I'm not sure where to start. I thought yesterday was weird. Ha! Not even close.
I was awakened before 4am by the rooster. It crowed every ten minutes or so until I forced myself out of bed at 8:20. It was THE most comfortable bed and the most beautiful room I've slept in since this adventure began. I think once you get used to the sound of a rooster, you don't notice it, but clearly I'm not used to it yet. I did dose during those four and a half hours, but it wasn't normal sleep. Oh well. I'm on holiday!
The Lady of the House - Maureen - and I are cut from the same cloth. We were fast friends and if I lived in Sneem, she'd never get any work done because we'd always been getting into trouble. Hers is the cleanest and most comfortable B&B Iin which 've had the privilege of staying. She also makes a mean breakfast. I had planned to leave by 9am...at 11:30, she and I were hugging goodbye. I was really sad to leave. When I return to Kerry to live, we will be good friends. Thank you, my friend, for your kind hospitality. You are one of a kind!
When I left the Coomasig View B&B, it was pissing rain. I didn't mind. I had only eighteen miles to cover. Hahahaha. That many miles in pissing rain is a not a good ting. Electronics, clothes, food, and everything in between gets waterlogged after a few miles because nothing I own is truly waterproof. However, I love to walk in the rain and for the first several miles, I had a great time. I've not picture to share with you from today's walk, although the vistas were stunning. Mr. Cell Phone doesn't like Mr. Rain, so I left him wrapped in a plastic bag (courtesy of Maureen), crammed into the middle of my pack. I did the same with the laptop and hoped for the best.
I regret having no pix to share. The fog was spectacular. Immediately, it wrapped around me like a blanket. A damp, wet blanket, but a blanket nonetheless. We don't have fog in the Keys, so to walk through it as it obscured the mountains, the road, everything was...magical. I really enjoyed the first many miles. Unfortunately, unlike yesterday, there were no pubs along the way. None! Who designed an eighteen mile stretch of road without putting in a single bloody pub?!
At some point, my belly clamored for food. All I'd eaten for breakfast was a piece of toast; I just hadn't been hungry. After about half a mile, the trees made a nice canopy over a stone wall, providing a wee bit of shelter from the pissing rain. I climbed up and sat, my bum instantly soaked. (I knew that would provide a terrific view for the traffic approaching me from behind.) I pulled a baguette and salami out of my pack and made a crude sandwich. It was about the best damn thing I'd ever eaten! I lingered for only ten minutes or so before hopping off the wall and re-shouldering that bloody pack, but it gave me enough of a boost to push me through another few miles.
The remainder of the miles aren't worth discussing, although, to be fair, I should say that the vistas were still gorgeous. My toe didn't give a rat's ass about vistas and after a good bit, neither did the rest of me. As I was about to stick out me thumb and hitch for a lift, the most amazing ting happened.
Do you recall my knight in shining armor from yesterday? The Heineken Man? Well, shit and feck too if he didn't magically appear again today. Yep, he did. Derry from Kerry stopped and took me the rest of the way into Kenmare. I don't know how far it was. I was only conscious of the steam rising off my body and fogging the window of his truck. I apologized for the way I smelled and in true Irish fashion, he replied, "You're grand". What a nice man. I smelled like the working end of an old water buffalo. Eventually, it became too much for our man and he put down the windows, letting in the cold and rain and fog. I tried not to let it hurt my feelings.
Derry The Beer Man dropped me off on the main drag and drove off into the rain to do what Beer Men do. (It must be the greatest job ever.) I went into the closest pub for a pint and a meal, hoping that the bartender would be kind enough to ring my B&B to let them know that I was in town. (By this time it was 7:30pm, far past the expected arrival time.) I waked into the pub, which had real, taper candles on each table. The glow was warm and inviting, but I felt immediately unwelcome. The bartender looked at me, but didn't speak. I said hello and told her that I would like a pint and a menu. That's when she wrinkled her nose and suggested that I sit outside. More than surprised, I explained that I was already cold and wet and preferred to stay indoors. She led me to a table in the far back, nearest the toilets, although there were many other closer spots available. After nearly twenty minutes, it became clear that no one planned to serve me. I gathered my wet things and showed them me arse.
I went across the street to The Atlantic Bar and was instantly greeted by the warmest smile I'd seen behind a bar all week. The bartender welcomed me warmly and when I explained that I was a bit damp, she poo-pooed me and pointed to seat at the bar. After ordering the toasted special, I asked for a favor. She was only too happy to oblige. I asked if she'd ring my B&B to let them know that I was in town and would be there after getting a bite. Long story short, my innkeeper had somehow lost my booking. I produced an email confirmation, which the bartender read over the phone. She promised to have it sorted and said she'd ring back as soon as she had.
Before I continue, let me say that the bartender was lovely. She told me that if the innkeeper couldn't find me a room, I could stay with her. Does that ever happen in America?!?! I was blown away by her kindness. (And I stunk!)
About an hour and two pints later, I was picked up by an older gentleman named Tom. He drove me to a bit of an outdated B&B. It's well-worn and not the most tidy, but I was happy to have a warm, dry bed for the night. Tom carried my pack to my room at the far back of the house and closed the door behind us. I wasn't the slightest bit creeped out; it was late and he had other guests that he didn't want disturbed. Then he inquired about my limp. I told him about my toe. He told me that he was a former football coach and was schooled in sports medicine. He insisted that I remove my socks so that he could take a proper look at it. I knew how bad my feet stunk and was sure that as soon as he got a good snoot-full, he'd be gone. Nope. He nearly caressed that smelly, sweaty foot, moving my toe this way and that as I hollered. I nearly knocked out the few teeth he has left when he pressed a bit too hard and my knee-jerk reaction (literally) nearly knocked him out of the chair. His professional opinion is that I dislocated it and that it hasn't been property put back into place. He kindly offered to do so, at which point, I kindly showed him to the door. He hugged me goodnight and successfully copped a boob from the side. What is happening to me? Why does this happen with 80-year-old men and not hot thirty-somethings? Shut up and don't answer.
After the groping was done and the door was locked, I showered. Twice. I still felt gross. I wouldn't have been surprised if he'd sucked my damn toe. It was feckin' weird. I've not felt this uncomfortable in a B&B since a place on England's Coast to Coast when the man of the house waked into my bathroom while I was on the crapper. As if that in itself wasn't terrifying enough, he kept waking in until he was close enough to put his hand on my shoulder and squeeze, as he told me "I'm not even here". Um, yeah, you bloody well are and you're touching me!!!
I am sleeping fully dressed with my heavy pack blocking the door. If he tries to come in, I'll hear him. I'm sure that won't happen, but I fell better knowing the way is blocked.
I'm getting up early and walking to the bus stop (I declined a ride from Mr. Happy Hands.). I'm planning to catch the 8:30 bus to Killarney (about thirty or forty mins away). Upon arrival, I go pick up my rental car (I've no idea where it is or how to get there) and then go back to the B&B in which I spent my first night to retrieve my bag. Then I'll drive to the Dingle Peninsual to Annascual to once again visit Minard Castle. (I left my heart there a year ago.). When I've had my fill, I'll drive north to Achill Island. It's almost a six hour drive. I'll be there for two nights - at Lavelle's Seaside House. From there, it's on to Westport to stay with Joe Reid. I look forward to meeting again with his dear Padder.
Wish me luck that Mr. Happy Hands doesn't make the huge mistake of disturbing me in my sleep. He will come out on the losing end of that, I promise you. My apologies for no photos. It was too rainy. In fact, I emptied my pack and every sock, shirt, and gaitor is hanging from something. I doubt it will all be dry by morning, but I'll find a place in Achill to do laundry. I'm not willing to hang my skivees out this window; I don't want it to be interpreted as encouragement!
Good night!!!
Wednesday, July 1, 2015
Tuesday, June 30, 2015
Skivvies in the window and other unbelievable tings (yes, tings)`
Today was an unusual trail day all the way around. I did practically nothing according to the routine that naturally established itself over a week ago when I left Killarney. To begin, I didn't leave my B&B until 11am! Normally by that time, I've several miles under my belt. However, my gracious innkeeper wasn't ready to transport bags (including this old bag) until then, so I lingered over breakfast and blogged about it. That in itself was out of the ordinary - I don't normally have time for that sort of thing.
By the time we said our goodbyes and I dashed into the shop in Caherdaniel for a few things, it was nearly noon. I had my first Diet Coke since leaving Islamorada. It was good and yucky at the same time. I loved how loudly it made me belch, but that might have had something to do with how quickly I guzzled it. I belched so loudly that a man raking some sort of shit off the side of the road jumped. We had a wonderful conversation afterwards. Turns out, he can belch on command. He proved it and we had a few hard belly laughs until his mobile rang and we had to cut our frivolity short. What a character he was. As I walked away, a white Heineken beer truck passed me. I took it as a sign that the day would be grand.
At the shop, I also bought a baguette and a package of salami. I was determined to eat these ones and not give them to Owen. (They are still in my wet backpack...which reminds me that I should pull them out to dry.) The day's views out of Caherdaniel were spectacular! (Have I already told you that 'caher' means fort? Now I have.) They were so spectacular in fact, that after forty-five minutes, I realized that I'd only walked about two miles but had taken a butt-load of pix. I knew I had to put some road behind me if I was ever to make the fifteen miles to Sneem. However, the landscape had other plans.
Wildflowers, heifers, bulls, seascapes, abandoned old stone houses, calves, and god knows that else distracted me. But really, isn't that the whole purpose of walking? To soak in the wonderful vistas along the way? If I was in a hurry to get there, I'd have hopped a bloody bus.
Another unusual circumstance, was that I walked right past two places in which I could have stopped for a pint. Normally, those opportunities are few and far between on the trail and I never let one go without stopping in for a couple. Today, however, I forced myself to keep going. I had a late start and had much ground to cover. I didn't like having to pass them by. Neither, apparently, did the universe because by the time the third opportunity presented itself, I had to cave.
In the oh-so-quiet village of Castlecove (don't you love the name?), I stumbled upon a pub called "The Black Shop". Not sheep, but shop. Don't ask me, because I don't get it. It was nearly underground and very dark inside. It took my eyes a few moments to adjust. I was alone. I cleared my throat (how American of me) to get the attention of whomever might be around. From the back room came an adorable old man who'd clearly had a battle with throat cancer. He had the cover thingy on his throat (don't judge...i'm tired and you know exactly what i'm talking about) so don't get all uppity because i can't remember its proper name.). Seventy minutes and four pints later (YES! four pints! It's all his fault.), I insisted that I had to go. He told me that if I waited a few minutes, I could have a ride to Sneem. I thanked him, but told him that I didn't want to cheat.
While we shared pints, he told me about his four-hundred year old pub. He'd lived in Ireland most of his life and then for some hair-brained reason moved to Boston. When he learned that the old pub was for sale, he moved back and bought it. The memorabilia he has on the walls is priceless; his stories are even better. We hit it off right off the bat. He asked me my toughts (thoughts) on the English. I've been in this rodeo before. I pretended to spit on the floor. He laughed so hard, he had to take the cover off of his troat (throat) tingy (thingy) and hack up a wad of crap. Then he recovered it and said, "Those roots run deep, cailin." (That word means girl in his language and it's been many a year since someone called me a girl.) We talked about a lot of things, but when I told him of my dream to move to Kerry and buy a farm he said, "The heart knows when it's home, cailin.", and he's right. It does.
I hated to say goodbye, but there was ground to cover. He insisted that I take a picture of the two of us. As he put his arm around me and grabbed my fat roll he told me what a sturdy, solid woman I am. I believe that's an Irish compliment.....He also insisted that I put his mobile in my contact list and let him know the minute I arrived in Sneem. I did as directed. He walked me to the door and told me that a cousin of his is selling five acres with an old, stone house just down the road. He said it would please him to call me neighbor. I hugged him tightly and promised that we'd meet again. He asked one last time if I wanted to wait for a lift, but I told him that I really wanted to walk. When I got to a bend in the road I looked back. Mr. Brendon was still standing there. We waved and I turned away...but I'll be back.
Pints of beer have magical properties. Duh. I tend to walk faster after having a few...at least for a couple of miles, but then my bladder tends to occupy most of my brain power and I slow down. There was NO WHERE for me to attend to the call of nature. There was a barbed-wire fence on both sides of the road and the ticket (thicket) wasn't deep enough to hide me, plus it's tick season. The ideaof getting a critter in my under carriage kept me from stopping. Every time I had to jump into the ticket to avoid being hit by a car, my bladder thought it was time to let go. I was nearly ready to drop trou and pee in the road when the Heineken truck went by a second time. I licked my lips as it passed.
As he drove out of sight over a hill, I daydreamed about walking over that hill to find him waiting for me on the side of the road. Ha. That stuff only happens in cheesy romance novels.
And my life! As I crested the hill, I saw the truck on the side of the road. It had pulled off in the first safe place available. The engine was running. I sped up, wondering if I was hallucinating. As I approached, the driver put down his window and shouted a greeting. I asked if he was heading to Sneem and he pointed to his passenger seat. In my excitement, I almost got squashed by an oncoming Volkswagen. I had to jump back into the ticket while my beer man grinned at me.
If you know me at all, you realize there is NOTHING more appropriate to arrive as my hero than a beer man driving a beer truck. Nothing. A knight in shining armor on a white horse, I mean white beer truck. Derry drove me to the front door of my B&B while we chatted about all things Irish. I asked if Mr. Brendon had sent him and he thought for a moment. Then he laughed. He said that he had recently been there and that the old man had mentioned an American and directed him to give her a lift if he saw her, but he didn't make the connection when he passed me. He'd pulled over to call the office. He said he thought I looked "sturdy and solid". when he passed me and didn't think I needed a lift..again, these damn Irishman don't really know how to compliment a cailin.
He said that he wished he could join me and me walking mates at a pub, but that he had a father-daughter dance to go to - which I thought was just wonderful - but said that maybe he could catch up with all of us in Kenmare. Who better to include in a pub night than a beer man?!
After he drove off, I walked to the front door of my B&B. After taking off my wet boots and sliding off my pack, I rang the bell. No one was home. I put my boots back on, pulled the pack back on, and headed into town. I had to pee! About a mile later, I found meself a pub. By then it was raining like hell. Two hours later, I was mostly dry and happy. I figured the innkeepers had to be home.
What a beautiful home! The lady of the house and I were instant friends. She and I could get into trouble. Fast. But that's for another adventure. For now, I'm happy to be in for the night. My room is gorgeous; a queen-sized sleigh bed with matching wingback chairs, and a very nice desk. It's sturdy and solid like this cailin.
As I headed for a hot shower, I brought all of my nasty walking clothes with me. I smell so badly, I offend myself., but then I've walked about a hundred miles in them...without washing them. I scrubbed them as well as I could, then scrubbed meself. The clothes are hanging outside my windows. I only hope each piece dries by morning. I also hope my innkeeper doesn't mind that my skivvies are hanging out of a window.....
Mr. Brendon and I have exchanged a handful of texts. I never expected a man in his late seventies/early eighties would text, but he does. It warms the heart to see how quickly a fondness for another person can develop. Like Mike in Waterville, Mr. Brendon of Castlecove has stolen my heart. What a lucky, solid cailin I am.
By the time we said our goodbyes and I dashed into the shop in Caherdaniel for a few things, it was nearly noon. I had my first Diet Coke since leaving Islamorada. It was good and yucky at the same time. I loved how loudly it made me belch, but that might have had something to do with how quickly I guzzled it. I belched so loudly that a man raking some sort of shit off the side of the road jumped. We had a wonderful conversation afterwards. Turns out, he can belch on command. He proved it and we had a few hard belly laughs until his mobile rang and we had to cut our frivolity short. What a character he was. As I walked away, a white Heineken beer truck passed me. I took it as a sign that the day would be grand.
At the shop, I also bought a baguette and a package of salami. I was determined to eat these ones and not give them to Owen. (They are still in my wet backpack...which reminds me that I should pull them out to dry.) The day's views out of Caherdaniel were spectacular! (Have I already told you that 'caher' means fort? Now I have.) They were so spectacular in fact, that after forty-five minutes, I realized that I'd only walked about two miles but had taken a butt-load of pix. I knew I had to put some road behind me if I was ever to make the fifteen miles to Sneem. However, the landscape had other plans.
Wildflowers, heifers, bulls, seascapes, abandoned old stone houses, calves, and god knows that else distracted me. But really, isn't that the whole purpose of walking? To soak in the wonderful vistas along the way? If I was in a hurry to get there, I'd have hopped a bloody bus.
Another unusual circumstance, was that I walked right past two places in which I could have stopped for a pint. Normally, those opportunities are few and far between on the trail and I never let one go without stopping in for a couple. Today, however, I forced myself to keep going. I had a late start and had much ground to cover. I didn't like having to pass them by. Neither, apparently, did the universe because by the time the third opportunity presented itself, I had to cave.
In the oh-so-quiet village of Castlecove (don't you love the name?), I stumbled upon a pub called "The Black Shop". Not sheep, but shop. Don't ask me, because I don't get it. It was nearly underground and very dark inside. It took my eyes a few moments to adjust. I was alone. I cleared my throat (how American of me) to get the attention of whomever might be around. From the back room came an adorable old man who'd clearly had a battle with throat cancer. He had the cover thingy on his throat (don't judge...i'm tired and you know exactly what i'm talking about) so don't get all uppity because i can't remember its proper name.). Seventy minutes and four pints later (YES! four pints! It's all his fault.), I insisted that I had to go. He told me that if I waited a few minutes, I could have a ride to Sneem. I thanked him, but told him that I didn't want to cheat.
While we shared pints, he told me about his four-hundred year old pub. He'd lived in Ireland most of his life and then for some hair-brained reason moved to Boston. When he learned that the old pub was for sale, he moved back and bought it. The memorabilia he has on the walls is priceless; his stories are even better. We hit it off right off the bat. He asked me my toughts (thoughts) on the English. I've been in this rodeo before. I pretended to spit on the floor. He laughed so hard, he had to take the cover off of his troat (throat) tingy (thingy) and hack up a wad of crap. Then he recovered it and said, "Those roots run deep, cailin." (That word means girl in his language and it's been many a year since someone called me a girl.) We talked about a lot of things, but when I told him of my dream to move to Kerry and buy a farm he said, "The heart knows when it's home, cailin.", and he's right. It does.
I hated to say goodbye, but there was ground to cover. He insisted that I take a picture of the two of us. As he put his arm around me and grabbed my fat roll he told me what a sturdy, solid woman I am. I believe that's an Irish compliment.....He also insisted that I put his mobile in my contact list and let him know the minute I arrived in Sneem. I did as directed. He walked me to the door and told me that a cousin of his is selling five acres with an old, stone house just down the road. He said it would please him to call me neighbor. I hugged him tightly and promised that we'd meet again. He asked one last time if I wanted to wait for a lift, but I told him that I really wanted to walk. When I got to a bend in the road I looked back. Mr. Brendon was still standing there. We waved and I turned away...but I'll be back.
Pints of beer have magical properties. Duh. I tend to walk faster after having a few...at least for a couple of miles, but then my bladder tends to occupy most of my brain power and I slow down. There was NO WHERE for me to attend to the call of nature. There was a barbed-wire fence on both sides of the road and the ticket (thicket) wasn't deep enough to hide me, plus it's tick season. The ideaof getting a critter in my under carriage kept me from stopping. Every time I had to jump into the ticket to avoid being hit by a car, my bladder thought it was time to let go. I was nearly ready to drop trou and pee in the road when the Heineken truck went by a second time. I licked my lips as it passed.
As he drove out of sight over a hill, I daydreamed about walking over that hill to find him waiting for me on the side of the road. Ha. That stuff only happens in cheesy romance novels.
And my life! As I crested the hill, I saw the truck on the side of the road. It had pulled off in the first safe place available. The engine was running. I sped up, wondering if I was hallucinating. As I approached, the driver put down his window and shouted a greeting. I asked if he was heading to Sneem and he pointed to his passenger seat. In my excitement, I almost got squashed by an oncoming Volkswagen. I had to jump back into the ticket while my beer man grinned at me.
If you know me at all, you realize there is NOTHING more appropriate to arrive as my hero than a beer man driving a beer truck. Nothing. A knight in shining armor on a white horse, I mean white beer truck. Derry drove me to the front door of my B&B while we chatted about all things Irish. I asked if Mr. Brendon had sent him and he thought for a moment. Then he laughed. He said that he had recently been there and that the old man had mentioned an American and directed him to give her a lift if he saw her, but he didn't make the connection when he passed me. He'd pulled over to call the office. He said he thought I looked "sturdy and solid". when he passed me and didn't think I needed a lift..again, these damn Irishman don't really know how to compliment a cailin.
He said that he wished he could join me and me walking mates at a pub, but that he had a father-daughter dance to go to - which I thought was just wonderful - but said that maybe he could catch up with all of us in Kenmare. Who better to include in a pub night than a beer man?!
After he drove off, I walked to the front door of my B&B. After taking off my wet boots and sliding off my pack, I rang the bell. No one was home. I put my boots back on, pulled the pack back on, and headed into town. I had to pee! About a mile later, I found meself a pub. By then it was raining like hell. Two hours later, I was mostly dry and happy. I figured the innkeepers had to be home.
What a beautiful home! The lady of the house and I were instant friends. She and I could get into trouble. Fast. But that's for another adventure. For now, I'm happy to be in for the night. My room is gorgeous; a queen-sized sleigh bed with matching wingback chairs, and a very nice desk. It's sturdy and solid like this cailin.
As I headed for a hot shower, I brought all of my nasty walking clothes with me. I smell so badly, I offend myself., but then I've walked about a hundred miles in them...without washing them. I scrubbed them as well as I could, then scrubbed meself. The clothes are hanging outside my windows. I only hope each piece dries by morning. I also hope my innkeeper doesn't mind that my skivvies are hanging out of a window.....
Mr. Brendon and I have exchanged a handful of texts. I never expected a man in his late seventies/early eighties would text, but he does. It warms the heart to see how quickly a fondness for another person can develop. Like Mike in Waterville, Mr. Brendon of Castlecove has stolen my heart. What a lucky, solid cailin I am.
Morning Musings
I'm sitting in the dining room of my B&B, where my gracious hostess is serving FEBs (full English breakfasts) to four Germans, one Englishman, a French woman (I'll tell you about her shortly), and another couple from some country I'm unable to pinpoint because they don't speak. Hard to guess based on their dress. I think they're hikers, but they look far too grumpy to be doing it properly. (Proper hiking requires pub stops whenever possible. They look like they've not darkened the door to a pub in many moons. No wonder they're grumpy.)
The Englishman is a fisherman. He felt it necessary to wear his fishing vest and waders to the breakfast table. All of his bits and bobs are clanking as he cuts into his blood pudding, rashers, and sausages. He looks rather silly, but it must be the look he's going for. He claims to have caught a mammoth salmon yesterday, which is keeping cool in the innkeeper's icebox. He slams his china teacup around like it's a Turvis tumbler and clears his throat often. I suppose he wants to be noticed, so I refused to acknowledge him. I'm childish that way, but you already know this.
The Germans keep saying "koochan" over and over. I know that's not the proper spelling, but I can't be bothered to google it. The wifi here is slower than me climbing The Gap of Bunghole. Koochan is a word I grew up with, although there's no guarantee we used it properly. We used it to refer to coffee cake. It would seem that our German diners are in search of something sweet, rather than a FEB. What I found so rude is that the youngest of the four Germans, who is thirty-five if she's a day, shook her head and pushed the plate away when our hostess placed a FEB in front of her. She wrinkled her nose and said, "Nine" (probably also misspelled, but I'm sure you follow). Our lovely innkeeper looked confused because she asks each of us in the evening what we'd like for breakfast the next day. After having agreed to a FEB (which is a boat load of food; rashers, sausage, broiled tomatoes, toast, fried egg, brown bread, and blood pudding), she refused it and asked for pancakes. I'd have barked "nine" right back at her and spoon fed her every morsel of that breakfast! Alas, our innkeeper is a much nicer person than I, but you already knew that, too.
The English fisherman just left. The innkeeper whispered to me conspiratorially that his "mammoth salmon" was barely more than a minnow. We had a good laugh before realizing he'd walked back in. I'm glad I'm not the only one who does that sort of thing. I felt badly for the innkeeper, but I thoroughly enjoyed the look on Mr. Fisherman's face. If I'd been on top of my game, I'd have snapped a photo. Priceless.
So, Miss Fussy Pants now has her pancakes and is pushing them around her plate with her nose crinkled. She is actually picking off the plate of the woman to her left, whom I assume is her mother. She didn't want her own FEB when it was served to her, but now she's devouring her mother's food and ignoring her special-made pancakes. I'm shaking my head as I bang away at my breakfast table set for two, occupied by one. (Again, this scene makes me lonely for my girl.)
The UQC (unidentified quiet couple) just left the table and walked directly into the innkeeper's kitchen as if they own the joint. For the record, that's a no-no in any B&B. There are private, personal spaces not to be entered by guests, and that's definitely one of them. You'd think the closed door would have given them a clue....so, they came out, collected their wet boots from the porch and carried them back into the kitchen. It seems they've asked our innkeeper to somehow, magically dry their wet boots. On the porches of most B&Bs that welcome walkers, is a stack of newspapers. The best cure for west boots is to stuff them with newspapers and then remove them after one hour and replace it with another hunk of newspaper. By morning, the boots will be dry. These silly walkers neglected to do that and now want our innkeeper to microwave them.
This is quality entertainment that you'd normally have to pay for and here I sit, enjoying it all for free.
Ms Fussy Pants also just walked into the kitchen. My mouth is hanging open at the behavior of these guests. Apparently, the Princess is in need of Greek yogurt. The fine Irish yogurt with fruit that our hostess have already provided isn't sufficient. Seemingly nonplussed, our innkeeper came out carrying a large tub of Greek yogurt, complete with a serving spoon. The hospitality of the Irish is wasted on these ill-mannered boobs.
I'd planned to eat only toast and coffee, but was served rashers, a fried egg, broiled tomatoes, sausages, and toast. I will eat as much as I possibly can and then hide the rest in a napkin. I'd hate for my hostess to think I don't appreciate her hard work. So, maybe I need to give Ms. Fussy Pants a break, maybe she didn't order a FEB last night, but I can't forgive her reaction to it.
I'm alone in the dining room now.
Well, I was momentarily. The innkeeper came out and we gossiped about how rude people can be. She's now sitting down for a well-earned cuppa while I finishing my morning musings and then pack. I want to be ready to go when she is. I appreciate very much that she's driving me to Caherdaniel (where I'd have stayed last night if I didn't take a day off). From there, I'll walk about fifteen miles to Sneem, where I intend to find Vivian and Owen to share a few pints. The thought of spending the evening laughing with them, catching up on their adventures since we parted ways three days ago, will keep me plugging along today.
Currently, it's slightly overcast, although the sun is trying to peak through. Things can change in the blink of an eye, so I'll be prepared for sun, rain, snow, and wind. Once a girl scout....
I hope you enjoyed reading this nonsense as much as I enjoyed witnessing it. More later, once I'm safe and warm in my B&B with a belly full of pints.
Slan.
The Englishman is a fisherman. He felt it necessary to wear his fishing vest and waders to the breakfast table. All of his bits and bobs are clanking as he cuts into his blood pudding, rashers, and sausages. He looks rather silly, but it must be the look he's going for. He claims to have caught a mammoth salmon yesterday, which is keeping cool in the innkeeper's icebox. He slams his china teacup around like it's a Turvis tumbler and clears his throat often. I suppose he wants to be noticed, so I refused to acknowledge him. I'm childish that way, but you already know this.
The Germans keep saying "koochan" over and over. I know that's not the proper spelling, but I can't be bothered to google it. The wifi here is slower than me climbing The Gap of Bunghole. Koochan is a word I grew up with, although there's no guarantee we used it properly. We used it to refer to coffee cake. It would seem that our German diners are in search of something sweet, rather than a FEB. What I found so rude is that the youngest of the four Germans, who is thirty-five if she's a day, shook her head and pushed the plate away when our hostess placed a FEB in front of her. She wrinkled her nose and said, "Nine" (probably also misspelled, but I'm sure you follow). Our lovely innkeeper looked confused because she asks each of us in the evening what we'd like for breakfast the next day. After having agreed to a FEB (which is a boat load of food; rashers, sausage, broiled tomatoes, toast, fried egg, brown bread, and blood pudding), she refused it and asked for pancakes. I'd have barked "nine" right back at her and spoon fed her every morsel of that breakfast! Alas, our innkeeper is a much nicer person than I, but you already knew that, too.
The English fisherman just left. The innkeeper whispered to me conspiratorially that his "mammoth salmon" was barely more than a minnow. We had a good laugh before realizing he'd walked back in. I'm glad I'm not the only one who does that sort of thing. I felt badly for the innkeeper, but I thoroughly enjoyed the look on Mr. Fisherman's face. If I'd been on top of my game, I'd have snapped a photo. Priceless.
So, Miss Fussy Pants now has her pancakes and is pushing them around her plate with her nose crinkled. She is actually picking off the plate of the woman to her left, whom I assume is her mother. She didn't want her own FEB when it was served to her, but now she's devouring her mother's food and ignoring her special-made pancakes. I'm shaking my head as I bang away at my breakfast table set for two, occupied by one. (Again, this scene makes me lonely for my girl.)
The UQC (unidentified quiet couple) just left the table and walked directly into the innkeeper's kitchen as if they own the joint. For the record, that's a no-no in any B&B. There are private, personal spaces not to be entered by guests, and that's definitely one of them. You'd think the closed door would have given them a clue....so, they came out, collected their wet boots from the porch and carried them back into the kitchen. It seems they've asked our innkeeper to somehow, magically dry their wet boots. On the porches of most B&Bs that welcome walkers, is a stack of newspapers. The best cure for west boots is to stuff them with newspapers and then remove them after one hour and replace it with another hunk of newspaper. By morning, the boots will be dry. These silly walkers neglected to do that and now want our innkeeper to microwave them.
This is quality entertainment that you'd normally have to pay for and here I sit, enjoying it all for free.
Ms Fussy Pants also just walked into the kitchen. My mouth is hanging open at the behavior of these guests. Apparently, the Princess is in need of Greek yogurt. The fine Irish yogurt with fruit that our hostess have already provided isn't sufficient. Seemingly nonplussed, our innkeeper came out carrying a large tub of Greek yogurt, complete with a serving spoon. The hospitality of the Irish is wasted on these ill-mannered boobs.
I'd planned to eat only toast and coffee, but was served rashers, a fried egg, broiled tomatoes, sausages, and toast. I will eat as much as I possibly can and then hide the rest in a napkin. I'd hate for my hostess to think I don't appreciate her hard work. So, maybe I need to give Ms. Fussy Pants a break, maybe she didn't order a FEB last night, but I can't forgive her reaction to it.
I'm alone in the dining room now.
Well, I was momentarily. The innkeeper came out and we gossiped about how rude people can be. She's now sitting down for a well-earned cuppa while I finishing my morning musings and then pack. I want to be ready to go when she is. I appreciate very much that she's driving me to Caherdaniel (where I'd have stayed last night if I didn't take a day off). From there, I'll walk about fifteen miles to Sneem, where I intend to find Vivian and Owen to share a few pints. The thought of spending the evening laughing with them, catching up on their adventures since we parted ways three days ago, will keep me plugging along today.
Currently, it's slightly overcast, although the sun is trying to peak through. Things can change in the blink of an eye, so I'll be prepared for sun, rain, snow, and wind. Once a girl scout....
I hope you enjoyed reading this nonsense as much as I enjoyed witnessing it. More later, once I'm safe and warm in my B&B with a belly full of pints.
Slan.
Monday, June 29, 2015
A Day of "Rest"
In the same way that I fell asleep last night, I woke to the sound of waves crashing outside my window. My room was cold and I dreaded the thought of leaving my warm, heavy covers, but I'd neglected to eat dinner and so I was ready for some vittles - something other than Advil and coffee. I showered (I think I had frost on my bits the moment I stepped from the bathroom) and headed downstairs. The previous night, my innkeeper asked me I could wait until nine to eat and, of course, I told her I could.
She greeted me warmly as I tucked into a table set for one (that sight always makes me miss my walking partner, my baby girl, so very much). I asked her whether or not she could accommodate me another night if I rearranged my schedule. She was more than happy to do so and told me to stay in the big room. (That room is meant for two or three, but she insisted that I stay there.) It was official. I was having a rest day. No walking. Just relaxation and reading and such.
I ate two pieces of toast, three Advil, and a cup of coffee and then headed back to my room where I was instantly ansty. My routine dictated that I should pack and set off. I didn't know what to do with myself, so I set out to explore Waterville. Five minutes outside my B&B, I ran into Vivian. (Remember the adorable, young Swiss girl?) She'd been very ill with a high fever and swollen glands the day before, and had taken a day off to sleep. She was attempting to walk to Caherdaniel. We agreed that she would take the main road and then get a lift if she felt worse. We also agreed to meet tomorrow night in Sneem for a pint or three. One of the greatest things about these distance walks is the people you meet and then continue to bump into village after village. (That is of course how we established our friendship with our dear friend, Owen.) An hour later, I'd covered the beach, the churchyard, and the main drag. I went back to my inn to enquire about a fort I'd heart about.
"Oh," said my lovely innkeeper, "it's just two miles south of the village."
Perfect! I thought. Four miles without my pack is nothing and I'll walk slowly. Two-and-half miles later, I'd still not found it, my toe was especially ornery (I guess it thought a day off meant just that) Silly toe.), and a nasty dog blocked the road. All of those things convinced me to turn around and go home. Oh, and when I left the B&B, it was warm and sunny. Fifteen minutes later, I was in a nasty downpour with one hellavu wind. Ireland summers. I am convinced there was sleet, but no one seemed to notice but me.
However, I considered it a highly successful venture, because I met cow after cow after bull after calf after steer after cow after horse after calf. You get the idea. What a marvelous morning! I cooed and called to so many four-legged beauties and most of them were receptive. (I smell better than I did yesterday.) In spite of not finding the fort, it was a wonderful, rainy walk and I have about forty pictures to prove it.
I headed back into town and stopped at the Chemist's shop for more Compeed (Bandaids on crack. They are amazing.) and a tube of IcyHot. My trick calf that I tore years back feels left out because of all of the attention the little toe is getting, so he decided to pull some crap and demand his turn. I shall slather him with IcyHot and hope for the best. Once done at the Chemist's, I did what any self-respecting Irish lass would do with a free minute on her hands. I tucked into a warm, dry pub.
I sat reading magazine I'd bought about Irish gardens - in a corner by the fire - when who should stumble in but Mike! Remember the 87-year old with the amazing tenor voice? (If not, visit my FB page and listen to him sing Danny Boy. Be prepared to cry.) He sat down with me and shared a pint before wandering off. I had bowl of soup and brown bread while talking to Pat, another fellow I met yesterday at The Lobster. He was supposed to be fishing, but decided a day of pints sounded more rewarding. Any surprise these are my people?
Eventually, I wandered to the shop at the top of town to buy some cheese, bread, and wine before heading back to my inn. That will be the most perfect dinner as I sit in my room, smelling a peat fire, and watching the ocean crash against the rocky shore. When my innkeeper asked how I enjoyed the fort, I tried to gently explain that her way of measuring distance was slightly off kilter.
"Get in the car," she said.
I did. She drove while I belted out "Jaysus!" every few meters when she barely avoided oncoming traffic or the stone wall on either side of the road. I nearly fouled my britches as she careened around blind bends. Lawdy be, who teaches these people to drive?!
Four-and-a-half miles later, we arrived. The fog had rolled in, blanketing what would have been an impressive view. That was just fine with me. I love, love, love fog. It makes things like forts and castles that much more magical. We got out and wandered around. When we got to the board that explained the site, she honored my request to read it in Irish. The sounds of her native language rolling off of her tongue were very moving. I asked if I could record her, but she said she'd be too self-conscious, so I tucked my phone away and tried to make her voice a permanent memory. What a lovely lady she is, indeed.
Then we drove back. Jaysus.
It's early yet, but I'm in for the night. I have another long walk tomorrow (I think 15 miles). My innkeeper is going to drive me to Caherdaniel (where I'd planned to spend tonight in a hostel...can't say I'm sad to miss that. I'm too old for that shit.). From there, I'll walk to Smeed.
For now, it's a relaxing night of reflection, appreciation, and happiness. I have walked seventy-eight miles in a week (including two side trips). I'm proud of that accomplishment. I only have a few more walking days before I rent a car and do things a little differently. I'm very pleased at what I've been able to do. My toe is slowing me down, but that little bastard can't stop me.
I wish I could share this view, these sounds, and these feelings adequately. I know how very lucky and truly blessed I am.
Slan.
She greeted me warmly as I tucked into a table set for one (that sight always makes me miss my walking partner, my baby girl, so very much). I asked her whether or not she could accommodate me another night if I rearranged my schedule. She was more than happy to do so and told me to stay in the big room. (That room is meant for two or three, but she insisted that I stay there.) It was official. I was having a rest day. No walking. Just relaxation and reading and such.
I ate two pieces of toast, three Advil, and a cup of coffee and then headed back to my room where I was instantly ansty. My routine dictated that I should pack and set off. I didn't know what to do with myself, so I set out to explore Waterville. Five minutes outside my B&B, I ran into Vivian. (Remember the adorable, young Swiss girl?) She'd been very ill with a high fever and swollen glands the day before, and had taken a day off to sleep. She was attempting to walk to Caherdaniel. We agreed that she would take the main road and then get a lift if she felt worse. We also agreed to meet tomorrow night in Sneem for a pint or three. One of the greatest things about these distance walks is the people you meet and then continue to bump into village after village. (That is of course how we established our friendship with our dear friend, Owen.) An hour later, I'd covered the beach, the churchyard, and the main drag. I went back to my inn to enquire about a fort I'd heart about.
"Oh," said my lovely innkeeper, "it's just two miles south of the village."
Perfect! I thought. Four miles without my pack is nothing and I'll walk slowly. Two-and-half miles later, I'd still not found it, my toe was especially ornery (I guess it thought a day off meant just that) Silly toe.), and a nasty dog blocked the road. All of those things convinced me to turn around and go home. Oh, and when I left the B&B, it was warm and sunny. Fifteen minutes later, I was in a nasty downpour with one hellavu wind. Ireland summers. I am convinced there was sleet, but no one seemed to notice but me.
However, I considered it a highly successful venture, because I met cow after cow after bull after calf after steer after cow after horse after calf. You get the idea. What a marvelous morning! I cooed and called to so many four-legged beauties and most of them were receptive. (I smell better than I did yesterday.) In spite of not finding the fort, it was a wonderful, rainy walk and I have about forty pictures to prove it.
I headed back into town and stopped at the Chemist's shop for more Compeed (Bandaids on crack. They are amazing.) and a tube of IcyHot. My trick calf that I tore years back feels left out because of all of the attention the little toe is getting, so he decided to pull some crap and demand his turn. I shall slather him with IcyHot and hope for the best. Once done at the Chemist's, I did what any self-respecting Irish lass would do with a free minute on her hands. I tucked into a warm, dry pub.
I sat reading magazine I'd bought about Irish gardens - in a corner by the fire - when who should stumble in but Mike! Remember the 87-year old with the amazing tenor voice? (If not, visit my FB page and listen to him sing Danny Boy. Be prepared to cry.) He sat down with me and shared a pint before wandering off. I had bowl of soup and brown bread while talking to Pat, another fellow I met yesterday at The Lobster. He was supposed to be fishing, but decided a day of pints sounded more rewarding. Any surprise these are my people?
Eventually, I wandered to the shop at the top of town to buy some cheese, bread, and wine before heading back to my inn. That will be the most perfect dinner as I sit in my room, smelling a peat fire, and watching the ocean crash against the rocky shore. When my innkeeper asked how I enjoyed the fort, I tried to gently explain that her way of measuring distance was slightly off kilter.
"Get in the car," she said.
I did. She drove while I belted out "Jaysus!" every few meters when she barely avoided oncoming traffic or the stone wall on either side of the road. I nearly fouled my britches as she careened around blind bends. Lawdy be, who teaches these people to drive?!
Four-and-a-half miles later, we arrived. The fog had rolled in, blanketing what would have been an impressive view. That was just fine with me. I love, love, love fog. It makes things like forts and castles that much more magical. We got out and wandered around. When we got to the board that explained the site, she honored my request to read it in Irish. The sounds of her native language rolling off of her tongue were very moving. I asked if I could record her, but she said she'd be too self-conscious, so I tucked my phone away and tried to make her voice a permanent memory. What a lovely lady she is, indeed.
Then we drove back. Jaysus.
It's early yet, but I'm in for the night. I have another long walk tomorrow (I think 15 miles). My innkeeper is going to drive me to Caherdaniel (where I'd planned to spend tonight in a hostel...can't say I'm sad to miss that. I'm too old for that shit.). From there, I'll walk to Smeed.
For now, it's a relaxing night of reflection, appreciation, and happiness. I have walked seventy-eight miles in a week (including two side trips). I'm proud of that accomplishment. I only have a few more walking days before I rent a car and do things a little differently. I'm very pleased at what I've been able to do. My toe is slowing me down, but that little bastard can't stop me.
I wish I could share this view, these sounds, and these feelings adequately. I know how very lucky and truly blessed I am.
Slan.
On The Road Again
In spite of having a nice room in a very clean, updated house, I didn't get much sleep. Besides the heartbeat in my toe that kept me awake, I was trying to decide what to do about today. I said I wouldn't worry about it; and I didn't want to, but my brain wouldn't let me off the hook that easily.
At 6:30am, I gave up on sleep and took another shower. Then I studied the maps, hoping to find an alternative to walking the Kerry Way (a very serious steep day, both up and down for 20.5 miles) without schlepping along the main road (the Ring of Kerry for 12 or 13 miles). The Way would be impossible with my toe in its current condition and walking the Ring of Kerry is for those with a death wish. Drivers take ridiculous chances to pass - on blind curves - and drive way too fast.
I continued to mull it over at the breakfast table, where I downed four Advil and a cup of coffee. I ate some toast, but didn't even touch my bacon. (I'll be honest, I was a little concerned about my lack of interest in bacon.) I waffled between calling a cab to take me around to the local sites before delivering me to Waterville and biting the bullet. In the end, I packed up and headed off. I'm not ready to call it quits just yet, but I dreaded another walk - even if it was only twelve or thirteen miles.
The views even from the start were spectacular. I'm so happy to be near the water again. When I move to Ireland, it will certainly be in Kerry, but now I realize that it also has to be near the water. I require it.
I was walking into a strong wind and couldn't help but notice how badly I stink. In spite of at least one shower a day, often two, I smell like shit. Showers aren't terribly effective when you put the same damn smelly clothes back on. Don't judge. My pack weighs at least twenty-five pounds; I can't carry spare clothes.
As I sporadically pressed into the hedge to avoid being flattened by speeding cars, I had the privilege of being close to several groups of cows and sheep, and even a few horses. One particular group of milkers was right next to the thicket where I hid from oncoming traffic. They were close enough to touch and one brave girl let me do just that. As I was rubbing her forehead, she snorted. Then she screwed up her snotty nose and blinked a few times before walking upwind. Her compadres followed. So...yeah, I smell bad enough to offend bovines. What an accomplishment. I hope that's engraved on the medal waiting for me at the end of this adventure.
I walked away, doing my level best to keep my head high. It wasn't easy.
What also wasn't easy was ignoring my foot pain. Enough of that.
I saw lots of beautiful cows. At one point, there was a large field to my right, full of sheep mowing down the field. As I stood near the fence, again to avoid being hit, one of the lambs bleated at me. I replied in my best sheep voice. What happened next was hilarious and unbelievable unless you were there. I must have said something politically charged about same sex marriage or the rebel flag because they all chimed in. I don't mean there was random bleating every so often. Oh hell no. Every bloody sheep in the field had something to say. I kept repeating myself, too. The noise was deafening. Then I started to laugh. I mean belly laugh. Sheep are easily led...which makes an old phrase about them make more sense. I kept bleating and laughing and bleating and laughing until I had to...well....attend to some personal business. As I squatted among the wild fuchsia, I noticed poison ivy below. I'll keep you posted on how that goes. (Just what I need.)
Today's walk, while only about twelve miles, was difficult. My toe just isn't healing like I'd hoped. (No, I haven't ripped off the nail yet. Yes, it's still purple.)
I stopped at a gas station about two miles outside of town and bought an ice cream. I took off my pack (hallelujah) and ate it while sitting on a stone wall in the sun. Across the road was a church and cemetery. I daydreamed until my treat was gone and then shouldered the load for the last bit.
WATERVILLE!! I may have found my new home. It's on the water. Duh. The ocean is so different from home. It's more rugged, severe, and dangerous. I wandered through town, soaking in the coastal vibe until I found my B&B. As always, I removed my boots and left them outside, entering the porch in stocking feet. (Wow. There's a phrase I've not used in a lifetime. Does anyone else still say that?) An older woman met me and I gave her my name. She told me that Patti had already checked in. Um, no. Unless you have two Patti Lavells (god, I hope not).
Turns out my innkeeper thought that the woman who showed up earlier in the day was me because she was traveling alone. That lady didn't have a reservation and the innkeeper - thinking she was me - put her in my room. I dug out the email confirmation that I received back in December when I made the reservation. (See, there was a reason for carrying that shit over fifty-seven mountains.) She had only one room left...the family room.
Yep, I'm in the biggest, most beautiful room in the house. It overlooks the sea and has two big ole beds. My windows are open and the salty smell of the sea is flowing in. Unlike our waters at home, I hear the waves crashing below. (Imagine how it will be to fall asleep to that sound tonight!)
I changed into my cleanest of dirty clothes and headed out in search of a pint and some lunch. What I found was legendary. I wandered into The Lobster. The front was clean and bright and looked like family dining. I kept walking to the back where it was dark and dingy. Oh yeah. It was a room of mostly old men watching a Gaelic football match. The youngest of the group offered me his bar stool, which I accepted with a gracious thank you. That's when the games began. They had a yank in their midst. Lawdy be.
I watched two matches with those adorable guys and never paid for a pint. They wouldn't let me. When I tried to buy a round, they threatened to throw me into the sea. Seamus, Danny, Frank, Paddy, and others whose names I don't recall gave me a really fun welcome to town. The eldest , Mike, used to play Gaelic football professionally in his youth. He sat closest to me and schooled me on the game. And what a game it is!!! American football is for pansies compared to this sport. It is full-on craziness and I found my new favorite sport.
When the last match was over, my dear teacher left for the afternoon. He promised to be back when the traditional Irish music begins at 8pm...because he sings with them!! I came home, too, to jot down some thoughts and to avoid being half in the bag when he returns. He said they play for three hours and I intend to hear it all. He has to be in his early eighties if he's a day. He looks like the grampa I never had but always wanted. I'll be sure to get a video of him singing and promise to share it with you.
As I left the dark, back room, there was all matter of hollering and shouting. I promised to return and that I will. I look forward to spending time with that rowdy group of old Irish men.
...and that's exactly what I did. Those crazy Irishmen didn't disappoint. I stayed near the front, where the musicians set up, but those boys stayed in the back and made quite the ruckus. It made me laugh just watching them afar. I didn't need to be a part of that circus to enjoy it.
Please check out my facebook page to see a video of Mike singing Danny Boy. He brought me to tears and I hugged him tightly when it was over. What a voice. What a kind, sweet, old man.
I'm back in my room, watching big waves roll in and listening to them crash. Is there a better sound on this earth? My windows are open wide and the sea's briny scent is way better than my trail-stink. This is the lullaby we all dream of. Sweet dreams.
Slan.
At 6:30am, I gave up on sleep and took another shower. Then I studied the maps, hoping to find an alternative to walking the Kerry Way (a very serious steep day, both up and down for 20.5 miles) without schlepping along the main road (the Ring of Kerry for 12 or 13 miles). The Way would be impossible with my toe in its current condition and walking the Ring of Kerry is for those with a death wish. Drivers take ridiculous chances to pass - on blind curves - and drive way too fast.
I continued to mull it over at the breakfast table, where I downed four Advil and a cup of coffee. I ate some toast, but didn't even touch my bacon. (I'll be honest, I was a little concerned about my lack of interest in bacon.) I waffled between calling a cab to take me around to the local sites before delivering me to Waterville and biting the bullet. In the end, I packed up and headed off. I'm not ready to call it quits just yet, but I dreaded another walk - even if it was only twelve or thirteen miles.
The views even from the start were spectacular. I'm so happy to be near the water again. When I move to Ireland, it will certainly be in Kerry, but now I realize that it also has to be near the water. I require it.
I was walking into a strong wind and couldn't help but notice how badly I stink. In spite of at least one shower a day, often two, I smell like shit. Showers aren't terribly effective when you put the same damn smelly clothes back on. Don't judge. My pack weighs at least twenty-five pounds; I can't carry spare clothes.
As I sporadically pressed into the hedge to avoid being flattened by speeding cars, I had the privilege of being close to several groups of cows and sheep, and even a few horses. One particular group of milkers was right next to the thicket where I hid from oncoming traffic. They were close enough to touch and one brave girl let me do just that. As I was rubbing her forehead, she snorted. Then she screwed up her snotty nose and blinked a few times before walking upwind. Her compadres followed. So...yeah, I smell bad enough to offend bovines. What an accomplishment. I hope that's engraved on the medal waiting for me at the end of this adventure.
I walked away, doing my level best to keep my head high. It wasn't easy.
What also wasn't easy was ignoring my foot pain. Enough of that.
I saw lots of beautiful cows. At one point, there was a large field to my right, full of sheep mowing down the field. As I stood near the fence, again to avoid being hit, one of the lambs bleated at me. I replied in my best sheep voice. What happened next was hilarious and unbelievable unless you were there. I must have said something politically charged about same sex marriage or the rebel flag because they all chimed in. I don't mean there was random bleating every so often. Oh hell no. Every bloody sheep in the field had something to say. I kept repeating myself, too. The noise was deafening. Then I started to laugh. I mean belly laugh. Sheep are easily led...which makes an old phrase about them make more sense. I kept bleating and laughing and bleating and laughing until I had to...well....attend to some personal business. As I squatted among the wild fuchsia, I noticed poison ivy below. I'll keep you posted on how that goes. (Just what I need.)
Today's walk, while only about twelve miles, was difficult. My toe just isn't healing like I'd hoped. (No, I haven't ripped off the nail yet. Yes, it's still purple.)
I stopped at a gas station about two miles outside of town and bought an ice cream. I took off my pack (hallelujah) and ate it while sitting on a stone wall in the sun. Across the road was a church and cemetery. I daydreamed until my treat was gone and then shouldered the load for the last bit.
WATERVILLE!! I may have found my new home. It's on the water. Duh. The ocean is so different from home. It's more rugged, severe, and dangerous. I wandered through town, soaking in the coastal vibe until I found my B&B. As always, I removed my boots and left them outside, entering the porch in stocking feet. (Wow. There's a phrase I've not used in a lifetime. Does anyone else still say that?) An older woman met me and I gave her my name. She told me that Patti had already checked in. Um, no. Unless you have two Patti Lavells (god, I hope not).
Turns out my innkeeper thought that the woman who showed up earlier in the day was me because she was traveling alone. That lady didn't have a reservation and the innkeeper - thinking she was me - put her in my room. I dug out the email confirmation that I received back in December when I made the reservation. (See, there was a reason for carrying that shit over fifty-seven mountains.) She had only one room left...the family room.
Yep, I'm in the biggest, most beautiful room in the house. It overlooks the sea and has two big ole beds. My windows are open and the salty smell of the sea is flowing in. Unlike our waters at home, I hear the waves crashing below. (Imagine how it will be to fall asleep to that sound tonight!)
I changed into my cleanest of dirty clothes and headed out in search of a pint and some lunch. What I found was legendary. I wandered into The Lobster. The front was clean and bright and looked like family dining. I kept walking to the back where it was dark and dingy. Oh yeah. It was a room of mostly old men watching a Gaelic football match. The youngest of the group offered me his bar stool, which I accepted with a gracious thank you. That's when the games began. They had a yank in their midst. Lawdy be.
I watched two matches with those adorable guys and never paid for a pint. They wouldn't let me. When I tried to buy a round, they threatened to throw me into the sea. Seamus, Danny, Frank, Paddy, and others whose names I don't recall gave me a really fun welcome to town. The eldest , Mike, used to play Gaelic football professionally in his youth. He sat closest to me and schooled me on the game. And what a game it is!!! American football is for pansies compared to this sport. It is full-on craziness and I found my new favorite sport.
When the last match was over, my dear teacher left for the afternoon. He promised to be back when the traditional Irish music begins at 8pm...because he sings with them!! I came home, too, to jot down some thoughts and to avoid being half in the bag when he returns. He said they play for three hours and I intend to hear it all. He has to be in his early eighties if he's a day. He looks like the grampa I never had but always wanted. I'll be sure to get a video of him singing and promise to share it with you.
As I left the dark, back room, there was all matter of hollering and shouting. I promised to return and that I will. I look forward to spending time with that rowdy group of old Irish men.
...and that's exactly what I did. Those crazy Irishmen didn't disappoint. I stayed near the front, where the musicians set up, but those boys stayed in the back and made quite the ruckus. It made me laugh just watching them afar. I didn't need to be a part of that circus to enjoy it.
Please check out my facebook page to see a video of Mike singing Danny Boy. He brought me to tears and I hugged him tightly when it was over. What a voice. What a kind, sweet, old man.
I'm back in my room, watching big waves roll in and listening to them crash. Is there a better sound on this earth? My windows are open wide and the sea's briny scent is way better than my trail-stink. This is the lullaby we all dream of. Sweet dreams.
Slan.
Saturday, June 27, 2015
Settling In
I spent a bit of time down in the pub at Caitin's last night, listening to the music. It was very nice traditional stuff...and then the musicians played Frank Sanatra's New York, NY and Michael Jackson's Billy Jean. I went to bed. Let me clarify; there's nothing wrong with those songs, but I didn't fly across the pond and walk sixty miles to hear them. Funny thing, though, from my bed, the music was just as loud as it had been downstairs. I let them sing me to sleep. That was 11pm.
I woke with a start at 3pm, as people began to wander upstairs to their rooms. They weren't quiet about it, but I didn't mind. I had a private room. I had to wander down the hall to the "toilet", but it wasn't a huge deal. At four am, the Irish boys were still crooning. I still didn't mind. About 4:30am, someone tried cramming their key into the lock of my door. I told them they had the wrong room. They told me to feck off. I rolled over and went to sleep. At 8:30am, I woke, somehow very well rested.
I'd slept eleven hours since arriving at the hostel, in three separate chunks, and I felt ready to face the day. My toe felt the best it had in days - I'd been off of it for practically 19 hours.
I went downstairs to the kitchen, made a cup of instant coffee, and downed four Advil. That was breakfast. I packed up and headed off in a light rain. (Let me say that for $35 euro, I got a private room with a single bed, a shared toilet, three pints of Smithwick's, a beef stew dinner and dessert, a cup of coffee, linens, and a towel. If you are ever in Kells, you must go to Caitin's. What a freakin' bargain.)
The size and color of my little toe convinced me that climbing back to the trail head was not a good idea. It had to be two miles uphill, just to connect with the Kerry Way, which would be uphill and down hill all day. (That's the worse thing for this trick toe.) I decided to cheat and take the road (the Ring of Kerry) all the way from Kells to Cahersiveen. It was kind of cheating because I wouldn't be climbing mountains, but not really because I'd still be walking.
About two miles into it, my belly said it needed food. Its timing was perfect, because I stumbled upon a restaurant/shop/ hostel. A sign on the door indicated that take away was upstairs. I took my stinky self up there, wearing the same clothes I've been wearing for five days. When you carry everything on your back, there is no changing clothes after a shower....you get clean and then put your stinky clothes back on. Disgusting, but that's how it's done.
I walked into a huge dining room, which was completely empty, except for a young girl behind the counter. When she asked if I wanted breakfast, I asked if I could get a sandwich for take away. She went back into the kitchen to set about making that happen when I heard a voice behind me. Sitting at a table was an older gentleman that I didn't notice on my way in. He was wearing a tweed jacket with elbow patches, slacks, and dress shoes. He had no food or drink on the table in front of him.
Him: "How's the foot?"
Me: "Excuse me?"
Him: "Are ye gettin' by?" (He points at my bad toe.)
Me: "How'd you know?"
Him: "I was at Caitin's last night. Saw you sufferin'."
Me: "I didn't see you."
Him: "Hmmmm. Pull out yer map."
I just stared at the man until he asked me again to take out me map.
Hin: "Since you don't want to climb, you should take the road to here. Then take the cycling path - across the road will be a white-washed cottage. The woman inside will give you directions. From there, just take it to the end, where it will meet with the main road again. You'll be fine."
Me: "Cheers. Thank you so much."
Him:"My name is Paddy."
Me: "I'm Patti!"
Him: "Aye."
At that point the young girl called me back to the register to pay. I thanked the man again and walked to the register. As I dug out the correct change, I mentioned how much I appreciated the kind gentleman's help. She looked confused and asked,"What man?"
The dining room was empty. I paid for my sandwich and got the hell out. What just happened? There was a man there who helped me find an alternative route and then he was gone. Was I the only one who saw him?
Eight miles later, after walking past many farms full of heifers, bulls, sheep, and dung, I arrived in Cahersiveen. What a perfect day of farm walking. My Dad would have loved this day's walk. No surprise that my B&B wasn't ready. I dropped my pack and poles and headed into town. I discovered that a castle was on the outskirts. My toe felt the best it had in days, so I went for it. Three miles later, I walked up to Ballycarbery Castle. Unlike other castle experiences I've had, I couldn't wait to get away from this one. It wasn't a pleasant place to be. Surprising, because I always find it hard to leave them. Not this one. I couldn't get away soon enough.
So after walking ten miles, I walked an additional six to see a castle. It was certainly beautiful, but not a place that my soul wanted to stay. I stopped at a pub on my way back to the B&B for two pints. The rain was relentless, the wind was howling, and I was smelly and soaked. I soon left and stopped at a shop where I bought a loaf of bread for dinner and headed for my B&B. After a hot shower, I'm hunkered down. It's raining like hell and the wind is howling, (this is summer?)but the radiator in my room is working, so I'm getting warm and dry. I don't know what tomorrow will bring. It's almost 21 miles to Waterville and I don't think I can walk that far...however, I did 16+ today, so it's possible.
Many thanks to the man who showed me the alternative route - whomever you are! Cheers and Godspeed.
I miss my family. I love Ireland. Somehow I have to reconcile the two. My heart is here...and so are my heifers, donkeys, sheep, goats, and chickens.
Slan.
I woke with a start at 3pm, as people began to wander upstairs to their rooms. They weren't quiet about it, but I didn't mind. I had a private room. I had to wander down the hall to the "toilet", but it wasn't a huge deal. At four am, the Irish boys were still crooning. I still didn't mind. About 4:30am, someone tried cramming their key into the lock of my door. I told them they had the wrong room. They told me to feck off. I rolled over and went to sleep. At 8:30am, I woke, somehow very well rested.
I'd slept eleven hours since arriving at the hostel, in three separate chunks, and I felt ready to face the day. My toe felt the best it had in days - I'd been off of it for practically 19 hours.
I went downstairs to the kitchen, made a cup of instant coffee, and downed four Advil. That was breakfast. I packed up and headed off in a light rain. (Let me say that for $35 euro, I got a private room with a single bed, a shared toilet, three pints of Smithwick's, a beef stew dinner and dessert, a cup of coffee, linens, and a towel. If you are ever in Kells, you must go to Caitin's. What a freakin' bargain.)
The size and color of my little toe convinced me that climbing back to the trail head was not a good idea. It had to be two miles uphill, just to connect with the Kerry Way, which would be uphill and down hill all day. (That's the worse thing for this trick toe.) I decided to cheat and take the road (the Ring of Kerry) all the way from Kells to Cahersiveen. It was kind of cheating because I wouldn't be climbing mountains, but not really because I'd still be walking.
About two miles into it, my belly said it needed food. Its timing was perfect, because I stumbled upon a restaurant/shop/ hostel. A sign on the door indicated that take away was upstairs. I took my stinky self up there, wearing the same clothes I've been wearing for five days. When you carry everything on your back, there is no changing clothes after a shower....you get clean and then put your stinky clothes back on. Disgusting, but that's how it's done.
I walked into a huge dining room, which was completely empty, except for a young girl behind the counter. When she asked if I wanted breakfast, I asked if I could get a sandwich for take away. She went back into the kitchen to set about making that happen when I heard a voice behind me. Sitting at a table was an older gentleman that I didn't notice on my way in. He was wearing a tweed jacket with elbow patches, slacks, and dress shoes. He had no food or drink on the table in front of him.
Him: "How's the foot?"
Me: "Excuse me?"
Him: "Are ye gettin' by?" (He points at my bad toe.)
Me: "How'd you know?"
Him: "I was at Caitin's last night. Saw you sufferin'."
Me: "I didn't see you."
Him: "Hmmmm. Pull out yer map."
I just stared at the man until he asked me again to take out me map.
Hin: "Since you don't want to climb, you should take the road to here. Then take the cycling path - across the road will be a white-washed cottage. The woman inside will give you directions. From there, just take it to the end, where it will meet with the main road again. You'll be fine."
Me: "Cheers. Thank you so much."
Him:"My name is Paddy."
Me: "I'm Patti!"
Him: "Aye."
At that point the young girl called me back to the register to pay. I thanked the man again and walked to the register. As I dug out the correct change, I mentioned how much I appreciated the kind gentleman's help. She looked confused and asked,"What man?"
The dining room was empty. I paid for my sandwich and got the hell out. What just happened? There was a man there who helped me find an alternative route and then he was gone. Was I the only one who saw him?
Eight miles later, after walking past many farms full of heifers, bulls, sheep, and dung, I arrived in Cahersiveen. What a perfect day of farm walking. My Dad would have loved this day's walk. No surprise that my B&B wasn't ready. I dropped my pack and poles and headed into town. I discovered that a castle was on the outskirts. My toe felt the best it had in days, so I went for it. Three miles later, I walked up to Ballycarbery Castle. Unlike other castle experiences I've had, I couldn't wait to get away from this one. It wasn't a pleasant place to be. Surprising, because I always find it hard to leave them. Not this one. I couldn't get away soon enough.
So after walking ten miles, I walked an additional six to see a castle. It was certainly beautiful, but not a place that my soul wanted to stay. I stopped at a pub on my way back to the B&B for two pints. The rain was relentless, the wind was howling, and I was smelly and soaked. I soon left and stopped at a shop where I bought a loaf of bread for dinner and headed for my B&B. After a hot shower, I'm hunkered down. It's raining like hell and the wind is howling, (this is summer?)but the radiator in my room is working, so I'm getting warm and dry. I don't know what tomorrow will bring. It's almost 21 miles to Waterville and I don't think I can walk that far...however, I did 16+ today, so it's possible.
Many thanks to the man who showed me the alternative route - whomever you are! Cheers and Godspeed.
I miss my family. I love Ireland. Somehow I have to reconcile the two. My heart is here...and so are my heifers, donkeys, sheep, goats, and chickens.
Slan.
Friday, June 26, 2015
Another Mountain?!?!
I didn't sleep much last night because everything hurt, but it was a very comfortable bed with the most wonderful linens and comforter. I laid awake, listening to the rain, contemplating a ten mile hike today. I fell asleep just as the sky began to lighten, which at this time of year is about four o'clock. I slept hard until my alarm went off at 7:45am.
I went down to breakfast, but wasn't hungry. I had three advil and a cup of coffee. I tried explaining to my B&B's proprietor that I just couldn't eat. I told him about my toe - because that's excellent conversation to have whilst others are eating - and he offered an alternate route that would allow me to skirt the mountain, rather than climb it as the Way requires. I was all for a "cheat" that wasn't really one. Taking a horse or a cab is cheating. Finding a flatter walking route is not.
After packing, I hobbled to Owen's hostel two doors down. I chatted with the proprietor, a very personable man named Con (short for Connor, perhaps?) until my walking mate had finished his toilette and coif. I told him about the alternative route and he agreed that it would work. Owen and I hit the road about ten, I guess.
The start of the day was lovely. Cool and bright skies. We walked an old railroad bed shaded by a nice canopy of trees before dropping back to a tarmac road, which we followed for a few miles. The requisite up then began and didn't end for miles and miles and miles. I was beginning to feel downhearted because my pace was so very slow for the beginning of a day - it just didn't bode well. Then I got my first glimpse of the ocean and I was re-energized. Nothing like beautiful blue water to a spring in one's step. That view kept me feeling buoyant until that damn mountain in front of us refused to move. There was no going around that one - it was up and over or nothing.
I'll not complain. No one made me walk; it was my choice. I love Ireland and her views, her people, her music, and her mountains...but do I HAVE to climb one every goddamned day? Apparently, the answer is yes. I moved forward best I could.
After what felt like hours of climbing steadily up, opening farmer's gates and then carefully closing them behind us, we were high on a mountain, far above the Ring of Kerry. (To clarify, the Ring of Kerry is roadway that tourists in cars traverse from town to town. The Kerry Way is a walking path that also goes to the same towns, but does so via forest, farmland, and mountains. In spite of my aches and pains, the Kerry Way is the way for me. Cars not so much.) The tour buses looked smaller than matchbox cars. The edge was close enough to make me quite dizzy at times. (I was glad Lauren was not here for this point, because I'd have had a cow watching her walk it.) After a good bit, we turned away from the edge and climbed again to a summit. What can I say other than it sucked and I was in agony. The wind whipped and whipped at the top. The way down was easier than any of the climbs thus far. We followed a track through some forest areas and then it was time to part ways.
Owen was headed for Cahersiveen and I was going to Kells. I gave him a parting gift of bread and salami, sure that I'd find plenty of food at the pub to which I was headed. We took the obligatory selfie and said farewell. Thank you, Owen, for walking with me, waiting for me, and being the best cheerleader a girl could hope for. I'd never made it to Glenbeigh without you. Godspeed, my friend.
I followed a gravel track down and toward the coast. After a mile or two, I hit the main road - the Ring of Kerry - where people drive like assholes. It was only a half mile or so to my hostel/pub - Caitin's - but I had to step aside and press myself against a rock face to avoid being run over by passing cars. It takes longer to walk that way. No matter, I knew that pints and lunch were waiting for me.
I arrived safely at Caitin's about 2pm. I pulled the red door and found it locked. That's when I noticed that the sign in the window said that it didn't open until 7:30pm. Five and a half hours in a place that has nothing else...oh man. I called the number on the sign and miraculously, the call went through. To my eternal gratitude, the proprietor was there in less than five minutes. He let me in and took me to a private room. My bathroom is down the hall and shared with a bunch of other rooms. It was then that I discovered that the pub doesn't serve pints to anyone - booked there or not - until 7:30pm. I also learned that they don't serve food.
It was then that I regretting giving Owen bread and meat. I'd not eaten all day and was in need of something. The proprietor said that there was a place I could buy food about two miles away. Four miles round trip (according to an Irishman's distance guessing, which means it was probably more like six miles both ways). My toe told me to go without. I showered, posted yesterday's blog, crawled into bed and slept for three hours. It was clearly what I needed. I felt better than I had in two days...but I was hungry as a bear.
My fat little face was pressed to the pub's front window at 7:24pm. I was let in at exactly 7:30 and had my first pint of Smithwick's in front of me shortly thereafter. I chatted up the owner a bit, he was a good fellow with a kind heart. Long about 9pm, I gave serious consideration to asking a local to drive me to a grocery store. Moments later, the owner placed a bowl of beef stew before me. When I started at him blankly, he said, "I wouldn't want my mother to go hungry."
Oh. Wow. I thought we were the same age....I didn't care how old he thought I was; he fed me. I don't like beef stew, but I loved that one. I all but licked the bowl clean. As he cleared it away, I tried to find a way to express how thankful I was. That's when he placed a lemon tart in front of me. I don't eat sweets; I devoured in about three bites.
The kindness of people I meet on these long distance walks is mind-blowing. I am forever grateful for his generosity.
A group of musicians set up and began to play traditional Irish music; it's what I've been waiting for all week. I listened for about an hour and then came back to my room. Funny, it's just as loud up here as it was down there! At this very moment, they're playing Johnny Cash's Folsom Prison Blues and the crowd is going wild. WTF? I love Ireland!!
I'm not sure how many miles I have tomorrow; I try not to read too far ahead because it can be overwhelming. I prefer to find out about the need to climb another mountain as it looms in front of me. I don't see the point in worrying about it before hand. It will be what it will be. Reading the map and fretting won't change it.
I will not quit. I will not give in to this toe. I will persevere.
Slan.
I went down to breakfast, but wasn't hungry. I had three advil and a cup of coffee. I tried explaining to my B&B's proprietor that I just couldn't eat. I told him about my toe - because that's excellent conversation to have whilst others are eating - and he offered an alternate route that would allow me to skirt the mountain, rather than climb it as the Way requires. I was all for a "cheat" that wasn't really one. Taking a horse or a cab is cheating. Finding a flatter walking route is not.
After packing, I hobbled to Owen's hostel two doors down. I chatted with the proprietor, a very personable man named Con (short for Connor, perhaps?) until my walking mate had finished his toilette and coif. I told him about the alternative route and he agreed that it would work. Owen and I hit the road about ten, I guess.
The start of the day was lovely. Cool and bright skies. We walked an old railroad bed shaded by a nice canopy of trees before dropping back to a tarmac road, which we followed for a few miles. The requisite up then began and didn't end for miles and miles and miles. I was beginning to feel downhearted because my pace was so very slow for the beginning of a day - it just didn't bode well. Then I got my first glimpse of the ocean and I was re-energized. Nothing like beautiful blue water to a spring in one's step. That view kept me feeling buoyant until that damn mountain in front of us refused to move. There was no going around that one - it was up and over or nothing.
I'll not complain. No one made me walk; it was my choice. I love Ireland and her views, her people, her music, and her mountains...but do I HAVE to climb one every goddamned day? Apparently, the answer is yes. I moved forward best I could.
After what felt like hours of climbing steadily up, opening farmer's gates and then carefully closing them behind us, we were high on a mountain, far above the Ring of Kerry. (To clarify, the Ring of Kerry is roadway that tourists in cars traverse from town to town. The Kerry Way is a walking path that also goes to the same towns, but does so via forest, farmland, and mountains. In spite of my aches and pains, the Kerry Way is the way for me. Cars not so much.) The tour buses looked smaller than matchbox cars. The edge was close enough to make me quite dizzy at times. (I was glad Lauren was not here for this point, because I'd have had a cow watching her walk it.) After a good bit, we turned away from the edge and climbed again to a summit. What can I say other than it sucked and I was in agony. The wind whipped and whipped at the top. The way down was easier than any of the climbs thus far. We followed a track through some forest areas and then it was time to part ways.
Owen was headed for Cahersiveen and I was going to Kells. I gave him a parting gift of bread and salami, sure that I'd find plenty of food at the pub to which I was headed. We took the obligatory selfie and said farewell. Thank you, Owen, for walking with me, waiting for me, and being the best cheerleader a girl could hope for. I'd never made it to Glenbeigh without you. Godspeed, my friend.
I followed a gravel track down and toward the coast. After a mile or two, I hit the main road - the Ring of Kerry - where people drive like assholes. It was only a half mile or so to my hostel/pub - Caitin's - but I had to step aside and press myself against a rock face to avoid being run over by passing cars. It takes longer to walk that way. No matter, I knew that pints and lunch were waiting for me.
I arrived safely at Caitin's about 2pm. I pulled the red door and found it locked. That's when I noticed that the sign in the window said that it didn't open until 7:30pm. Five and a half hours in a place that has nothing else...oh man. I called the number on the sign and miraculously, the call went through. To my eternal gratitude, the proprietor was there in less than five minutes. He let me in and took me to a private room. My bathroom is down the hall and shared with a bunch of other rooms. It was then that I discovered that the pub doesn't serve pints to anyone - booked there or not - until 7:30pm. I also learned that they don't serve food.
It was then that I regretting giving Owen bread and meat. I'd not eaten all day and was in need of something. The proprietor said that there was a place I could buy food about two miles away. Four miles round trip (according to an Irishman's distance guessing, which means it was probably more like six miles both ways). My toe told me to go without. I showered, posted yesterday's blog, crawled into bed and slept for three hours. It was clearly what I needed. I felt better than I had in two days...but I was hungry as a bear.
My fat little face was pressed to the pub's front window at 7:24pm. I was let in at exactly 7:30 and had my first pint of Smithwick's in front of me shortly thereafter. I chatted up the owner a bit, he was a good fellow with a kind heart. Long about 9pm, I gave serious consideration to asking a local to drive me to a grocery store. Moments later, the owner placed a bowl of beef stew before me. When I started at him blankly, he said, "I wouldn't want my mother to go hungry."
Oh. Wow. I thought we were the same age....I didn't care how old he thought I was; he fed me. I don't like beef stew, but I loved that one. I all but licked the bowl clean. As he cleared it away, I tried to find a way to express how thankful I was. That's when he placed a lemon tart in front of me. I don't eat sweets; I devoured in about three bites.
The kindness of people I meet on these long distance walks is mind-blowing. I am forever grateful for his generosity.
A group of musicians set up and began to play traditional Irish music; it's what I've been waiting for all week. I listened for about an hour and then came back to my room. Funny, it's just as loud up here as it was down there! At this very moment, they're playing Johnny Cash's Folsom Prison Blues and the crowd is going wild. WTF? I love Ireland!!
I'm not sure how many miles I have tomorrow; I try not to read too far ahead because it can be overwhelming. I prefer to find out about the need to climb another mountain as it looms in front of me. I don't see the point in worrying about it before hand. It will be what it will be. Reading the map and fretting won't change it.
I will not quit. I will not give in to this toe. I will persevere.
Slan.
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