Forward, March!

I went out for a quick pint with the Killarney guys. They were hilarious and did everything within their power to show me a good time, but my heart wasn’t in it. I went back to my hotel and weighed the options. I’m not sure how long it lasted, because I woke up with the lights on, contacts still in my eyes, around 1:30am. I peeled out my contacts, killed the lights, and crawled under the covers.

I got up at 7:30 and packed. I still didn’t know where I was going. I had three choices, as I saw it. I could spend six-plus hours on a train and then find a way to Achill Island, where I had a room booked, or I could take a train to Tralee and then bus to Inch, where an inn said they might possibly have a room available but wouldn’t know until about 3pm, or I could train to Dublin, where I’d be assured to find accommodations.

Problems with those options:
- One of my top priorities for this trip was to return to Minard Castle in Annascual on the Dingle Peninsula. Without a car it would be difficult. I had to see Minard again…however, the entire peninsula was booked. I checked EVERY B&B/inn/hostel in Dingle, Annascual, Inch, and Dunquin. Nothing was open. Traveling there without a guaranteed room seemed foolish.

- Getting to Achill would mean an entire day of public transportation. It would also mean spending one  only night, getting up and finding a way back to Westport before having to spend another entire day using public transportation to get back to Dublin. That isn’t a good use of limited time in the Motherland.

- Going to Dublin would mean ….being in Dublin. Ick. Enough said.

In the end, I chose the option I liked least; a full day of travel. I’d booked a room for two nights on Achill and they’d given me their last. I’d already screwed them out of one night the day of the dreaded accident; I felt guilty about screwing them out of another.

I  had a cup of coffee and brown bread and got a cab to the train station. Unfortunately, I’d forgotten that Killarney’s station isn’t like Dublin…there’s just a few benches and a toilet. No vending machines, no newsstand, no pub. I had two hours to sit and wait. As luck would have it, an older couple came and sat next to me. They were from County Clair and had recently celebrated their fifty-first wedding anniversary. 

“I said I do and got fifty years,” the husband joked. 

He had four teeth in his mouth. His wife laughed, just like she probably always does when he makes that joke. They were adorable and brightened my mood. By the time the train arrived, we’d talked about all kinds of things. I helped them stow their bags in the overhead, although they didn’t like to ask for help. They had booked seats, which means their names were displayed on the digital readout over their seats. As soon as they were settled, I left them to find a seat. I had to wander through four carriages before I found an empty one.

The train from Killarney to Mallow was a little over an hour. I grabbed my bags and jumped off. A few minutes after my train pulled away, another came into the station. I rode that one to Portoloise, then another to Portarlington, and then took a fourth to Wesport.

It was on the last train that I met an amazing person named Emmett Heneghan who, among other things, runs a surfing school in Mayo. He will be the first person to circumvent the Motherland on a paddle board!!! He paddles an average of seventeen miles a day, usually about four or five miles from shore. Unless you’ve seen some of the rough sea conditions around Ireland’s coast, including weird tide actions, you may not be able to appreciate the magnitude of his accomplishment. It’s absolutely incredible. He was on a short break as he waited for the weather to turn more favorable.

Anyway, while I was schlepping cross country in trains, Dougie was back home trying to find a place for me to rent a car in Wesport. Turns out, Doug and Emmett suggested the same place. Unfortunately for me, by the time the train arrived, their offices were already closed….and the last bus had already gone. It was a choice between bagging Achill altogether (where I knew I had accommodations) or try to find something in town and leave the Achill people holding the bag. I didn’t think that would be very nice, so I spoke with a couple taxis. Fifty euros to Achill was the best deal I could make. When he found out where on Achill I actually wanted to go, he added another tenner. Sixty euros for a taxi made me ill, especially because none of these guys take plastic. It's cash or nothing. I was beginning to get nervous as my euros dwindled down to mostly coins. I have to find an ATM...soon.

After ten hours of travel in two taxis and four trains, I arrived at Lavelle’s Seaside House tired, hungry, and eager to walk around or swim or something other than sit. My room had a lovely double bed – very high off the floor – and two windows facing the street. I changed into clothes that may have been moderately less stink y(remember that I left home two weeks ago) and headed straight for Mickey’s Pub, which is attached to Lavelle’s. So, yeah, my idea of exercise became pint lifting rather than walking.

After ordering a pint, I asked for a menu. I'd seen a sign for fresh crab claws on the front door and the idea of local seafood made my stomach growl. The crabs would have to wait - they'd stopped serving food at 6pm, so I had a bag of crisps. Who needed real food? Real food is overrated. Besides, just ten short hours before, I’d had two pieces of brown bread and butter.

Two locals sitting a few seats down began chatting me up, asking questions about my travel. (These Irish are very suspicious of a woman traveling alone, but they sure do want to talk all about it.)

“You’re a bit of a queer hawk, there.”

That seems to be the general consensus. They don’t like the idea of a woman traveling alone for whatever reason. I don't care. They can think what they wish.

The bartender was a cute young boy who reminded me so much of Peanut when he was younger. Turns out, his name is Paddy Lavelle and he’s seventeen. Paddy Lavelle! I shrieked and told him that was my name, too. He was less enthusiastic than I’d have liked, but then again, he’s a teenager. Then I showed him a picture of Peanut and he didn't think he looked anything like my gorgeous son. Funny, though, his uncle was one of the locals next to me and he agreed that the resemblance between them was uncanny. Paddy shook his head and left the bar to throw darts until he was needed again.

Eventually, I met Paddy's mother and her sister, his aunt. The whole family works at Lavelle's/Mickey's. It didn't take long before they pulled me into the fold. We sat round a big table, making craic. I laughed so hard that my face hurt from smiling. About ten-thirty, the aunt and uncle took me with them to a pub down the way. The sunset was beautiful; the sky fierce. We only stayed for a pint and lots of laughter before going back to Mickey's. It was nearly two when I begged off. I headed for bed, they ordered another round. More power to 'em!

Paddy's aunt put her number in my phone before I left. She wanted me to cancel my booking in Newport and instead come with them to their house to spend the next night. From there, they offered to take me to Dublin where they were heading on Monday to pick up their son. The kindness and generosity of the Irish never, ever ceases to amaze me. It was a tempting offer - they were a LOT of fun and it would save me a lot of money - but I'd booked a room with Joe quite a ways back and I really wanted to have a pint with him and Padder. In the end, I didn't have to make a difficult decision about what to do because in her slightly intoxicated state, Linda had buggered the number when putting into me phone. I wish them all the best, thank them kindly for their friendship, and hope to meet them again.

I slept until 8:30, showered, dressed, and then wandered to the dining room for breakfast. Since I’m no longer walking long distances, the bacon buddy is a thing of the past. Fruit, toast, and coffee. Nothing more. (However, that toast is slathered with fresh Kerry butter. I can’t get it at home, so I’ll indulge while I can.) The dining room was full of runners eating low-calorie breakfasts. There was a half-marathon that morning to raise money for cancer research. I slathered my butter without shame while they nibbled on granola and yogurt. While entering my butter coma, I tried to come up with a more cost-effective way to get to Newport. I didn't want to spend another sixty euros on a cab. Eventually, I found an online bus schedule indicating that there was a bus at noon from Achill sound to Newport - perfect! I asked Paddy's mom if there was an island taxi that could run me down to the sound. Five minutes later, a car arrived with two blokes inside. The one in the passenger seat hopped out, put my bags in the backseat, which was full of car parts, food wrappers, and empty soda bottles.

We had fourteen minutes to make the bus. When I asked the driver what the chances were that we'd get there on time, he told me not to worry, if we missed it, he'd follow it to the next stop. (Would that happen in the States?) We drove a one lane "road" through some fields among sheep and cows, the two of my car-mates doing one helluva stand-up routine. John was the driver and half-owner of a taxi business and Owen operates horse-and-carriage tours around the island. They were both lively and entertaining. As I nearly shit my knickers every time we almost hit a sheep, they seemed oblivious to the potential disaster waiting to happen. We made it to town with four minutes to spare....then we discovered the bus had left at 9:15 that morning.

Aw crap. I asked John if he had time to drive me all the way to Newport. He said he would - for a fee of thirty euro - but he couldn't take me for about forty-minutes because he had a run to make on the other side of the island. I didn't mind one little bit. Spending time with John and Owen was a much better option that sitting on a bus. 

Yay! Another adventure was unfolding. John drove me all over the fourteen-mile long island, checking out cliffs and ocean vistas, views atop mountains where the wind nearly flung me over the side, and finally the castle tower that belonged to Ireland's Pirate Queen, Grace O'Malley or Granauile. Her clan built the tower in the early 1400s, but she used it as one of many strongholds along the western seaboard as she dominated the waters in the mid 1500s. Unfortunately, I was unable to get in, although there's no door blocking entry. My way was blocked by a locked gate. I asked John and Owen if they thought I could get away with climbing over. John has lived on Achill for his whole life and failed to understand my fascination. He said I could see it just fine from the road. I explained that I wanted to touch it and be inside it. 

"Fecking crazy is herself."

Reluctantly, I got back into the car. I'm grateful to have seen it at all. If not for John and Owen, I'd never have gotten close.

Three and a half hours after picking me up, the boys delivered me to Joe Reid's Black Oak Inn in Newport. I hugged them both goodbye and eagerly went inside to see Joe and enquire after his uncle, who I was so anxious to see. Unfortunately, Joe was out, so I stowed my bags and headed down the street to a pub for some lunch. Lauren, Doug, and I had been there before. It's comfortable and has really decent food. From there I found an ATM (I feel relieved) and then walked a mile and half or so to a cemetery. Eventually, I wandered back to Joe's and waiting for him to arrive while I had a Guinness and began working on this blog. I'd gotten behind during the  rental car accident drama.

Joe just walked in and I was happy to see him. We shook hands and I asked after Padder. I was saddened to learn that his uncle is unsteady on his feet and uses two crutches (maybe he means canes?) to walk. I asked Joe if he thought he might be up for some company, just for a few minutes. He said he'd call and find out. Unfortunately, Padder has the flu and is bedridden. I can't see him. I'm this close and I can't see him.

I extended my trip just to come to Mayo to see Padder because I realize my opportunities to see him are limited. He's less than a mile away, but...I hope Joe tells him that this American came a long way just to hear his charming Irish brogue and see the twinkle that still sparks in his grey eyes.