side of the property and the horses were free to go where they wished. Try to imagine how much this slowed us down. (Clue: it was a lot.)
Then there was a lab mix of some sort that raced from his yard to bark at the dwarf. Rather than continue walking/avoid making eye contact, the dwarf stopped in front of his drive to engage in a staring contest. The dog continued to bark and express his overall unhappiness with our dwarf. Then he saw Lauren and me. Tail wagging and legs running, he ran to meet us and threw himself at Lauren's feet. She laid down in the road with him to deliver a well-earned belly rub. I acted similarly. The dwarf grunted. Eventually, we HAD to go, although none of us were happy with the idea - except the dwarf.
"Will we EVER get to Castlebar?" I said.
"We would if you two didn't pet every horse and cow we meet," answered the dwarf.
Like that's gonna happen. Silly dwarf. I really should have broken out the dark chocolate.
Lauren's pace slowed and slowed until her walk barely resembled her normal pace. Her color changed and so did her mood. Long story made short is that my girl was running a slight temp, didn't feel good and wasn't going to make it another four miles to Camp. I sent the dwarf ahead, so that he didn't have to slow his pace to match ours, promising to catch up later. I kept telling Lauren "just a little bit farther" for the next hour or so, but Castlebar just refused to come into view. She was fading fast.
Suddenly, I began to question our direction. Were we even headed toward Castlebar? Nothing resembling a town was in sight. We could see a few houses here and there, but nothing town-like. Lauren continued to get slower and meaner. I knew if I didn't come up with a solution soon, she'd likely go zombie and eat my brain right there on the side of the road.
I waved down the next car. The driver waved back and kept going. My shoulders slumped. He watched my reaction in the rear view and stopped.
After thanking him for stopping, I asked if we were going in the direction of Castlebar. He asked if we were okay and I said yes, but Lauren wasn't feeling well and I needed to get to town to call a cab. He assured us that the town was just ahead, about a four minute walk. (You know the Irish; a four minute walk could be three miles.) He said he'd have given us a ride, but the back of his car was filled with bikes and he had his 11-year old twins in the back seat. We thanked him and told him not to worry; we were fine. He mentioned that he'd passed us on his bike about forty minutes earlier. (I'd waved and shouted a greeting.)
He drove off and we felt better knowing we were headed in the right direction and that a ride to Camp wasn't too far away. Lauren's pace slowed even more and I struggled to walk slowly to stay with her. About five minutes later, a familiar car pulled off the road. The man with the twins hopped out.
"Get in! It's not far, but this is more for your spirit than anything else." The man had dropped off his girls and their bikes and came back to get us. I warned him that we stunk like sheep, but he wasn't scared. We piled in and thanked him over and over.
Write this down. He was the first and only Irishman to reckon distance properly. In only a couple of minutes we were in town. I told him he was a kind man and that I wished I could repay him. He said that he'd been helped by others and was just trying to pay it forward. I told him that I hoped someone did something nice for him that day. I meant it.
I took Lauren to the nearest pub for lots of water and a bowl of pasta. She devoured it and laid her head on the table. She wasn't moving without a fork lift. The proprietors called us a cab, which turned out to be the very same woman who'd picked us up there the day before when we'd found a "short cut". She still drove like a bat out of hell, but she was very sweet.
Upon arrival at the Camp Junction House, the owner John Doyle stepped out to greet us. He was larger than life, as always. He remembered to ask about "our patient's burn" and our walk around the peninsula. Even thought it was early by B&B standards - 3pm - he sent us directly to our room and offered to make a pot of tea.
I wish I'd taken a picture of Mr. John Doyle. He knows how to work a room and its no wonder his place is always booked full. He goes above and beyond to make each and every guest feel like they're staying with family.
Four hours later, I pried Lauren from her cocoon (bed) and forced her to join me for dinner. We ate and then went right back to our room. I did sneak out to join the dwarf for a couple pints of Guinness while Lauren laid in bed, soaking up Mr. Doyle's wifi. I knew she was in good hands and I was just across the street.
Sunset that night was ...breathtaking. I've yet to adjust to a 10:45pm sunset. While it does allow for one hell of a happy hour, it's just not natural. Please don't interpret that as a complaint. It's not. I've nothing to complain about.
I crawled into bed, wondering what tomorrow's adventure will bring. We're renting a car and driving all the way to Mayo. God help us. Alert the presses.
Friday, June 20, 2014
Cloghane to Castlegregory with Baboon Butt
We woke rather late; it was nearly 8:30am when I reluctantly opened my eyes. I had to force myself from the bed and Lauren too. We were still wiped out from yesterday's battle with the mountain. Our joints were stiff and I walked to the bathroom like a ninety-year-old woman. Lauren did too.
We had breakfast with Flopsey and Mopsey and while we lingered over brown bread and butter, Lauren's dwarf called. He was itching to go because there were actually clouds in the sky. The sun was, at least momentarily, hidden from view. We rushed as much as possible, collected our packed lunches (butter and jam sandwiches, apples, juice boxes and monster-sized KitKats) and settled our tab.
"Who drank all these pints?"
"Herself, of course."
Hmm. I think I've heard that before.
We set off on our first cloudy morning of the walk, happy to be shielded from the blistering rays. (Sounds crazy, I know, but its been extremely hot for Ireland.) The first good bit was road walking, which isn't our favorite way to go, but the route was pretty and everyone was in good spirits. Even the dwarf was in good humor. In spite of three severe cases of baboon-butt, we were all pretty happy.
What's that? You're unfamiliar with baboon butt? Consider yourself lucky. Allow me to illustrate...Ireland's version of toilet paper is most like medium gauge sandpaper in the States. It's coarse and rough. After wiping our backsides with it for a few days, we are...raw. It's painful and uncomfortable and makes me think of the monkeys at the zoo with the bright red butts. I know they aren't baboons, but baboon butt has a nice ring to it. Unless you are suffering from it.
Anyway, baboon butt is by itself a nasty affliction, but when you've been walking for fifteen miles or so and sweating and chafing, it's downright intolerable. However, this particular morning, our baboon butts were mostly in check. We did, however, speak of wadding up four-ply American toilet paper and sitting on it like a nest when we get home. Is that too much information?
After a couple of miles of up and down road, we wound our way to a beach; Ireland's longest beach and what a treat we were in for. The waves were crashing (remember that in the Keys, the reefs prevent rollers from coming to shore, so all we hear is a gentle lapping; never any waves) and the wind was blowing. The air smelled salty, but not like the smell of old crab pots drying in the sun, but of fresh, salty sea air. Lauren's step became a bit bouncer and, like all kids, she played a game of chicken with the rushing waves. She soaked her boots more than on
In spite of the pack on my back, I found myself bent and looking down, combing the beach for treasures. Within no time, the dwarf was nearly out of sight. We weren't concerned. We had waves and wind and beautiful shells and stones to collect. Lauren drew in the sand with the tip of her walking pole while we sang and laughed. We'd have stayed there all day, but it was a long haul to Castlegregory and the day was wearing on.
We passed a couple of other walkers and one family making a picnic. Aside from that, the beach was empty! Such a huge expanse of beauty and no one there to enjoy it.
Miles later, we consulted the map. Lauren and I decided to cheat and cut across the tip of the peninsula, taking a short cut to our B&B, thereby cutting out about three or four miles of walking. Our legs and hips were sore from the mountain challenge the day before and we realized just how tired we really were. As we parted ways, the dwarf rewarded Lauren's valiant efforts with a big Snickers bar, which she gladly accepted.
We cut through the dunes and found a place to sit out of the wind. From my pack we pulled out our sandwiches and fruit and made quick work of them. As I ooed and ahhed over all of the treasures I'd collected on the beach, Lauren devoured her candy bar. We then took turns watching the path while answering the call of Mother Nature.
After a short bit, we came to a fork in the road. I was fairly certain our road lay to the left. Just then a car happened by and we hailed it down to confirm. Inside was a family from New Hampshire. We were on the right road and they offered us a lift. We thanked them, but declined, happy to walk the miles ourselves. The road was quiet and we chatted about who knows what. Our pace was similar to an evening stroll by old people. We simply weren't in a rush. We'd cut off the tip of the peninsula and we had time to kill.
After a mile or so, we came upon a big, open field of cattle. Lauren and I can't pass up the opportunity to talk to/watch/pet cows. These guys were comedians and their antics kept us watching for well over thirty minutes. A steer was apparently confused about the state of his being, because he continued to chase and mount one particular cow. It was obvious she was getting tired of it. Her calf of about four or five months decided to show the steer who was boss and tried to mount him! A little bitty calf mounting a ginormous steer. What a sight. That just got the rest of the herd riled and before you could say, "Bob's your uncle," everyone was mounting everyone else. Cow porn at its best.
Knowing we had to eventually reach Castlegregory, we pulled ourselves away only to stumble upon a weed-filled field in which a mangy horse was tied to a broken-down piece of equipment. The poor horse had wads of skin and hair hanging from him and he looked pretty darn unhealthy. Lauren and I were heartbroken and the only thing that kept me from untying him and taking him with us was the fear of being shot. He was in a sad state.
The yard surrounding the house was littered with trash and discarded junk. It was a rough looking place and I knew we'd be fighting a losing battle to even attempt to help that poor horse. I turned Lauren away and we went on, heavy hearted. I hate to see animals mistreated. There's just no reason for it.
Half a mile or so from there, was an old church surrounded by a graveyard on three sides. The gate was open, so we let ourselves in. Old tombs covered in moss and vines gave testament to their age. An old stone wall with a narrow window stood, likely held together by the moss and vines that clung to it. It appeared to be part of what was probably the original church. We walked the property, minding our feet to be respectful of those resting there. No Lavells to be found. I hope that changes in Mayo.
About three miles or so from where we left the beach, we stumbled upon the town of Castlegregory. What a quaint village with quite a lot of shops and stores. It was the biggest town we'd encountered since Dingle. Our B&B was called "The Harbor House" and while we assumed it would be at the base of the village near the water, we decided to ask someone before walking all the way down to the water only to be told it was back at the top. I went into the post office and asked for directions.
Imagine my surprise when the postman told me that our B&B wasn't actually IN Castlegregory. "It's in Castlegregory Parish, not Castlegregory Village."
Well, of course it's not. Only a bloomin' idiot would think otherwise.
Remember that bit of beach/peninsula walking that Lauren and I cut out when we took our short cut? If we'd kept walking the Dingle Way, we'd have come upon it three miles later. Instead, we went three miles out of our way and it would be another three or four miles (by road) to the point where our B&B was located.
We called a cab.
I can't explain the deflating feeling of defeat when you think you've arrived at your destination after a long walk only to find you're still miles away. Nothing takes the mustard out of you quite like that realization. Cab it was.
Our driver was a woman in her sixties with an accent so thick you could paint it. She was lovely and difficult to understand. She talked the whole way while I struggled to answer accordingly. She had a lead foot and more than once I thought I might redecorate her back seat. Thankfully, I managed to keep it in check, but it was no easy feat.
We were dropped off at Spillane's Bar where our dwarf was enjoying a pint after his long beach walk. We joined him for a Smithwick's and a light bite before walking the rest of the way to our B&B. We were fortunate enough to walk by a lush, grassy field of horses. Five or six females each had a colt nearby and they were very well taken care of. We cooed and talked to them, complimenting them on their adorable babies (horses appreciate that sort of thing) for several minutes before the dwarf got sullen. Dwarfs don't like horses anymore than they do cows.
We said our goodbyes to the beauties and made our way to the water once again. The Harbor House was appropriately named. Inside we found our room to be very comfortable and wi-fi was available for my girl. The dwarf went to his room to nap while Lauren and I went to the upstairs lounge to chill. She laid in what appeared to be a huge dog bed, covered in a blanket and was asleep within ten minutes. I sat on a comfy sofa facing the water while I sipped a pint and tried to catch up on my blogging. About an hour and half later, Lauren's tape worm woke her. We went to the dining room to feed it.
We shared some of the most delicious fried brie I've ever had. It was served with a jam for dipping and accompanied by a peppery salad. Lauren then tucked into a huge platter of fish and chips while I had creamy vegetable soup and steamed mussels. Our server was a young kid from Michigan on an internship with the B&B's dive shop. (Scuba diving is becoming a big deal in Ireland!) and he talked to us about trekking in Nepal. It sparked some ideas for future trips. With full and happy bellies, we returned to the lounge, which we had to ourselves all evening. Lauren napped on and off while I blogged.
Around 10:30, the sun began to set and the sky was bathed in glorious oranges. A new group of horses appeared right outside the B&B, so I had to go out and talk to them. The wind was blowing and the temps dropping. I chatted with the horses and made fast friends with a tabby cat who insisted I hold her while I talked to the horses. I fancied myself an animal magnet that night.
Back inside, I finally convinced Lauren to climb out of the dog bed and into her people bed around 11pm. I fell asleep knowing there was only one more walk on the Dingle Way. How did that happen? Months upon months of planning and only one walk left?
I drifted to sleep to the sounds of the ocean one more time, grateful for my walking partner who allows me to live my dream. If she only knew how much she's loved.
We had breakfast with Flopsey and Mopsey and while we lingered over brown bread and butter, Lauren's dwarf called. He was itching to go because there were actually clouds in the sky. The sun was, at least momentarily, hidden from view. We rushed as much as possible, collected our packed lunches (butter and jam sandwiches, apples, juice boxes and monster-sized KitKats) and settled our tab.
"Who drank all these pints?"
"Herself, of course."
Hmm. I think I've heard that before.
We set off on our first cloudy morning of the walk, happy to be shielded from the blistering rays. (Sounds crazy, I know, but its been extremely hot for Ireland.) The first good bit was road walking, which isn't our favorite way to go, but the route was pretty and everyone was in good spirits. Even the dwarf was in good humor. In spite of three severe cases of baboon-butt, we were all pretty happy.
What's that? You're unfamiliar with baboon butt? Consider yourself lucky. Allow me to illustrate...Ireland's version of toilet paper is most like medium gauge sandpaper in the States. It's coarse and rough. After wiping our backsides with it for a few days, we are...raw. It's painful and uncomfortable and makes me think of the monkeys at the zoo with the bright red butts. I know they aren't baboons, but baboon butt has a nice ring to it. Unless you are suffering from it.
Anyway, baboon butt is by itself a nasty affliction, but when you've been walking for fifteen miles or so and sweating and chafing, it's downright intolerable. However, this particular morning, our baboon butts were mostly in check. We did, however, speak of wadding up four-ply American toilet paper and sitting on it like a nest when we get home. Is that too much information?
After a couple of miles of up and down road, we wound our way to a beach; Ireland's longest beach and what a treat we were in for. The waves were crashing (remember that in the Keys, the reefs prevent rollers from coming to shore, so all we hear is a gentle lapping; never any waves) and the wind was blowing. The air smelled salty, but not like the smell of old crab pots drying in the sun, but of fresh, salty sea air. Lauren's step became a bit bouncer and, like all kids, she played a game of chicken with the rushing waves. She soaked her boots more than on
In spite of the pack on my back, I found myself bent and looking down, combing the beach for treasures. Within no time, the dwarf was nearly out of sight. We weren't concerned. We had waves and wind and beautiful shells and stones to collect. Lauren drew in the sand with the tip of her walking pole while we sang and laughed. We'd have stayed there all day, but it was a long haul to Castlegregory and the day was wearing on.
We passed a couple of other walkers and one family making a picnic. Aside from that, the beach was empty! Such a huge expanse of beauty and no one there to enjoy it.
Miles later, we consulted the map. Lauren and I decided to cheat and cut across the tip of the peninsula, taking a short cut to our B&B, thereby cutting out about three or four miles of walking. Our legs and hips were sore from the mountain challenge the day before and we realized just how tired we really were. As we parted ways, the dwarf rewarded Lauren's valiant efforts with a big Snickers bar, which she gladly accepted.
We cut through the dunes and found a place to sit out of the wind. From my pack we pulled out our sandwiches and fruit and made quick work of them. As I ooed and ahhed over all of the treasures I'd collected on the beach, Lauren devoured her candy bar. We then took turns watching the path while answering the call of Mother Nature.
After a short bit, we came to a fork in the road. I was fairly certain our road lay to the left. Just then a car happened by and we hailed it down to confirm. Inside was a family from New Hampshire. We were on the right road and they offered us a lift. We thanked them, but declined, happy to walk the miles ourselves. The road was quiet and we chatted about who knows what. Our pace was similar to an evening stroll by old people. We simply weren't in a rush. We'd cut off the tip of the peninsula and we had time to kill.
After a mile or so, we came upon a big, open field of cattle. Lauren and I can't pass up the opportunity to talk to/watch/pet cows. These guys were comedians and their antics kept us watching for well over thirty minutes. A steer was apparently confused about the state of his being, because he continued to chase and mount one particular cow. It was obvious she was getting tired of it. Her calf of about four or five months decided to show the steer who was boss and tried to mount him! A little bitty calf mounting a ginormous steer. What a sight. That just got the rest of the herd riled and before you could say, "Bob's your uncle," everyone was mounting everyone else. Cow porn at its best.
Knowing we had to eventually reach Castlegregory, we pulled ourselves away only to stumble upon a weed-filled field in which a mangy horse was tied to a broken-down piece of equipment. The poor horse had wads of skin and hair hanging from him and he looked pretty darn unhealthy. Lauren and I were heartbroken and the only thing that kept me from untying him and taking him with us was the fear of being shot. He was in a sad state.
The yard surrounding the house was littered with trash and discarded junk. It was a rough looking place and I knew we'd be fighting a losing battle to even attempt to help that poor horse. I turned Lauren away and we went on, heavy hearted. I hate to see animals mistreated. There's just no reason for it.
Half a mile or so from there, was an old church surrounded by a graveyard on three sides. The gate was open, so we let ourselves in. Old tombs covered in moss and vines gave testament to their age. An old stone wall with a narrow window stood, likely held together by the moss and vines that clung to it. It appeared to be part of what was probably the original church. We walked the property, minding our feet to be respectful of those resting there. No Lavells to be found. I hope that changes in Mayo.
About three miles or so from where we left the beach, we stumbled upon the town of Castlegregory. What a quaint village with quite a lot of shops and stores. It was the biggest town we'd encountered since Dingle. Our B&B was called "The Harbor House" and while we assumed it would be at the base of the village near the water, we decided to ask someone before walking all the way down to the water only to be told it was back at the top. I went into the post office and asked for directions.
Imagine my surprise when the postman told me that our B&B wasn't actually IN Castlegregory. "It's in Castlegregory Parish, not Castlegregory Village."
Well, of course it's not. Only a bloomin' idiot would think otherwise.
Remember that bit of beach/peninsula walking that Lauren and I cut out when we took our short cut? If we'd kept walking the Dingle Way, we'd have come upon it three miles later. Instead, we went three miles out of our way and it would be another three or four miles (by road) to the point where our B&B was located.
We called a cab.
I can't explain the deflating feeling of defeat when you think you've arrived at your destination after a long walk only to find you're still miles away. Nothing takes the mustard out of you quite like that realization. Cab it was.
Our driver was a woman in her sixties with an accent so thick you could paint it. She was lovely and difficult to understand. She talked the whole way while I struggled to answer accordingly. She had a lead foot and more than once I thought I might redecorate her back seat. Thankfully, I managed to keep it in check, but it was no easy feat.
We were dropped off at Spillane's Bar where our dwarf was enjoying a pint after his long beach walk. We joined him for a Smithwick's and a light bite before walking the rest of the way to our B&B. We were fortunate enough to walk by a lush, grassy field of horses. Five or six females each had a colt nearby and they were very well taken care of. We cooed and talked to them, complimenting them on their adorable babies (horses appreciate that sort of thing) for several minutes before the dwarf got sullen. Dwarfs don't like horses anymore than they do cows.
We said our goodbyes to the beauties and made our way to the water once again. The Harbor House was appropriately named. Inside we found our room to be very comfortable and wi-fi was available for my girl. The dwarf went to his room to nap while Lauren and I went to the upstairs lounge to chill. She laid in what appeared to be a huge dog bed, covered in a blanket and was asleep within ten minutes. I sat on a comfy sofa facing the water while I sipped a pint and tried to catch up on my blogging. About an hour and half later, Lauren's tape worm woke her. We went to the dining room to feed it.
We shared some of the most delicious fried brie I've ever had. It was served with a jam for dipping and accompanied by a peppery salad. Lauren then tucked into a huge platter of fish and chips while I had creamy vegetable soup and steamed mussels. Our server was a young kid from Michigan on an internship with the B&B's dive shop. (Scuba diving is becoming a big deal in Ireland!) and he talked to us about trekking in Nepal. It sparked some ideas for future trips. With full and happy bellies, we returned to the lounge, which we had to ourselves all evening. Lauren napped on and off while I blogged.
Around 10:30, the sun began to set and the sky was bathed in glorious oranges. A new group of horses appeared right outside the B&B, so I had to go out and talk to them. The wind was blowing and the temps dropping. I chatted with the horses and made fast friends with a tabby cat who insisted I hold her while I talked to the horses. I fancied myself an animal magnet that night.
Back inside, I finally convinced Lauren to climb out of the dog bed and into her people bed around 11pm. I fell asleep knowing there was only one more walk on the Dingle Way. How did that happen? Months upon months of planning and only one walk left?
I drifted to sleep to the sounds of the ocean one more time, grateful for my walking partner who allows me to live my dream. If she only knew how much she's loved.
Thursday, June 19, 2014
Feonaugh to Cloghane - An Epic Adventure
This 15-mile walk felt like 115 and not a meter less. Never before has a walk taken the mustard out of me so. Whew, but it was worth every aching joint and blister. Here's what happened:
Our normal morning routine calls for me to get up and get dressed/ready to walk and then start packing. At the very last moment, I wake Lauren and we go down to breakfast. When we get back to the room, she applies a few layers of burn meds, waits for them to dry and then dresses. Then she applies sunblock. By that time, I've fought with our bags and stumbled down the inevitable flight or ten of stairs, stacked them by the door and settled the bill.
"Who drank all these pints?" is a frequent question from me.
"Herself," is typically the answer. Odd.
No matter. Off we go on another day's adventure. The day to Cloghane meant climbing Mount Brandon. Mount as in "mountain". Meaning a monster-sized hill with an attitude. And this particular mountain is Irish. Lord love a duck, as my parents used to say. What the hell that means, I've no idea, but it seems to fit the situation.
After a two and half mile climb up and out of the town of Feonaugh, we found ourselves at the foot of Mount Brandon. Think about that for a moment....climbing two and half miles before even getting to the mountain. Lord Jesus.
The climb was very, very steep in many places. My billy goat (Lauren) came alive as she does at times like these and scrambled uphill like she was on one of Miami Airport's people movers. Out of respect for her Mum, she stopped every so often to let me catch up before she scampered off again, leaving me in her dust. My calf and Mount Brandon don't care for each other very much at all. Need I say more?
We started the day under a heat advisory, which meant we were the only people crazy enough to climb a mountain. Full sun, high temps and no shade to be found. Brilliant!
About five hours or so after leaving our B&B, we approached the summit, but in typical European style, Brandon was sporting a fake summit. If you've never climbed a mountain, you may not know what that means, but let me assure you it's nasty business. Here's the basic idea; you climb like a sun of bitch and when you are almost at the top, ready to drop dead from exhaustion, another summit appears! What you thought was the top was just a fake! The altitude prevents climbers from seeing the real and true summit.
Aside from the shenanigans of a false summit, the views were scandalous. Never before have I been given the gift of such beauty. The agony of the climb was worth it for just two minutes at the top. Wow!
Lauren and I baptized the summit. Sorry, but we had to. We drank over a gallon on the way up. After answering the call of nature, we stopped to scarf down a quick sandwich. All too soon, it was time to begin the long trip down the backside of Brandon. Unlike the front side, his back was nearly straight down in spots and muddy. Aw feck and shit, too. There were many times on the way down that I held my breath while watching Lauren jump a section of ground, hoping she landed right. That's a mother's curse, though, isn't it? Matters not how old they get, I suppose.
About two hours later, we were back on the flat with an ugly, hard stone road to follow. At the risk of sounding like a complainer, the damn road just refused to end! On and on it went, under a relentless sun without so much as a twig of a tree to hid under. Water was running low, along with our energy. There was nowhere to find shade and our feet were on fire. We followed a stony switchback path that eventually turned into a sheep's trail and the going slowed as we fought our way through prickly wisps of this and that.
The appearance of speed limit signs is always a good thing; it means you're approaching a village. I nearly kissed the first one we saw. A mile or more down the road we found ourselves in town. Owen parted our company at the hostel while Lauren and I continued on.
Our B&B was of our favorite flavor; it was a pub. O'Connor's doesn't disappoint. Immediately inside, we found the Brits we've been walking and bunking with since Dunquin. I call them Flopsey and Mopsey, don't ask why because I can't tell you. Their real names are Derek and whatever the Welsh name is for William. They are funny, silly boys in their late fifties/early sixties and we had a lot of fun with them. Those two clowns took a taxi from Feonaugh, unwilling to have their assess handed to them by the mountain. We walked in stinking like the business end of a sheep, disheveled, limping and hungry. They were fresh as spring daisies, enjoying a pint and the company of a couple from Northern Ireland. We exchanged insults, the last of which involved me telling them that "we men" climbed the mountain while the girls were pampered all day in a taxi. It made for an interesting night.
Lauren and I grabbed hot showers and headed back downstairs where we shared a few pints with Flopsey and Mopsey. Only a few moments after mentioning a craving for pasta, the proprietor stopped by to let us know about the evening special; penne alfredo with mushrooms! Talk about luck. I then said I was craving a billion dollars, but nothing happened. I suppose I was being greedy. It was the first pasta we'd had in about nine days, and I expected my girl to lick the bowl clean. Instead, she ate a bowl of soup and gave more of her pasta to her dwarf, who ate all of his pasta and most of hers. I guess she was too tired to be hungry.
After the Brits and Owen called it a night, Lauren and I hung in the lounge where she made use of their wifi - I was unable to connect. Around 11:30pm or so, we headed off to bed. Mount Brandon kicked my ass. I had blisters, achy hips, my shins burned and my calves were on fire. The back of my legs were sun burned and I had several horse fly bites. Lauren's burn wasn't happy, her hips were screaming and her feet hurt. Whenever one of us had to move, there was grunting and moaning, much like you'd expect from a nursing home pair.
I am happy for my aches and pains. I climbed a mountain and won!! We did it! We climbed Mount Brandon and kept going. We were so high at the summit, we could see the curvature of the Earth! That's something everyone should experience at least once.
I am dead on my feet. I never want to move again. Tomorrow is another 17 mile day, most of along the beach. In the words of Scarlett O'Hara, I'll think about that tomorrow.
Our normal morning routine calls for me to get up and get dressed/ready to walk and then start packing. At the very last moment, I wake Lauren and we go down to breakfast. When we get back to the room, she applies a few layers of burn meds, waits for them to dry and then dresses. Then she applies sunblock. By that time, I've fought with our bags and stumbled down the inevitable flight or ten of stairs, stacked them by the door and settled the bill.
"Who drank all these pints?" is a frequent question from me.
"Herself," is typically the answer. Odd.
No matter. Off we go on another day's adventure. The day to Cloghane meant climbing Mount Brandon. Mount as in "mountain". Meaning a monster-sized hill with an attitude. And this particular mountain is Irish. Lord love a duck, as my parents used to say. What the hell that means, I've no idea, but it seems to fit the situation.
After a two and half mile climb up and out of the town of Feonaugh, we found ourselves at the foot of Mount Brandon. Think about that for a moment....climbing two and half miles before even getting to the mountain. Lord Jesus.
The climb was very, very steep in many places. My billy goat (Lauren) came alive as she does at times like these and scrambled uphill like she was on one of Miami Airport's people movers. Out of respect for her Mum, she stopped every so often to let me catch up before she scampered off again, leaving me in her dust. My calf and Mount Brandon don't care for each other very much at all. Need I say more?
We started the day under a heat advisory, which meant we were the only people crazy enough to climb a mountain. Full sun, high temps and no shade to be found. Brilliant!
About five hours or so after leaving our B&B, we approached the summit, but in typical European style, Brandon was sporting a fake summit. If you've never climbed a mountain, you may not know what that means, but let me assure you it's nasty business. Here's the basic idea; you climb like a sun of bitch and when you are almost at the top, ready to drop dead from exhaustion, another summit appears! What you thought was the top was just a fake! The altitude prevents climbers from seeing the real and true summit.
Aside from the shenanigans of a false summit, the views were scandalous. Never before have I been given the gift of such beauty. The agony of the climb was worth it for just two minutes at the top. Wow!
Lauren and I baptized the summit. Sorry, but we had to. We drank over a gallon on the way up. After answering the call of nature, we stopped to scarf down a quick sandwich. All too soon, it was time to begin the long trip down the backside of Brandon. Unlike the front side, his back was nearly straight down in spots and muddy. Aw feck and shit, too. There were many times on the way down that I held my breath while watching Lauren jump a section of ground, hoping she landed right. That's a mother's curse, though, isn't it? Matters not how old they get, I suppose.
About two hours later, we were back on the flat with an ugly, hard stone road to follow. At the risk of sounding like a complainer, the damn road just refused to end! On and on it went, under a relentless sun without so much as a twig of a tree to hid under. Water was running low, along with our energy. There was nowhere to find shade and our feet were on fire. We followed a stony switchback path that eventually turned into a sheep's trail and the going slowed as we fought our way through prickly wisps of this and that.
The appearance of speed limit signs is always a good thing; it means you're approaching a village. I nearly kissed the first one we saw. A mile or more down the road we found ourselves in town. Owen parted our company at the hostel while Lauren and I continued on.
Our B&B was of our favorite flavor; it was a pub. O'Connor's doesn't disappoint. Immediately inside, we found the Brits we've been walking and bunking with since Dunquin. I call them Flopsey and Mopsey, don't ask why because I can't tell you. Their real names are Derek and whatever the Welsh name is for William. They are funny, silly boys in their late fifties/early sixties and we had a lot of fun with them. Those two clowns took a taxi from Feonaugh, unwilling to have their assess handed to them by the mountain. We walked in stinking like the business end of a sheep, disheveled, limping and hungry. They were fresh as spring daisies, enjoying a pint and the company of a couple from Northern Ireland. We exchanged insults, the last of which involved me telling them that "we men" climbed the mountain while the girls were pampered all day in a taxi. It made for an interesting night.
Lauren and I grabbed hot showers and headed back downstairs where we shared a few pints with Flopsey and Mopsey. Only a few moments after mentioning a craving for pasta, the proprietor stopped by to let us know about the evening special; penne alfredo with mushrooms! Talk about luck. I then said I was craving a billion dollars, but nothing happened. I suppose I was being greedy. It was the first pasta we'd had in about nine days, and I expected my girl to lick the bowl clean. Instead, she ate a bowl of soup and gave more of her pasta to her dwarf, who ate all of his pasta and most of hers. I guess she was too tired to be hungry.
After the Brits and Owen called it a night, Lauren and I hung in the lounge where she made use of their wifi - I was unable to connect. Around 11:30pm or so, we headed off to bed. Mount Brandon kicked my ass. I had blisters, achy hips, my shins burned and my calves were on fire. The back of my legs were sun burned and I had several horse fly bites. Lauren's burn wasn't happy, her hips were screaming and her feet hurt. Whenever one of us had to move, there was grunting and moaning, much like you'd expect from a nursing home pair.
I am happy for my aches and pains. I climbed a mountain and won!! We did it! We climbed Mount Brandon and kept going. We were so high at the summit, we could see the curvature of the Earth! That's something everyone should experience at least once.
I am dead on my feet. I never want to move again. Tomorrow is another 17 mile day, most of along the beach. In the words of Scarlett O'Hara, I'll think about that tomorrow.
Dunquin to Feonaugh -
Aw feck and shit, too. I spent over an hour writing this post only to have it disappear in a puff of smoke as I was proof-reading. No explanation. It just disappeared, leaving nothing but the letter "d" and I'm ready to choke the living shit out of someone...but then I looked out the huge window of the sitting room of the B&B in which we're staying and I realize I've nothing to complain about.
"The first draft of anything is shit." That's what Hemingway said and hopefully, it;s true, because in this case, what I wrote is forever gone. Argh.
To my left, Lauren is asleep on what appears to be a ginormous dog bed. We're in the upstairs lounge/sitting room of a B&B. The windows facing the sea are open and the room is chilly - the first cool weather we've had in over a week. I have my laptop on my lap and pint on my right. What more could a girl ask for?
Back to the task at hand. You are waiting to hear about the walk from Dunquin to Feonaugh and here it is.
After two days rest, I was exited to be back on the trail! My girl woke a bit grumpy and her sun burn still bothered her; she was a reluctant participant. After a short breakfast (the food was tasteless, so why bother?), we packed up and set off to walk to the quarter mile or so to Owen's hostel.
For the record, I'd like to point out that dwarfs have an in-bred dislike of following directions. They always know a better, shorter way...or so they say.
This day was no exception. Although the Dingle Way markers clearly pointed the route, the Dwarf suggested a shortcut. I bit my tongue. Every time we go off trail with the Dwarf it ends in a pile of shit, but I was happy to be walking and Lauren's mood seemed to be improving, so I shut my pie hole and followed blindly. His short cut involved climbing the very mountain that had been looking in our window for the previous two nights and the same one on which the Dwarf had gotten lost in 2008. Can you guess where this is headed?
After an hour or so of climbing - the views were spectacular - the Dwarf began to pick a path down the other side. The mountain wasn't having it. After a bit, it became apparent that wasn't going to work, so guess what we did? Went back? No! We climbed higher. Of course we did.
After another thirty or forty minutes, it became clear that we had two choices. We could either throw ourselves down the mountain and hope to live or turn around and go back the way we came.
The very fact that you're reading this is a solid indication of our choice. I'd guess we spent two and half hours climbing up and down a mountain for no reason other than to enjoy the view. Back where started from, we set off once again. I kept a safe distance so I could curse and swear at the Dwarf without him hearing me. His intentions are always in the right place and he tries very hard to keep us safe, but he's so damn stubborn that sometimes I just want to rattle him hard enough to shake the stink off him.
Road walking is not our favorite, but sometimes it's necessary - at least on this particular walk. We went single file because the locals are involved in some sort of Dingle 500 and race around corners without a care, forcing us to jump into the thicket to save our skins. After a few miles, we dropped off onto a smaller, less-used road and were instantly rewarded by a paddock full of steers. They were all very handsome devils. No sooner had I gone to the gate, when one very pretty boy sauntered over and began to lick my hand, shirt and shorts while I told him how cute he was. It was love at first sight. He slobbered all over me and my clothes and I loved every minute of it. He was black and curly and smelled sweet. Eventually, Lauren joined me and he tasted her clothing, too. A few other handsome boys came over as well and we had a grand time until the Dwarf sighed loudly a few times to signal that it was time to go. We said our goodbyes - reluctantly - and headed on down the road.
At the end of the road was a cove of surprisingly beautifully turquoise water. Never in a million years did I expect to find water like that in Ireland. It was reminiscent our our Islamorada variety. We took another short cut and within a few minutes, the cliffs, the sea and endless pastures were ours. Isolation never looked so delicious. Lauren was in her glory, walking a very narrow cliff-side dirt path. On our right was an electric fence and to our left was a steep ledge with a very, very long fall to the rocks below. If I said, "Please be careful" once, I said it ten thousand times.
Abruptly, our path ended, forcing us to duck under the electric fence and trespass onto a farmer's land while searching for the Dingle Way. We eventually made our way back to it, but not before apologizing to a very nice man and his wife for walking without permission on their land. They said they didn't mind at all - it wasn't their land!
Many, many miles later, we finally found ourselves at Murhpy's Pub. I'll spare you the details, lest you think I'm a complainer. The temps were very high and the midges were biting. I'll leave it at that. Murphy's was an oasis to be sure. I'm not sure we'd have been able to go any further when it finally came into view. After two pints and a grilled cheese with tomato and red onion, as well as hot chips, we were refreshed and able to navigate the last few miles to our B&B.
We were booked at the Old Pier House and our room's bay window opened right onto the sea. We could have spit into it had we taken the notion. After a shower and fresh clothes (actually, the same ones we've been wearing after walking/showing for a week, so how's that for fresh?) we had a decadent and relaxing dinner. Lauren had soup followed by fish and chips. I had seafood mornay, a dish that had two large stone crab claws for bookends. I was so surprised to see stone crabs in Ireland! It was rich and delicious and just what I needed after a hard day.
We crawled into bed very tired, but happy. Falling asleep to the sound of crashing waves is a gift and one that I never take for granted. I tried to fight the sleep, but the physical activity of the day topped by a heavy meal had the upper hand. I drifted off to the sounds of the sea, hoping I never have to leave Ireland. I am a happy girl.
"The first draft of anything is shit." That's what Hemingway said and hopefully, it;s true, because in this case, what I wrote is forever gone. Argh.
To my left, Lauren is asleep on what appears to be a ginormous dog bed. We're in the upstairs lounge/sitting room of a B&B. The windows facing the sea are open and the room is chilly - the first cool weather we've had in over a week. I have my laptop on my lap and pint on my right. What more could a girl ask for?
Back to the task at hand. You are waiting to hear about the walk from Dunquin to Feonaugh and here it is.
After two days rest, I was exited to be back on the trail! My girl woke a bit grumpy and her sun burn still bothered her; she was a reluctant participant. After a short breakfast (the food was tasteless, so why bother?), we packed up and set off to walk to the quarter mile or so to Owen's hostel.
For the record, I'd like to point out that dwarfs have an in-bred dislike of following directions. They always know a better, shorter way...or so they say.
This day was no exception. Although the Dingle Way markers clearly pointed the route, the Dwarf suggested a shortcut. I bit my tongue. Every time we go off trail with the Dwarf it ends in a pile of shit, but I was happy to be walking and Lauren's mood seemed to be improving, so I shut my pie hole and followed blindly. His short cut involved climbing the very mountain that had been looking in our window for the previous two nights and the same one on which the Dwarf had gotten lost in 2008. Can you guess where this is headed?
After an hour or so of climbing - the views were spectacular - the Dwarf began to pick a path down the other side. The mountain wasn't having it. After a bit, it became apparent that wasn't going to work, so guess what we did? Went back? No! We climbed higher. Of course we did.
After another thirty or forty minutes, it became clear that we had two choices. We could either throw ourselves down the mountain and hope to live or turn around and go back the way we came.
The very fact that you're reading this is a solid indication of our choice. I'd guess we spent two and half hours climbing up and down a mountain for no reason other than to enjoy the view. Back where started from, we set off once again. I kept a safe distance so I could curse and swear at the Dwarf without him hearing me. His intentions are always in the right place and he tries very hard to keep us safe, but he's so damn stubborn that sometimes I just want to rattle him hard enough to shake the stink off him.
Road walking is not our favorite, but sometimes it's necessary - at least on this particular walk. We went single file because the locals are involved in some sort of Dingle 500 and race around corners without a care, forcing us to jump into the thicket to save our skins. After a few miles, we dropped off onto a smaller, less-used road and were instantly rewarded by a paddock full of steers. They were all very handsome devils. No sooner had I gone to the gate, when one very pretty boy sauntered over and began to lick my hand, shirt and shorts while I told him how cute he was. It was love at first sight. He slobbered all over me and my clothes and I loved every minute of it. He was black and curly and smelled sweet. Eventually, Lauren joined me and he tasted her clothing, too. A few other handsome boys came over as well and we had a grand time until the Dwarf sighed loudly a few times to signal that it was time to go. We said our goodbyes - reluctantly - and headed on down the road.
At the end of the road was a cove of surprisingly beautifully turquoise water. Never in a million years did I expect to find water like that in Ireland. It was reminiscent our our Islamorada variety. We took another short cut and within a few minutes, the cliffs, the sea and endless pastures were ours. Isolation never looked so delicious. Lauren was in her glory, walking a very narrow cliff-side dirt path. On our right was an electric fence and to our left was a steep ledge with a very, very long fall to the rocks below. If I said, "Please be careful" once, I said it ten thousand times.
Abruptly, our path ended, forcing us to duck under the electric fence and trespass onto a farmer's land while searching for the Dingle Way. We eventually made our way back to it, but not before apologizing to a very nice man and his wife for walking without permission on their land. They said they didn't mind at all - it wasn't their land!
Many, many miles later, we finally found ourselves at Murhpy's Pub. I'll spare you the details, lest you think I'm a complainer. The temps were very high and the midges were biting. I'll leave it at that. Murphy's was an oasis to be sure. I'm not sure we'd have been able to go any further when it finally came into view. After two pints and a grilled cheese with tomato and red onion, as well as hot chips, we were refreshed and able to navigate the last few miles to our B&B.
We were booked at the Old Pier House and our room's bay window opened right onto the sea. We could have spit into it had we taken the notion. After a shower and fresh clothes (actually, the same ones we've been wearing after walking/showing for a week, so how's that for fresh?) we had a decadent and relaxing dinner. Lauren had soup followed by fish and chips. I had seafood mornay, a dish that had two large stone crab claws for bookends. I was so surprised to see stone crabs in Ireland! It was rich and delicious and just what I needed after a hard day.
We crawled into bed very tired, but happy. Falling asleep to the sound of crashing waves is a gift and one that I never take for granted. I tried to fight the sleep, but the physical activity of the day topped by a heavy meal had the upper hand. I drifted off to the sounds of the sea, hoping I never have to leave Ireland. I am a happy girl.
Wednesday, June 18, 2014
A Day of Rest - Again
Today was a day we'd planned to catch a ferry to Great Blasket, which is three miles off the shore of Dunquin - by Irish measurement, which means it's actually anywhere from five to twelve miles. These grand people measure distance in a way I've yet to comprehend. No matter. Lauren's sun burn is still too painful to even consider a boat ride to an island without any trees or shelter. It would be ludicrous, so today is another rest day.
I'd be lying if I said I was thrilled about that. A body in motion tends to stay in motion, and I want to be in motion. However, after a slow breakfast, we walked a half mile or so to the Blasket Center. It's a museum of sorts and tells the story of the Blaskets Islands and their people. It grabbed me. I was completely consumed by the raw beauty of the islands and the stories of the people who lived there. Don't worry; I didn't have another out-of-body experience, so calm yourself.
In the early 1900's several Blasket Island dwellers became authors. Their lives and tales were certainly unique and the fact that they were among the few to keep the Irish language alive before it was cool, is of great importance. I visited the Center's bookstore and bought two books that I am anxious to devour. That will likely have to wait until the trip home (if I go back), because days of walking, followed by dinner and blogging leave little time to read. Having said that, I now carry the books on my back each day. It makes me feel closer to them and their history. I suppose I've gone full-blown loco. So be it. I'm happy.
We spent a lazy day playing cards, hanging out in our B&B's lounge using their wifi, talking to our new Brit friends and applying meds to Lauren's burn. Dinner was ... another tasteless affair. I'll stop there because I'd hate to sound like I'm complaining. We're warm, dry and our bellies are full. We can ask for nothing more.
As we wound down the evening in the lounge, four German women came in. They'd walked the trail, too, and they were a certainly a breath of fresh air. They were hard core; drinking beer hard and fast and then ordering a couple bottles of wine. I liked them! We sat and chatted about all sorts of things; some of them spoke good English and when they didn't, we enjoyed the sounds of German. Somewhere around midnight, I told Lauren we HAD to go to bed. The Germans stayed and drank more wine in the dark, keeping our innkeepers up into the wee hours. We heard them walk by our room - our windows were open to allow the cool night air in - and they were loud. I would have enjoyed walking with them, if I was capable of keeping up with their breakneck pace.
It was a bit of a slow day, but I spent it in the very best of company. My girl's hurting, but she never complains. I hope we can hit the trail in the morning.
As I lie in bed, I look out at the mountains beyond. They are beautiful even in the low light of night. They keep a silent watch, waiting for us to join them. Hopefully tomorrow. I hear Lauren's breathing lengthen and I smile in the dark. We are in Ireland and my heart is happy. I drift off knowing I am indeed blessed.
I'd be lying if I said I was thrilled about that. A body in motion tends to stay in motion, and I want to be in motion. However, after a slow breakfast, we walked a half mile or so to the Blasket Center. It's a museum of sorts and tells the story of the Blaskets Islands and their people. It grabbed me. I was completely consumed by the raw beauty of the islands and the stories of the people who lived there. Don't worry; I didn't have another out-of-body experience, so calm yourself.
In the early 1900's several Blasket Island dwellers became authors. Their lives and tales were certainly unique and the fact that they were among the few to keep the Irish language alive before it was cool, is of great importance. I visited the Center's bookstore and bought two books that I am anxious to devour. That will likely have to wait until the trip home (if I go back), because days of walking, followed by dinner and blogging leave little time to read. Having said that, I now carry the books on my back each day. It makes me feel closer to them and their history. I suppose I've gone full-blown loco. So be it. I'm happy.
We spent a lazy day playing cards, hanging out in our B&B's lounge using their wifi, talking to our new Brit friends and applying meds to Lauren's burn. Dinner was ... another tasteless affair. I'll stop there because I'd hate to sound like I'm complaining. We're warm, dry and our bellies are full. We can ask for nothing more.
As we wound down the evening in the lounge, four German women came in. They'd walked the trail, too, and they were a certainly a breath of fresh air. They were hard core; drinking beer hard and fast and then ordering a couple bottles of wine. I liked them! We sat and chatted about all sorts of things; some of them spoke good English and when they didn't, we enjoyed the sounds of German. Somewhere around midnight, I told Lauren we HAD to go to bed. The Germans stayed and drank more wine in the dark, keeping our innkeepers up into the wee hours. We heard them walk by our room - our windows were open to allow the cool night air in - and they were loud. I would have enjoyed walking with them, if I was capable of keeping up with their breakneck pace.
It was a bit of a slow day, but I spent it in the very best of company. My girl's hurting, but she never complains. I hope we can hit the trail in the morning.
As I lie in bed, I look out at the mountains beyond. They are beautiful even in the low light of night. They keep a silent watch, waiting for us to join them. Hopefully tomorrow. I hear Lauren's breathing lengthen and I smile in the dark. We are in Ireland and my heart is happy. I drift off knowing I am indeed blessed.
Monday, June 16, 2014
A Day of Rest
We were supposed to walk from Dingle to Dunquin today, which is a hard and challenging walk. Lauren's sun burn got worse during yesterday's walk (the sun burned right through her shirt) and she has sun poisoning. She wasn't feeling well at all and there was just no way I could ask her to walk fifteen miles while feeling poorly, much less expose her skin to eight more hours of sun.
Contrary to the expected weather, Ireland's sun was out in full force all day with hardly a cloud to keep it company. My precious girl is not the only one with red, painful skin. I see other walkers suffering the same fate, but Lauren is the only one that matters to me. A day off the trail is what we needed. I hated (I can't tell you how much) to miss a day of walking, but there was nothing to be done about it.
We told our innkeepers over a slow and lazy breakfast that we wouldn't be walking. When the lady of the house saw Lauren's skin, she disappeared and came back with a spray she keeps in her freezer. The chemist sold it to her when one of her girls burned herself with boiling water. She insisted that we take it and we did. After she made arrangements for a cab to collect us at 6pm, she told us to leave our bags in the lounge and offered her son's bedroom to Lauren in case she need a place to lie down during the day.
God love the Irish, because I sure do. Their hearts are as big as their throats are dry.
We wandered around the corner to a sports shop where I bought Lauren an SPF 40 shirt. It will hopefully protect her chest, but it's short sleeved. They didn't have any sun shirts with long sleeves. Although she's not quite herself, Lauren came alive in a shop of vintage wraps and shawls and sterling silver jewelry. I bought her a shawl that, if Gooma was still living, she'd have made in a weekend. It was dear, but worth every euro for the look it put on Goo's face. I also bought a few stud earrings for us and a Celtic ring for my girl. (I'll get a second job when we go back...if we go back.)
We spent the day wandering shops, but resting on benches often. Lunch was taken in a pub with wifi, where we spent a good two hours or more, hiding from the sun and refueling. I'm definitely settling in because when I'd finished eating, there were three empty packets of brown sauce next to my plate. For those of you unfamiliar with brown sauce, you'll have to find some and give it a try. I'm bring back loads of packets in my backpack (if I go back).
The cab ride to Dunquin was exciting. Our driver, Dolores, was most certainly a card and had a lead foot. The roads here are one lane and it comes down to a game of chicken when two cars meet. Who will pull over at the very last second? Nobody knows - not even the drivers. I've almost shit me knickers twice this week during one of these contests. Isn't this fun?
As we drove uphill, Dolores told us to get ready for a "top of the world" view. She wasn't kidding. As we crested the steep hill, we were afforded our first view of the Blasket Islands. Wow. Just wow.
The Sleeping Giant is an island that looks like, well, a sleeping giant. The head, nose, belly and so on are easily visible. The island resembles a man of monster-sized proportions who tired and laid in the sea to rest. To his left is Great Blasket, which until the early 1950s was inhabited by a group of die-hard, tough Irish folk who preserved their language. Their story is compelling and their islands speak loudly of a long history. I was immediately moved by their beauty and isolation. Wow.
Our B&B is a large property run by a couple. Just a couple. No help. They are struggling. The place is clean and airy, our room is comfortable and big, but when it comes time to sit down for dinner, it's nearly empty. A couple of Brits who are walking the Dingle, two Swedes and us - the dwarf's hostel doesn't serve food, so he joined us. Although the dining room could easily hold seventy, there are only seven of us dining.
The food was....well, I didn't eat much. I pushed it around on my plate. The proprietors are WONDERFULLY kind folks who would likely give the shirt off their back, but they don't know how to cook. I think I've found a job...what will I tell my recruits? Doug? Lauren? Take the tomato basil soup - it was clearly homemade, chunky tomatoes with loads of basil. They forgot to salt it at the right time and no matter how much salt you add at the end, it will never taste right. Never underestimate the importance of proper seasoning. Then there was the "vegetable risotto", which was actually rice with peppers and onions with a bit of broth. Again, absolutely no salt and nothing at all resembling risotto.
I had a warm roll schmeared with fresh made butter and two Merlots. I really didn't need to eat - I can live off the fat of the land, but a warm and creamy risotto would have been grand.
We stayed up until almost midnight in the lounge because that's the only place we could access their wifi. I asked the innkeepers if we were holding them up, but they insisted we weren't. When we finally decided to go back to our room, I found them sitting at a table in the dark dining room drinking a cuppa. They were clearly waiting for us to clear out so they could go to bed. I apologized profusely and told them they should have shooed us out, but they insisted we were no bother. They are very kind, gracious hosts and their cooking skills are no matter when compared to their hospitality.
The wind was blowing a bit as we walked back to our room, which was a separate building from the main dining room/lounge. The temperature was perfect for sleeping. I did a bit of laundry in the sink, wrung it out and used the hair dryer to help it along before hanging it to dry overnight. Lauren was quiet, her eyes not looking quite right, but she never complained. Tomorrow is a planned day off. We were going to take a ferry to the Blasket Islands, but we'll have to assess her condition in the morning.
We tucked in and put out the light. Outside my window, I could see the mountains looking down at us. They loomed almost close enough to touch, it seemed. The sun hadn't completely set yet - it was only 11:30pm, but the sky was darkening. Although we hadn't walked, neither of us had difficulty drifting off to a peaceful slumber.
I sent up a prayer to the Gods of The Dingle Way, who'd already been quite accommodating, to heal my girl's skin and sore muscles so that we could continue walking come Tuesday. It was a short prayer because sleep soon rushed in and took control. Only for a brief moment was I aware of the breeze and then I was off.
Contrary to the expected weather, Ireland's sun was out in full force all day with hardly a cloud to keep it company. My precious girl is not the only one with red, painful skin. I see other walkers suffering the same fate, but Lauren is the only one that matters to me. A day off the trail is what we needed. I hated (I can't tell you how much) to miss a day of walking, but there was nothing to be done about it.
We told our innkeepers over a slow and lazy breakfast that we wouldn't be walking. When the lady of the house saw Lauren's skin, she disappeared and came back with a spray she keeps in her freezer. The chemist sold it to her when one of her girls burned herself with boiling water. She insisted that we take it and we did. After she made arrangements for a cab to collect us at 6pm, she told us to leave our bags in the lounge and offered her son's bedroom to Lauren in case she need a place to lie down during the day.
God love the Irish, because I sure do. Their hearts are as big as their throats are dry.
We wandered around the corner to a sports shop where I bought Lauren an SPF 40 shirt. It will hopefully protect her chest, but it's short sleeved. They didn't have any sun shirts with long sleeves. Although she's not quite herself, Lauren came alive in a shop of vintage wraps and shawls and sterling silver jewelry. I bought her a shawl that, if Gooma was still living, she'd have made in a weekend. It was dear, but worth every euro for the look it put on Goo's face. I also bought a few stud earrings for us and a Celtic ring for my girl. (I'll get a second job when we go back...if we go back.)
We spent the day wandering shops, but resting on benches often. Lunch was taken in a pub with wifi, where we spent a good two hours or more, hiding from the sun and refueling. I'm definitely settling in because when I'd finished eating, there were three empty packets of brown sauce next to my plate. For those of you unfamiliar with brown sauce, you'll have to find some and give it a try. I'm bring back loads of packets in my backpack (if I go back).
The cab ride to Dunquin was exciting. Our driver, Dolores, was most certainly a card and had a lead foot. The roads here are one lane and it comes down to a game of chicken when two cars meet. Who will pull over at the very last second? Nobody knows - not even the drivers. I've almost shit me knickers twice this week during one of these contests. Isn't this fun?
As we drove uphill, Dolores told us to get ready for a "top of the world" view. She wasn't kidding. As we crested the steep hill, we were afforded our first view of the Blasket Islands. Wow. Just wow.
The Sleeping Giant is an island that looks like, well, a sleeping giant. The head, nose, belly and so on are easily visible. The island resembles a man of monster-sized proportions who tired and laid in the sea to rest. To his left is Great Blasket, which until the early 1950s was inhabited by a group of die-hard, tough Irish folk who preserved their language. Their story is compelling and their islands speak loudly of a long history. I was immediately moved by their beauty and isolation. Wow.
Our B&B is a large property run by a couple. Just a couple. No help. They are struggling. The place is clean and airy, our room is comfortable and big, but when it comes time to sit down for dinner, it's nearly empty. A couple of Brits who are walking the Dingle, two Swedes and us - the dwarf's hostel doesn't serve food, so he joined us. Although the dining room could easily hold seventy, there are only seven of us dining.
The food was....well, I didn't eat much. I pushed it around on my plate. The proprietors are WONDERFULLY kind folks who would likely give the shirt off their back, but they don't know how to cook. I think I've found a job...what will I tell my recruits? Doug? Lauren? Take the tomato basil soup - it was clearly homemade, chunky tomatoes with loads of basil. They forgot to salt it at the right time and no matter how much salt you add at the end, it will never taste right. Never underestimate the importance of proper seasoning. Then there was the "vegetable risotto", which was actually rice with peppers and onions with a bit of broth. Again, absolutely no salt and nothing at all resembling risotto.
I had a warm roll schmeared with fresh made butter and two Merlots. I really didn't need to eat - I can live off the fat of the land, but a warm and creamy risotto would have been grand.
We stayed up until almost midnight in the lounge because that's the only place we could access their wifi. I asked the innkeepers if we were holding them up, but they insisted we weren't. When we finally decided to go back to our room, I found them sitting at a table in the dark dining room drinking a cuppa. They were clearly waiting for us to clear out so they could go to bed. I apologized profusely and told them they should have shooed us out, but they insisted we were no bother. They are very kind, gracious hosts and their cooking skills are no matter when compared to their hospitality.
The wind was blowing a bit as we walked back to our room, which was a separate building from the main dining room/lounge. The temperature was perfect for sleeping. I did a bit of laundry in the sink, wrung it out and used the hair dryer to help it along before hanging it to dry overnight. Lauren was quiet, her eyes not looking quite right, but she never complained. Tomorrow is a planned day off. We were going to take a ferry to the Blasket Islands, but we'll have to assess her condition in the morning.
We tucked in and put out the light. Outside my window, I could see the mountains looking down at us. They loomed almost close enough to touch, it seemed. The sun hadn't completely set yet - it was only 11:30pm, but the sky was darkening. Although we hadn't walked, neither of us had difficulty drifting off to a peaceful slumber.
I sent up a prayer to the Gods of The Dingle Way, who'd already been quite accommodating, to heal my girl's skin and sore muscles so that we could continue walking come Tuesday. It was a short prayer because sleep soon rushed in and took control. Only for a brief moment was I aware of the breeze and then I was off.
The Rest of The Story
I'll pick up where I left off last night. . . Anascaul to Dingle, post Minard Castle.
The next section of our day was road walking, which is preferable to a very stony climb up the side of a mountain, but it can be hard on your feet in a different way. We frequently had to press ourselves against the hedgerow to make room for passing cars and tractors. The bumble bees were busy at work on the flowers in the hedge and seemed annoyed by our passing. They frequently dive-bombed us to express their unhappiness, which sent me running into oncoming cars more than once. I'm convinced the bees planned it that way, but I can't prove it.
At one bend in the road, we met up with a woman whom I'd seen earlier that morning in Anascaul. She was walking alone and when we approached, she asked if she could walk with us and pointed further up the road. Dogs.
Two working dogs were lying in the shade near the end of a drive, one wore a muzzle. I suppose he was a bit too aggressive with the newly born lambs and his owners wanted to keep his activities to herding, not hurting. The lady was obviously afraid, but she needn't have worried. The dogs were no bother; they were on a coffee break and couldn't have been less interested in us. I'm sure if I'd hopped the hedgerow into the sheep pasture, things would have changed. She was visibly nervous until we'd left the dogs well behind. We talked a bit and learned she was from Munich. Like all Europeans, her gait was longer and faster than ours. She was holding back to keep in step with us. I wasn't really looking for a new friend, but didn't want to be unfriendly so when she asked if she could walk with us, I said yes.
Fortunately for us, after a mile or so, we met up with another German couple we'd met on the way into Anascaul. They started talking and Bam! The three of them were off and we were on our own again. We've not seen any of them since.
As usual, the dwarf led our procession, Lauren followed him and I followed her. It's a comfortable arrangement, and I'm left to talk to cows and horses while they make decisions regarding the map. Navigation is for the youngsters. I'm here for the views and the pints, and not necessarily in that order.
When the tarmac road we were following began to go downhill, I got suspicious and looked around. Sure enough, off to our right was a Dingle Way marker the two in front of me had overlooked.
"Hey, Guys!" I shouted. "The trail goes this way."
The dwarf and his elf (that's what he calls Lauren) turned back with looks on their faces that made clear they didn't believe me. How could I have found the way? I mean, really. I must have made a mistake.
The dwarf blamed it on being distracted. I said nothing, but knew I'd saved us from another game of "Where the hell are we and how do get to where we want to go?" I don't really like that game.
We wound our way through farmland, poop covered pastures and around fields of cattle. The views were glorious, but there was no shade and the sun was relentless. (Yes, relentless. In Ireland. Crazy talk, I know.) Lauren's sunburn was hurting, in spite of being covered by a long sleeve shirt and sunblock. I gave her my hat and we topped that off with a hooded sweatshirt draped over the hat to keep her neck covered, too. (It wasn't very comfortable for her because it held in the heat.)
We dropped back down to a road for a bit and then climbed back up into fields. A short way into a farm, we found the Way tied off. The farmer had roped off the path to keep people out. All of the guidebooks and websites make clear that walkers are to honor the wishes of the farmers. After all, we're trespassing on their land. We found that every direction we tried was cordoned off. There was nothing to do but go back to the road and hope that it would take us to Dingle.
Road walking - especially after ten miles or so - gets tedious and very hot. After a couple of miles, we stopped a passing car and found that the road we were on would (eventually) take us into town. The water was running low and Lauren was turning a more vibrant shade of red. Her hips and legs hurt and mine weren't happy either.
As we approached every hill, the dwarf would tell us that Dingle Town just "had" to be over that hill. It never was. Discouragement and aching muscles took over when the water ran out, but we finally made it. Dingle came into view after we climbed one last steep, ugly hill. Down, down, down we went to the main drag lined with pub after glorious pub. Lauren and I smelled like sheep dung and wanted nothing more than a shower and clean clothes. (That's not entirely true. I also wanted a pint, but knew it would have to wait.) We left the dwarf at his hostel and headed off main street and to the wharf. Our B&B was almost near the end of a quaint waterfront area, littered with shops and pubs.
We found our B&B and once in our room, discovered that Lauren's sunburn was far worse. Despite being covered, the sun burned her right through the shirt. Her chest and neck were angry red with what appeared to be small blisters. Ugh. She was hurting but, in typical Lauren fashion, wasn't complaining. That's when her left forearm started to swell. We both watched it grow in size before our eyes. She has a Popeye forearm, but just on her left side. No pain, no redness, no bite marks. Just a hugely swollen forearm. I thin its damn impressive; she doesn't agree.
After a shower and fresh clothes, and a slathering of burn meds on Lauren's upper body, we went downstairs to Murphy's Pub for Smithwick's and grub. Lauren had mushroom soup and veggie pasta in a creamy garlic sauce. I had fish and chips. The food was so-so, but the pints and the company were stellar. We crawled back upstairs to our room, ate some Advil, applied more burn cream, and then crawled into bed with the windows open. The best cure for insomnia is a long day of walking Ireland's countryside. I tried to stay awake long enough to replay the day in my mind, but didn't make it far before the cobwebs took over. The comfortable sounds of a very old fishing village winding down made their way into our room and lulled us into a peaceful sleep. I am a lucky girl.
Sunday, June 15, 2014
Anascaul to Dingle - 16 miles
Aw feck, and shit, too.
That's my new favorite Irish phrase. I use it when another uphill climb appears, when my pint is empty and when I realize my girl's sunburn has gotten worse, despite my efforts to protect her baby skin from the sun.
Today's walk to Dingle was...difficult. Disheartening at times, emotional at others. Beautifully breathtaking all the time. There's simply no way I can adequately describe what I've seen, felt and experienced, but I'll try to share some of it.
As always, the walk out of any town is up, up and up until my left eardrum is right on the very edge of exploding. When these towns were settled (A very long time ago; Dougie wasn't even born.), being near the water was critical for food, transportation/bartering of goods, and maybe even escape. The designers of these walks take us into a town and then force us to climb to heights that provide glorious views, then make us go up and down several more times for the hell of it before taking us on a steep descent into another town once again. It's how they get their jollies, the sick bastards.
We climbed out of Anascaul for ever. That's what it felt like. Up and up and up. Unlike yesterday, the sun was unrelenting today. Locals say this weather is unheard of. (We brought the FL sun with us.) The temps are high and the sun just won't stop. We sweated like pigs again today, stinking up Ireland so badly, I expected the Arm Pit Bobbies to hunt us down and scrub us right there on the trail. (The dwarf would be their first target. If you could smell him, you'd agree.)
I know I've mentioned the beauty of the hedgerows filled with foxgloves and daisies and all sorts of pretty things, but my descriptions can't do them justice. Frequently today, cows and sheep were on the other side of the hedge, and they always make me smile. One Hereford in particular stole my heart. She was lonely and looking for attention when we stumbled by, exhausted and frustrated with the seemingly endless trail. I wandered off trail to let her sniff my hand while I cooed to her, telling her how pretty she was. Her eyelashes were long and dark, perfectly accenting light brown inquisitive eyes. She was a beaut. She sniffed and then sent her long tongue straight into her nostrils (a trick my son can mimic), but she wouldn't let me pet her. I'm convinced that given thirty (pronounced tirty in these parts), she'd have let me throw my arms around her neck. I hated to go, but we had such a long way to go.
Sadly, there were no pubs at which to find relief during today's grueling tirtheen miles (yes, I spelled it that way on purpose), but there was Minard Castle. Oh dear, where to start with this story?
It matters not, because once it's told you'll be convinced I've lost what few marbles I had.
Have you ever gone someplace for the first time and felt like you've been there before? Have you been to a place unknown to you and had your mind flooded with feelings, emotions and (dare I say?) memories? If you're thinking I'm a wing nut, just stop reading because I'm about to tell you quite a tale. I won't blame you if you don't believe me. I hardly do myself.
About four or five kilometers out of Anascaul, the road began to descend to the sea. Rounding a corner, we were greeted by the remains of a tower house - a castle - perched on a beautifully green cliff. The portion of the castle facing the water is gone, allowing one to peer directly into the inside of what was once surely a home of great comfort to those who were lucky enough to dwell within. Below the castle are big boulders rising out of the sea. It was low tide when we arrived, so I was able to scramble over the slippery rocks to get a better view of the castle, which is now off limits and fenced off because it's no longer safe. (It was attacked in 1650 and structurally damaged. 1650. Stop and think about the enormity of time and all those who have come and gone over the course of those years.)
As I stood alone, looking into the heart of the castle, I heard voices. I looked around. Lauren was standing at the water's edge, lost in thoughts only she could think. The dwarf was perched on a boulder, eating a pear. No one else was in sight. Returning my gaze to the castle's remains, I heard voices again. Picking up snippets of a conversation, just far enough away that the words were not intelligible, but several people were talking. As I strained to understand the words floating on the breeze, I smelled charred meat and another smell for which I have no description. It wasn't entirely foreign to me, but I don't know what it was.
Listening to the distant voices and smelling the cooking meat, I was overcome with emotions both strong and unexpected. I began to cry. (This is where you roll your eyes and say, "I knew she was off her nut.") I felt like I'd come back to a place that I'd loved, but hadn't seen in a very, very long time. I'm reluctant to share too much more because it's so strange.
It was very hard to walk away from Minard Castle. I felt like I'd done it before and it was painful to do it again. As usual, the dwarf led the way, Lauren followed and I brought up the rear. Out of their line of sight, I was free to cry as we ascended from the water, leaving the castle behind. My heart ached in a way I've only experienced a few other times in my life. It was an experience totally unexpected and impossible to explain.
There you have it and there you are. Believe what you will.
I'm emotionally drained and will share the rest of today's walk in another post.
That's my new favorite Irish phrase. I use it when another uphill climb appears, when my pint is empty and when I realize my girl's sunburn has gotten worse, despite my efforts to protect her baby skin from the sun.
Today's walk to Dingle was...difficult. Disheartening at times, emotional at others. Beautifully breathtaking all the time. There's simply no way I can adequately describe what I've seen, felt and experienced, but I'll try to share some of it.
As always, the walk out of any town is up, up and up until my left eardrum is right on the very edge of exploding. When these towns were settled (A very long time ago; Dougie wasn't even born.), being near the water was critical for food, transportation/bartering of goods, and maybe even escape. The designers of these walks take us into a town and then force us to climb to heights that provide glorious views, then make us go up and down several more times for the hell of it before taking us on a steep descent into another town once again. It's how they get their jollies, the sick bastards.
We climbed out of Anascaul for ever. That's what it felt like. Up and up and up. Unlike yesterday, the sun was unrelenting today. Locals say this weather is unheard of. (We brought the FL sun with us.) The temps are high and the sun just won't stop. We sweated like pigs again today, stinking up Ireland so badly, I expected the Arm Pit Bobbies to hunt us down and scrub us right there on the trail. (The dwarf would be their first target. If you could smell him, you'd agree.)
I know I've mentioned the beauty of the hedgerows filled with foxgloves and daisies and all sorts of pretty things, but my descriptions can't do them justice. Frequently today, cows and sheep were on the other side of the hedge, and they always make me smile. One Hereford in particular stole my heart. She was lonely and looking for attention when we stumbled by, exhausted and frustrated with the seemingly endless trail. I wandered off trail to let her sniff my hand while I cooed to her, telling her how pretty she was. Her eyelashes were long and dark, perfectly accenting light brown inquisitive eyes. She was a beaut. She sniffed and then sent her long tongue straight into her nostrils (a trick my son can mimic), but she wouldn't let me pet her. I'm convinced that given thirty (pronounced tirty in these parts), she'd have let me throw my arms around her neck. I hated to go, but we had such a long way to go.
Sadly, there were no pubs at which to find relief during today's grueling tirtheen miles (yes, I spelled it that way on purpose), but there was Minard Castle. Oh dear, where to start with this story?
It matters not, because once it's told you'll be convinced I've lost what few marbles I had.
Have you ever gone someplace for the first time and felt like you've been there before? Have you been to a place unknown to you and had your mind flooded with feelings, emotions and (dare I say?) memories? If you're thinking I'm a wing nut, just stop reading because I'm about to tell you quite a tale. I won't blame you if you don't believe me. I hardly do myself.
About four or five kilometers out of Anascaul, the road began to descend to the sea. Rounding a corner, we were greeted by the remains of a tower house - a castle - perched on a beautifully green cliff. The portion of the castle facing the water is gone, allowing one to peer directly into the inside of what was once surely a home of great comfort to those who were lucky enough to dwell within. Below the castle are big boulders rising out of the sea. It was low tide when we arrived, so I was able to scramble over the slippery rocks to get a better view of the castle, which is now off limits and fenced off because it's no longer safe. (It was attacked in 1650 and structurally damaged. 1650. Stop and think about the enormity of time and all those who have come and gone over the course of those years.)
As I stood alone, looking into the heart of the castle, I heard voices. I looked around. Lauren was standing at the water's edge, lost in thoughts only she could think. The dwarf was perched on a boulder, eating a pear. No one else was in sight. Returning my gaze to the castle's remains, I heard voices again. Picking up snippets of a conversation, just far enough away that the words were not intelligible, but several people were talking. As I strained to understand the words floating on the breeze, I smelled charred meat and another smell for which I have no description. It wasn't entirely foreign to me, but I don't know what it was.
Listening to the distant voices and smelling the cooking meat, I was overcome with emotions both strong and unexpected. I began to cry. (This is where you roll your eyes and say, "I knew she was off her nut.") I felt like I'd come back to a place that I'd loved, but hadn't seen in a very, very long time. I'm reluctant to share too much more because it's so strange.
It was very hard to walk away from Minard Castle. I felt like I'd done it before and it was painful to do it again. As usual, the dwarf led the way, Lauren followed and I brought up the rear. Out of their line of sight, I was free to cry as we ascended from the water, leaving the castle behind. My heart ached in a way I've only experienced a few other times in my life. It was an experience totally unexpected and impossible to explain.
There you have it and there you are. Believe what you will.
I'm emotionally drained and will share the rest of today's walk in another post.
Friday, June 13, 2014
Camp to Anascaul
Last night's host, John Doyle, was a very kind man, but his sister is one of a kind to be sure. (Just to clarify, she is not a man.) I just can't say enough about them. As you already know, she dug through her medicine cabinet at a very late hour to try to help me soothe Lauren's burned skin. If that wasn't enough, John drove me to a gas station to buy water and more meds.
Once Lauren's skin was plastered with "after sun", we slept heavily. When the alarm went off at 7:20am, I shut it off and instantly fell back to sleep. At 8:05, I bolted awake. We were due to be at the table by 8:30. Getting Lauren out of bed was no easy feat because we'd been up quite late. The sun doesn't set until after 11pm, so despite our burned skin and fatigue, we didn't go to sleep until well after midnight. Just as frustrating - less than five hours after the sun went down, the damn thing was back up again. Craziness.
After breakfast, John's sister drove Lauren and I back to the gas station to buy sunblock. She wanted to save us another mile or so of walking before we hit the trail. I have to admit, I was grateful because the walk from the B&B to the gas station felt like it was straight uphill. We tried to say no, but she insisted on taking us. We thanked her as best we could and told her how wonderful she was. We meant every word.
"If they don't have sun cream, you come right across the street to my door. I'll give you what I have. No trouble atall," she said.
Would anyone in the States to this for a complete stranger? One they'd never see again?
I found sunblock, which was great, but I'd also hoped to find a hat to shield my girl's face from the sun. No hats were to be found, but I was grateful for the sunblock. I grabbed a few baguettes, two apples and a banana and took our goods outside to pack. Guess who was waiting on the shoulder of the road in her car? John's sister wanted to be sure we'd found sun block. When she discovered we hadn't gotten a hat, she produced a brand new baseball cap and handed it out the window. She insisted that we take it and wished us Godspeed.
I felt like a hobbit setting off on a grand adventure, bestowed with gifts I hadn't earned and didn't deserve. Please remind me when I get home, to send a rum cake to John and his sister. They are dear, dear people.
Today's eleven miles were much easier on the feet than yesterday's. The views were (for me) just as spectacular. I enjoyed every last minute, in spite of the seemingly endless climbing. I'd do it again right now, given the opportunity. God knows there's enough sunlight left.
Much like England's Coast to Coast, leaving any town means a climb. Today was no different. We set off down a very pretty country lane, jumping into the hedge row several times to make way for huge John Deere tractors pulling trailers of stuff. I don't think I'd ever tire of Ireland's country lanes. The hedgerows are replete with foxgloves, fuchsia, buttercups and miniature daisies. These are flowers we don't have in the Keys, but that are part of my NY and VA pasts. I enjoyed each passing inch of hedgerow. More than once, Lauren turned to say something to me, only to find me grinning like a moron because of the flowers. She gets me, so its okay.
The ascent out of Camp wasn't an easy one, but I've learned the ascent never is. Steep and unrelenting was the lane. Fortunately, I found lots of beautiful cows and adorable sheep to talk to along the way, allowing me to catch my breath and rest my burning legs. The cows seemed quite interested in two American girls with packs and walking sticks. Some of them approached and sniffed, keeping a safe distance. We cooed and mooed and told them how lovely they were. It came as no surprise; they already knew it.
The views were grand. Mountains on either side, a glorious valley below and everywhere we looked, there was green upon green upon green. The mountains were patch work of greens spotted white with sheep and various colors of bovine. If I was a gifted painter, this surely would be something I'd want to recreate. The serenity is indescribable. I hope I never forget the feelings my surroundings produced.
After forty minutes or so of climbing, we were in the clouds. Literally. The mountains, their patchwork, the cows and the sheep disappeared. We were enveloped in a shroud of white mist. The temps dropped the higher we climbed. I stopped to add a layer and was tempted to get out my knit hat and gloves, but Lauren eyeballed me, so I stopped short of that. The sounds of mooing and bleating were muffled as the visibility dropped to a hundred yards. I truly enjoy walking in the cloud world. It's magical. I was convinced that a dragon would, at any moment, plummet from the sky and land beside us. My imagination goes into overtime when I'm wrapped in clouds.
Faced with an easy terrain, my eyes were free to soak in the views rather than focusing on where to place my trotters. The flowers, streams and cattle were precious. The sheep were dastardly mischievous.
It's commonplace to find the poop of cows and sheep on the trial. We think nothing of it because we're crossing their grazing fields. Today, however, we walked among some cunning little bastards. At one point, we crossed a cattle grid, which is a series of metal rods crossing a ditch, that allows tractors and cars to pass over, but not cattle. (Sometimes people have difficulty with them, too, but I try to forget that memory.)
It was clear that the sheep on this particular hunk of land resented those who could cross the cattle grid. They organized a group effort, convincing each member of the herd to tighten their sphincter until they reached the area right after the humans cross the grid and then they all let go in the same place, creating a barrier of shit. A sheep shit barrier. It was a brilliant strategy and might have convinced lesser humans to turn back, but not us. We plodded forward, in spite of the poop wall and continued our journey to Anascaul.
After an hour or so of cloud walking, the skies cleared and we were again visited by the warm Irish sun. (Lauren was sun blocked this time.) We walked past groupings of attractive cottages with small barns and pastures of cows. My favorite homestead had a pasture so close to the house that the cows could peer right into the kitchen window. I was certain I heard one say, "Eat more chicken!"
We slowly wound our way down to the water level again and found our way to Foley's Pub for a pint. Lauren had a bowl of soup and brown bread while I devoured a plate of goat cheese with pesto on a bed of greens. It was crazy yummy while being light and refreshing. I balanced that healthy, light feeling with two pints of Smithwick's. Then the ascent started again....and it simply wouldn't end. I darted off trail more than once to rid myself of the beer. I'm hoping what I thought was poison ivy was not. Time will tell. ("Hey, look what I brought home from Ireland!")
We climbed and climbed and climbed until I thought my ear drum would burst. The views were breathtaking. Come to think of it, so was the walking; I was winded for most of it.
This is probably a good time to remind you that the Keys are flatter than I was during my junior high school years. Training for this walk was nearly impossible. Our biggest incline is the Snake Creek Bridge, which is not as steep as my parent's driveway. Our legs are rebuilding themselves by the minute.
After about an hour of relentless climbing, we joined a tarmac road. Within another hour or so, we descended into the village of Anascaul and not a moment too soon. Lauren's hips were screaming at her and she needed relief. Luckily for us, the very first pub we happened upon was our own for the night: Teac Seain, which means Sean's House in Irish. (Before you jump all over me, the Irish are moving away from using the term "Gaelic" and prefer to call their language "Irish". There's an enormous movement to preserve the language (which I wholeheartedly support) and signs are written first in Irish and then in English. I love that!)
After walking into the proprietors actual home - yeah, we walked right in like we owned the joint - the lady of the house walked us out and down two doors to the proper entrance. Our room is large and airy. We both showered and put on clean clothes and were off again. We had a pint downstairs in the Teac Seain Pub, which is very small and clearly a place for the locals, then we headed to the South Pole Inn. It's famous for producing Anascaul's one famous person, Tom Crean. I leave it to you to research the man and his legend.
The food was okay, but the people were exceptionally friendly. If Lauren's hips and sun burn hadn't been bothering her so much, we'd have stayed longer. Instead, we're back in our room. She's connected to wifi and talking with friends while I putter, reorganizing our gear. I'm sipping a glass of Merlot and getting my thoughts into electrons in between washing out stinky socks and emptying water containers so that they can air out for the night before being refilled and carried on my back tomorrow.
Coming from below, I hear the sounds of the pub. The accents of the locals here are very, very thick and difficult to understand. We will fall asleep to the sounds of Irish countrymen bantering back and forth over pints of Guinness. I wish I could bottle it and take it home. I know many would complain about the noise, but if you listen closely, it's not noise. It's the sound of my distant past and I embrace it.
Once Lauren's skin was plastered with "after sun", we slept heavily. When the alarm went off at 7:20am, I shut it off and instantly fell back to sleep. At 8:05, I bolted awake. We were due to be at the table by 8:30. Getting Lauren out of bed was no easy feat because we'd been up quite late. The sun doesn't set until after 11pm, so despite our burned skin and fatigue, we didn't go to sleep until well after midnight. Just as frustrating - less than five hours after the sun went down, the damn thing was back up again. Craziness.
After breakfast, John's sister drove Lauren and I back to the gas station to buy sunblock. She wanted to save us another mile or so of walking before we hit the trail. I have to admit, I was grateful because the walk from the B&B to the gas station felt like it was straight uphill. We tried to say no, but she insisted on taking us. We thanked her as best we could and told her how wonderful she was. We meant every word.
"If they don't have sun cream, you come right across the street to my door. I'll give you what I have. No trouble atall," she said.
Would anyone in the States to this for a complete stranger? One they'd never see again?
I found sunblock, which was great, but I'd also hoped to find a hat to shield my girl's face from the sun. No hats were to be found, but I was grateful for the sunblock. I grabbed a few baguettes, two apples and a banana and took our goods outside to pack. Guess who was waiting on the shoulder of the road in her car? John's sister wanted to be sure we'd found sun block. When she discovered we hadn't gotten a hat, she produced a brand new baseball cap and handed it out the window. She insisted that we take it and wished us Godspeed.
I felt like a hobbit setting off on a grand adventure, bestowed with gifts I hadn't earned and didn't deserve. Please remind me when I get home, to send a rum cake to John and his sister. They are dear, dear people.
Today's eleven miles were much easier on the feet than yesterday's. The views were (for me) just as spectacular. I enjoyed every last minute, in spite of the seemingly endless climbing. I'd do it again right now, given the opportunity. God knows there's enough sunlight left.
Much like England's Coast to Coast, leaving any town means a climb. Today was no different. We set off down a very pretty country lane, jumping into the hedge row several times to make way for huge John Deere tractors pulling trailers of stuff. I don't think I'd ever tire of Ireland's country lanes. The hedgerows are replete with foxgloves, fuchsia, buttercups and miniature daisies. These are flowers we don't have in the Keys, but that are part of my NY and VA pasts. I enjoyed each passing inch of hedgerow. More than once, Lauren turned to say something to me, only to find me grinning like a moron because of the flowers. She gets me, so its okay.
The ascent out of Camp wasn't an easy one, but I've learned the ascent never is. Steep and unrelenting was the lane. Fortunately, I found lots of beautiful cows and adorable sheep to talk to along the way, allowing me to catch my breath and rest my burning legs. The cows seemed quite interested in two American girls with packs and walking sticks. Some of them approached and sniffed, keeping a safe distance. We cooed and mooed and told them how lovely they were. It came as no surprise; they already knew it.
The views were grand. Mountains on either side, a glorious valley below and everywhere we looked, there was green upon green upon green. The mountains were patch work of greens spotted white with sheep and various colors of bovine. If I was a gifted painter, this surely would be something I'd want to recreate. The serenity is indescribable. I hope I never forget the feelings my surroundings produced.
After forty minutes or so of climbing, we were in the clouds. Literally. The mountains, their patchwork, the cows and the sheep disappeared. We were enveloped in a shroud of white mist. The temps dropped the higher we climbed. I stopped to add a layer and was tempted to get out my knit hat and gloves, but Lauren eyeballed me, so I stopped short of that. The sounds of mooing and bleating were muffled as the visibility dropped to a hundred yards. I truly enjoy walking in the cloud world. It's magical. I was convinced that a dragon would, at any moment, plummet from the sky and land beside us. My imagination goes into overtime when I'm wrapped in clouds.
Faced with an easy terrain, my eyes were free to soak in the views rather than focusing on where to place my trotters. The flowers, streams and cattle were precious. The sheep were dastardly mischievous.
It's commonplace to find the poop of cows and sheep on the trial. We think nothing of it because we're crossing their grazing fields. Today, however, we walked among some cunning little bastards. At one point, we crossed a cattle grid, which is a series of metal rods crossing a ditch, that allows tractors and cars to pass over, but not cattle. (Sometimes people have difficulty with them, too, but I try to forget that memory.)
It was clear that the sheep on this particular hunk of land resented those who could cross the cattle grid. They organized a group effort, convincing each member of the herd to tighten their sphincter until they reached the area right after the humans cross the grid and then they all let go in the same place, creating a barrier of shit. A sheep shit barrier. It was a brilliant strategy and might have convinced lesser humans to turn back, but not us. We plodded forward, in spite of the poop wall and continued our journey to Anascaul.
After an hour or so of cloud walking, the skies cleared and we were again visited by the warm Irish sun. (Lauren was sun blocked this time.) We walked past groupings of attractive cottages with small barns and pastures of cows. My favorite homestead had a pasture so close to the house that the cows could peer right into the kitchen window. I was certain I heard one say, "Eat more chicken!"
We slowly wound our way down to the water level again and found our way to Foley's Pub for a pint. Lauren had a bowl of soup and brown bread while I devoured a plate of goat cheese with pesto on a bed of greens. It was crazy yummy while being light and refreshing. I balanced that healthy, light feeling with two pints of Smithwick's. Then the ascent started again....and it simply wouldn't end. I darted off trail more than once to rid myself of the beer. I'm hoping what I thought was poison ivy was not. Time will tell. ("Hey, look what I brought home from Ireland!")
We climbed and climbed and climbed until I thought my ear drum would burst. The views were breathtaking. Come to think of it, so was the walking; I was winded for most of it.
This is probably a good time to remind you that the Keys are flatter than I was during my junior high school years. Training for this walk was nearly impossible. Our biggest incline is the Snake Creek Bridge, which is not as steep as my parent's driveway. Our legs are rebuilding themselves by the minute.
After about an hour of relentless climbing, we joined a tarmac road. Within another hour or so, we descended into the village of Anascaul and not a moment too soon. Lauren's hips were screaming at her and she needed relief. Luckily for us, the very first pub we happened upon was our own for the night: Teac Seain, which means Sean's House in Irish. (Before you jump all over me, the Irish are moving away from using the term "Gaelic" and prefer to call their language "Irish". There's an enormous movement to preserve the language (which I wholeheartedly support) and signs are written first in Irish and then in English. I love that!)
After walking into the proprietors actual home - yeah, we walked right in like we owned the joint - the lady of the house walked us out and down two doors to the proper entrance. Our room is large and airy. We both showered and put on clean clothes and were off again. We had a pint downstairs in the Teac Seain Pub, which is very small and clearly a place for the locals, then we headed to the South Pole Inn. It's famous for producing Anascaul's one famous person, Tom Crean. I leave it to you to research the man and his legend.
The food was okay, but the people were exceptionally friendly. If Lauren's hips and sun burn hadn't been bothering her so much, we'd have stayed longer. Instead, we're back in our room. She's connected to wifi and talking with friends while I putter, reorganizing our gear. I'm sipping a glass of Merlot and getting my thoughts into electrons in between washing out stinky socks and emptying water containers so that they can air out for the night before being refilled and carried on my back tomorrow.
Coming from below, I hear the sounds of the pub. The accents of the locals here are very, very thick and difficult to understand. We will fall asleep to the sounds of Irish countrymen bantering back and forth over pints of Guinness. I wish I could bottle it and take it home. I know many would complain about the noise, but if you listen closely, it's not noise. It's the sound of my distant past and I embrace it.
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