We're back in Islamorada, attempting to get our body clocks in sync with our surroundings. Going East is always easy for me - the beginning of every trip always is - but coming back West is a bitch. Reliving five or six hours (depending upon the time of year and if it's daylight's savings time) after being awake for eighteen hours is not fun, especially if those hours include flight delays and annoying American tourists.
I won't bore you with the details of our lengthy trip home because I'd come across as an ungrateful brat. Suffice to say it was typical airport stuff, but we finally caught up with each other in Miami (we were on different flights out of Dublin) and rented a car to come home. I drove while Doug slept and Lauren talked/texted with the friends she missed while we were off trekking.
I wanted to drive on the left, but resisted the urge.
The highways were bright and busy. I miss the twisty, green canopy-covered country roads of Kerry and Mayo. There are no cows, sheep or donkeys for many, many miles. I miss them, too.
At some point yesterday, after taking out the dogs - who are so happy we're home that they never leave my side...which makes for a very crowded bathroom - I needed to write. I pulled my wheeled computer bag that I'd carried for three weeks over to my desk and unzipped the compartment that stores my laptop. It was empty. Frantically, I searched every compartment, finding all of them sans laptop.
Aw feck and shit, too! I must have left it in Customs. At Dublin Airport, I had to remove the laptop once while going through security and then a second time while going through Customs. I must have forgotten to put it back the second time. What if some bad guy took it and is savvy enough to pull personal information out of its memory? Credit card numbers, our home address, information about the kids, SSNs? The list running through my head was endless.
Dougie and Lauren were still asleep, doing a better job adjusting to the time change than me. I knew I needed to call Dublin's Customs and Immigration Office immediately. I sat down at my desk to look up the info online...but my laptop wasn't there. I may have had tears in my eyes. Thankfully, Dougie recently allowed us to upgrade to big girl phones, so I grabbed my iphone and found the number.
I spoke to a very kind man who said my laptop hadn't been turned in, but suggested I call at a more civilized hour. I'd failed to consider it was 2:30am in Dublin. I filed an online report for my missing laptop via my phone and waited. I needed to stay busy or I'd go crazy.
I decided to make an Irish-inspired breakie. I started with a vegetable tart and while it baked, I made boxty. While the tart cooled and the boxty fried, I made bacon, too. As is always the case, just as the food is almost ready, the family woke and joined me in the kitchen. Two nieces were with us - they'd stayed with Bear and Boozer while we explored Ireland. It was a nice meal and helped to keep my mind off how bad things could be regarding my lost laptop.
Once Doug's belly was full and he'd had a cup of coffee, I broke the news.
"I've something to tell you and you're going to be really pissed," I said.
He waited. He hears things like this from me often enough that he waits for more before getting excited.
"I left my laptop in Customs at Dublin. I've already called to report it missing, but no one's turned it in yet."
I waited for a string of bad words and a few fist poundings on the counter, but instead he smiled.
"No you didn't. I have it."
What!?!? It was true. The night before, he'd removed it from my laptop bag so he could order me a new battery. (As of late, if I'm not plugged into a socket, the battery is good for only forty minutes or so.) Talk about relief! I hugged him tightly and sighed.
My laptop was safe at home. My personal information was, too. Do you know what else I was worried about? I've begun two new novels, each one is upwards of 200 pages already, and I don't have them backed up on anything. If my laptop had been lost, so too would those two books. There's absolutely no way I could recreate them. They'd be gone and I'd have been crushed.
As you can imagine, I'm so relieved and plan to back up both novels on multiple drives today. Without delay. Also on my list of to dos, is to mail a rum cake to Mr. John Doyle and his sister, the wonderful people at Camp Junction House for their extreme kindness to me and Lauren. It's a small gesture and certainly doesn't repay them for all they did. I also need to send off some thank yous to others who made our trip such a delight.
Between you me and the lamppost, I've begun to look at small farms for sale on the peninsula. Just out of curiosity, sorta. My head is still full of dreams of living on a small, clean farm with a few milkers, chickens, a donkey or two, goats and sheep. I don't want a full-blown agricultural production, just enough of a farm to keep me busy and surrounded by hairy, four-legged beasts to love. Imagine the fun Boozy would have with a donkey!! Bear is a bit of a herder with us, so he'd probably love to boss around a few goats and sheep.
There are, of course, rules to be dealt with regarding Americans moving to Ireland to live and Americans buying property. I've only just begun to research them, but I'm confident it can be done.
It's just a pipe dream for now, but one that makes me happy to chew on. I'd love to return to the life my ancestors enjoyed - except I want indoor plumbing and heat. Since there aren't many living, it's the best way I can think of to stay connected with those who've already moved on, including my Dad, who was also a farmer. I don't need a lot. I have more than I need. I love Islamorada and its marine mammals, but Kerry and Mayo have a different kind of hold on my heart.
You can't escape your roots, I guess. As a kid, I swore I'd never live on a farm or step in cow shit again. Forty years later, I can't think of a more wonderful way to live. Convincing Dougie may be difficult, but I've done it before. He understands how I feel about the Emerald Isle, at least to some degree.
Time travel is a funny thing. I traveled through time zones and into the past. I'm back in the present, but my mind is ever revisiting Ireland's old fashioned ways. Before long, I'll have to answer that call to keep alive a way of life that may someday be gone. For my Dad and all the Lavelle farmers who came before him. For me, too.
Friday, June 27, 2014
Tuesday, June 24, 2014
Mayo, Take Two
After hot showers, we put back on our less-than-clean clothes and headed off to breakie. I had boxty! Boxty, boxty, boxty! It makes the world go round. I've made it at home and I've shared the recipe in my newspaper column, The Island Gourmet. I do love boxty, but to eat it in Newport, Mayo, Ireland is a dream come true. One of the first things I'm going to make when we get home is boxty. Then brown bread and homemade butter. Then veggie tart followed by mushroom and onion pie.
By the time we wandered back to our B&B, it was almost 11am. Joe was waiting for us. He made a phone call to "Uncle" and then told us to head up the road to speak with him. No need to pack up/check out. We could leave our bags right where they were. Uncle was waiting! He told us to go up the road and look for the house on the right with all of the steel and iron in the front yard.
We took off, wondering if Joe's directions of "just up the road" would be in true Irish form. I figured we had about three-quarters of a mile before his homestead came into view. Imagine my surprise when we came across Joe just up the street from the B&B! We'd just left him behind at the front door and there he was, standing by a truck in front of a handsome house. Was he a vampire? He was at the B&B one moment and then up the street the next. Odd things were happening, that was for sure.
Joe pointed at the house behind him, claiming it as his own. A dog in the front yard did his level best to earn his keep by scaring us away. We thanked Joe for the directions and kept walking. I looked back every few seconds, waiting for Joe to apparate like a Hogswarts professor. I can't swear that's what happened, but the last time I turned, he and his truck were gone. Leprechauns? Turning back to the task at hand, I was blown away when the very next house sported a yard full of metal. To his credit, Joe is the only Irishman who can actually measure distance.
The front door was ajar, an indication that the resident was expecting company. I knocked and waited. Nothing. I rang the bell and waited. Nothing. I knocked louder and shouted, "Helloooo" and waited. I heard the shuffle of feet and hoped I looked okay/didn't smell too badly.
The most adorable elderly gentleman opened the door. He reminded me of the human form of Yoda; that's how cute he was. I stuck out my hand and introduced myself, thanking him for allowing us to bother him. He listened to the introductions and then bade us follow him into the sitting room. He refused to sit until we'd all made ourselves comfortable.
"A mbaineann tu?" he said.
"Excuse me?" I replied.
"A mbaineann tu?" he said again.
I smiled. "What does that mean?"
This is probably a good time to tell you how much I adore the sound of the Irish language. As if I don't have enough projects, I want to learn to speak it. What beautiful sounds.
"Who do you come from?" he translated.
I tried to tell my story slowly. It was clear that he was accustomed to speaking Irish. He sat directly across from me, perched on the edge of chair. He was close enough to touch. He listened, leaning forward slightly to rest on the crook of his cane. Again, the similarities between him and Yoda were strong. (I love Yoda, so please understand this is a compliment. This man was cuter and sweeter than words can express.)
I thought maybe he'd forgotten why we were there, because he took so long to answer. But eventually, in a thick brogue that forced me to use all of my brain just to understand his words, he began to describe the Lavelle households he knew of. The details he remembered about who married into which family, the names of sisters and aunts and deaths of spouses were astounding. He never stuttered or repeated himself. He was quite clear, although more than once he became frustrated with his memory and suggested that he was too old for such conversation. I called bullshit and encouraged him to continue, which he did with a twinkle in his eye.
Unfortunately, much of what he remembered involved the death of Lavelle's, although he directed to me to a home on the way to Westport whose inhabitants might have clues about my family. I held his hand and thanked him. He was shy and adorable. He walked us to the door, although I told him it wasn't necessary.
"I want to see you when I come back to Ireland," I said. We were outside his front door.
"Will ye bring a spade or a shovel?" he said. His eyes twinkled again, but there was a hint of sadness that time.
"Stop it! You'll be right here!" I assured him. Without once considering etiquette, I hugged him tightly. He was sturdier than you'd imagine a 94-year-old man to be. There's still a lot of life left in Mr. Kilroy - thank our Maker for that.
As we walked away, I remembered Luke Skywalker's words to Yoda when he promised he'd come back. I realized I must be overtired, if I was drawing parallels between my life and those played out in Star Wars. I mean, we all know I belong in The Dukes of Hazzard, right? Unless I was Han Solo's side kick - and by that, I don't mean Chewbacca - then forget it. Hazzard County all the way. I belong in a beat up pickup truck more than a star ship...again, unless I'm Han Solo's girl.
Back at the B&B, we found Joe outside with a friend, sitting at a picnic table and shooting the shit. When he saw me, he waved me over to inquire. After a few minutes, I learned that Mr. Kilroy (Yoda) was really and truly Joe Reid's uncle. In fact, he was also the uncle of the man Joe was speaking with. They described how Mr. Kilroy had suffered a heart attack two years earlier. Rather than call for help, he got on his bike and rode to the doctor's office.
I stood with my mouth hanging open at the image of Mr. Kilroy (who was then 92), biking to the doctor's office as he suffered a heart attack.
"It was all downhill," Joe explained with a laugh.
Those Irish boys are made of strong stuff. Strong and squishy at the same time. It made me want to run back to his house, let myself inside, and hug him again. I treasure the chance to sit at length with him and just listen to whatever it is he might want to tell me. I know I just met me man, but I'm tempted to use the "L" word. Very tempted.
I wanted to take Mr. Kilroy's picture, but I felt like I'd imposed enough. I was afraid to appear disrespectful, but next time I see him, I will ask his permission. I want you to see just how adorable he is.
We settled up with Joe and I wrote down the names of my ancestors (upon his request) so that should he have the opportunity to talk with anyone who had knowledge of the Lavelle's, he could try to help me out. I'll tell you what, Joe Reid is a damn fine man. The next time I go to Newport, I'm staying at the Black Oak Inn. In fact, I think I should plan a family reunion and we'll all stay there!
Regretfully, we left Newport in the rear view and drove to Castlebar. There was another large graveyard I wanted to check out. As luck would have it, the cemetery was directly across the street from our hotel. How convenient. Dead bodies outside my bedroom window. Just like on Canal Street. Perfect.
I was very surprised that, although we found a couple of Lavelle graves, none of them belong to me. Sadly, we moved on. We had to drive to Knock Airport to return our rental. I treasured every mile between in Castelbar and Knock...not just because they were my last moments in Mayo, but I really LOVE driving in Ireland and, if you don't mind me saying so, I'm damn good at driving a car on the wrong side of the road with a gear box where it doesn't belong. It was pure fun.
It was an uneventful trip to Knock. Lauren was in the backseat with her ipod. Doug was in the front seat, tired and quiet. I was left to my thoughts of Ireland and cows and family. We cabbed back to Castlebar, walked to a pub for some chow and then locked ourselves into our room for the night.
I didn't shut off my laptop until well after 1am, because I was trying to get caught up on this blog and it took seven or eight minutes to load each picture. I don't know why the damn thing was so slow, but it was and there was nothing to do but be patient. While I waited for pictures to load, I looked out our hotel window to the expanse of graveyard below. My favorite views often include a graveyard,so that one made me happy.
Many moons ago, I felt drawn to Castlebar. I was confident I'd find relatives there - living or dead, but hopefully both. However, I found either. Newport and Westport (each only about fifteen kilometers away) were far more fruitful. However, I've not given up. I have this feeling for a reason, and next time I come back, I'll spend some time with the local pastor and ask for help locating relatives. If I'd had more time, I would have already done that.
Castlebar was once a market town and a popular gathering place. Farmers brought produce and cattle to sell, women made their rounds to gather provisions for a few weeks, and men congregated in the pubs to swap crop stories and share information. That's the Castlebar I long for. Today, it's more congested and built up than I'd like, but the graveyard across the street houses some very, very old headstones. They are so old, in fact, that their engravings have rubbed off. There's no telling who is buried in many of the plots, and call it wishful thinking, but I believe there are Lavelle's out there. I just don't know under which of the worn out headstones they lie under.
Tomorrow we train back to Dublin. I don't want to. I want either to return to the Dingle Peninsula, buy a farm, and raise cows, sheep and donkeys or I want to be instantly transported back to Islamorada. I don't want to deal with Dublin and airports and tourists and baggage and tired, cranky assholes. I want to go back to the Dingle and gaze upon Minard Castle, where I heard people talking and smelled meat cooking over an open fire. I want to return to days of old. I want my Irish family around me.
I fell asleep gazing out the window at the Celtic crosses of hundreds of dead below. I'm sure that somewhere down there, is a Lavelle that I belong to. And they belong to me.
By the time we wandered back to our B&B, it was almost 11am. Joe was waiting for us. He made a phone call to "Uncle" and then told us to head up the road to speak with him. No need to pack up/check out. We could leave our bags right where they were. Uncle was waiting! He told us to go up the road and look for the house on the right with all of the steel and iron in the front yard.
We took off, wondering if Joe's directions of "just up the road" would be in true Irish form. I figured we had about three-quarters of a mile before his homestead came into view. Imagine my surprise when we came across Joe just up the street from the B&B! We'd just left him behind at the front door and there he was, standing by a truck in front of a handsome house. Was he a vampire? He was at the B&B one moment and then up the street the next. Odd things were happening, that was for sure.
Joe pointed at the house behind him, claiming it as his own. A dog in the front yard did his level best to earn his keep by scaring us away. We thanked Joe for the directions and kept walking. I looked back every few seconds, waiting for Joe to apparate like a Hogswarts professor. I can't swear that's what happened, but the last time I turned, he and his truck were gone. Leprechauns? Turning back to the task at hand, I was blown away when the very next house sported a yard full of metal. To his credit, Joe is the only Irishman who can actually measure distance.
The front door was ajar, an indication that the resident was expecting company. I knocked and waited. Nothing. I rang the bell and waited. Nothing. I knocked louder and shouted, "Helloooo" and waited. I heard the shuffle of feet and hoped I looked okay/didn't smell too badly.
The most adorable elderly gentleman opened the door. He reminded me of the human form of Yoda; that's how cute he was. I stuck out my hand and introduced myself, thanking him for allowing us to bother him. He listened to the introductions and then bade us follow him into the sitting room. He refused to sit until we'd all made ourselves comfortable.
"A mbaineann tu?" he said.
"Excuse me?" I replied.
"A mbaineann tu?" he said again.
I smiled. "What does that mean?"
This is probably a good time to tell you how much I adore the sound of the Irish language. As if I don't have enough projects, I want to learn to speak it. What beautiful sounds.
"Who do you come from?" he translated.
I tried to tell my story slowly. It was clear that he was accustomed to speaking Irish. He sat directly across from me, perched on the edge of chair. He was close enough to touch. He listened, leaning forward slightly to rest on the crook of his cane. Again, the similarities between him and Yoda were strong. (I love Yoda, so please understand this is a compliment. This man was cuter and sweeter than words can express.)
I thought maybe he'd forgotten why we were there, because he took so long to answer. But eventually, in a thick brogue that forced me to use all of my brain just to understand his words, he began to describe the Lavelle households he knew of. The details he remembered about who married into which family, the names of sisters and aunts and deaths of spouses were astounding. He never stuttered or repeated himself. He was quite clear, although more than once he became frustrated with his memory and suggested that he was too old for such conversation. I called bullshit and encouraged him to continue, which he did with a twinkle in his eye.
Unfortunately, much of what he remembered involved the death of Lavelle's, although he directed to me to a home on the way to Westport whose inhabitants might have clues about my family. I held his hand and thanked him. He was shy and adorable. He walked us to the door, although I told him it wasn't necessary.
"I want to see you when I come back to Ireland," I said. We were outside his front door.
"Will ye bring a spade or a shovel?" he said. His eyes twinkled again, but there was a hint of sadness that time.
"Stop it! You'll be right here!" I assured him. Without once considering etiquette, I hugged him tightly. He was sturdier than you'd imagine a 94-year-old man to be. There's still a lot of life left in Mr. Kilroy - thank our Maker for that.
As we walked away, I remembered Luke Skywalker's words to Yoda when he promised he'd come back. I realized I must be overtired, if I was drawing parallels between my life and those played out in Star Wars. I mean, we all know I belong in The Dukes of Hazzard, right? Unless I was Han Solo's side kick - and by that, I don't mean Chewbacca - then forget it. Hazzard County all the way. I belong in a beat up pickup truck more than a star ship...again, unless I'm Han Solo's girl.
Back at the B&B, we found Joe outside with a friend, sitting at a picnic table and shooting the shit. When he saw me, he waved me over to inquire. After a few minutes, I learned that Mr. Kilroy (Yoda) was really and truly Joe Reid's uncle. In fact, he was also the uncle of the man Joe was speaking with. They described how Mr. Kilroy had suffered a heart attack two years earlier. Rather than call for help, he got on his bike and rode to the doctor's office.
I stood with my mouth hanging open at the image of Mr. Kilroy (who was then 92), biking to the doctor's office as he suffered a heart attack.
"It was all downhill," Joe explained with a laugh.
Those Irish boys are made of strong stuff. Strong and squishy at the same time. It made me want to run back to his house, let myself inside, and hug him again. I treasure the chance to sit at length with him and just listen to whatever it is he might want to tell me. I know I just met me man, but I'm tempted to use the "L" word. Very tempted.
I wanted to take Mr. Kilroy's picture, but I felt like I'd imposed enough. I was afraid to appear disrespectful, but next time I see him, I will ask his permission. I want you to see just how adorable he is.
We settled up with Joe and I wrote down the names of my ancestors (upon his request) so that should he have the opportunity to talk with anyone who had knowledge of the Lavelle's, he could try to help me out. I'll tell you what, Joe Reid is a damn fine man. The next time I go to Newport, I'm staying at the Black Oak Inn. In fact, I think I should plan a family reunion and we'll all stay there!
Regretfully, we left Newport in the rear view and drove to Castlebar. There was another large graveyard I wanted to check out. As luck would have it, the cemetery was directly across the street from our hotel. How convenient. Dead bodies outside my bedroom window. Just like on Canal Street. Perfect.
I was very surprised that, although we found a couple of Lavelle graves, none of them belong to me. Sadly, we moved on. We had to drive to Knock Airport to return our rental. I treasured every mile between in Castelbar and Knock...not just because they were my last moments in Mayo, but I really LOVE driving in Ireland and, if you don't mind me saying so, I'm damn good at driving a car on the wrong side of the road with a gear box where it doesn't belong. It was pure fun.
It was an uneventful trip to Knock. Lauren was in the backseat with her ipod. Doug was in the front seat, tired and quiet. I was left to my thoughts of Ireland and cows and family. We cabbed back to Castlebar, walked to a pub for some chow and then locked ourselves into our room for the night.
I didn't shut off my laptop until well after 1am, because I was trying to get caught up on this blog and it took seven or eight minutes to load each picture. I don't know why the damn thing was so slow, but it was and there was nothing to do but be patient. While I waited for pictures to load, I looked out our hotel window to the expanse of graveyard below. My favorite views often include a graveyard,so that one made me happy.
Many moons ago, I felt drawn to Castlebar. I was confident I'd find relatives there - living or dead, but hopefully both. However, I found either. Newport and Westport (each only about fifteen kilometers away) were far more fruitful. However, I've not given up. I have this feeling for a reason, and next time I come back, I'll spend some time with the local pastor and ask for help locating relatives. If I'd had more time, I would have already done that.
Castlebar was once a market town and a popular gathering place. Farmers brought produce and cattle to sell, women made their rounds to gather provisions for a few weeks, and men congregated in the pubs to swap crop stories and share information. That's the Castlebar I long for. Today, it's more congested and built up than I'd like, but the graveyard across the street houses some very, very old headstones. They are so old, in fact, that their engravings have rubbed off. There's no telling who is buried in many of the plots, and call it wishful thinking, but I believe there are Lavelle's out there. I just don't know under which of the worn out headstones they lie under.
Tomorrow we train back to Dublin. I don't want to. I want either to return to the Dingle Peninsula, buy a farm, and raise cows, sheep and donkeys or I want to be instantly transported back to Islamorada. I don't want to deal with Dublin and airports and tourists and baggage and tired, cranky assholes. I want to go back to the Dingle and gaze upon Minard Castle, where I heard people talking and smelled meat cooking over an open fire. I want to return to days of old. I want my Irish family around me.
I fell asleep gazing out the window at the Celtic crosses of hundreds of dead below. I'm sure that somewhere down there, is a Lavelle that I belong to. And they belong to me.
Monday, June 23, 2014
A Day in Mayo
We woke late, nearly 9am, which is much later than we were used to doing on the peninsula. It was nice to linger under a heavy tick while the chilly morning air blew into our room. Getting out of bed wasn't so nice, but after a hot shower, we stepped into the cleanest of our dirty clothes and headed into town to find breakie.
We discovered a great secret! If you walk around the back side of a pub, where they store empty kegs, you may find the door open long before the pub is actually open for business. If so, sneak in like a tom cat and wind your way through the back halls by the toilets (this is what the Irish and other Euros call the restrooms) and make your way to the bar. Pretend you know exactly what you are doing. When approached, ask for breakie. Within minutes, you'll be served a wonderful breakfast with coffee or tea that's guaranteed to keep you going for hours.
Once our bellies were full, we jumped back into the car and headed out of town on the Mulranny Road in search of Carrickahowley Castle - known as Rockfleet Castle by the less-than-cool. We are cool, so Carrickahowley it is,
The road we took in search of it seemed very castle-worthy. Lauren and I discussed how unsurprised we would be if our car magically turned into a carriage. (She mentioned it would be helpful if the engine turned into a horse else I'd be pulling it whilst she wiped me.) She's such a sweet child.
As we rounded a sharp bend, BOOM!!! There stood a castle - a tower house much like Minard Castle on the peninsula where I had my "moment". It was on the edge of what was once deep water, but it's now shallow with rocks breaking the surface. The castle was....well,...wow. I came to a screeching halt and out of the car we bolted. Right to the side of the tower we went to touch the stone and press ourselves against it. Cold and hard and full of stories it was.
On the door was posted a sign indicating it had been closed for safety reasons. Our passage inside was blocked by a heavy wooden door and padlock. While I regretted the inability to get inside, I was grateful for the opportunity to walk all around it, touching each wall and all four cornerstones. The castle was built in the 1500's and was once home to Grainne O'Malley, the pirate queen. She and I'd have been fast friends, if I could find her.
In the recent past, if visitors to the castle found the front door locked, they went to the farm next door and borrowed the key from the farmer. We met that farmer's niece, but sadly her uncle has passed on and the castle is no longer open for visitors. While I'm sad to be kept on the outside, I'm so happy to be able to touch it. More than once, I laid my face upon the stones and pressed my hands to them...listening. What would this castle say if I listened long enough? The sound of a car engine disrupted our conversation. Two visitors from Germany arrived, who had been inside the walls of the castle just a few years back. The husband claimed to belong to the lineage. That's what they all say.
After another trip around the castle, touching and listening, we went on our way. I'll come back again during a rain storm, when the chances of other visitors interrupting my castle-time are slim to none. Until then, Carrickahowley, I'll see if there's a way to buy you and have you for my own.
Lauren and I had seen a sign post for an abbey on our way to the castle, so we made our way back and I'm soooooo very glad we did. What a treasure! Burrishoole Abbey is a place everyone should have the pleasure to visit. Hell, maybe it should be an obligation.
Where to begin? At first glance, you see the remains of a church, which is surrounded by a graveyard (the Irish don't say cemetery) packed with huge Celtic crosses. The grounds are on a small hill, the Abbey is at the summit with headstones all around, some of them about ready to fall into the water. There was no one at the Abbey besides me and Goo, and we were free to roam at will. Words can't do it justice; I doubt the photos will either. Suffice to say, the Abbey is breathtaking to those of us who love old churches, forts and castles. Those walls have seen so much history, it would take years to sit and listen to all of it. I stood against the walls and listened anyway.
After we'd scrambled through all of the Abbey's rooms, we began to search the church yard for Lavelle's. We found some here and there, but none of them obvious relations. Then my eagle-eyed girl made the find of the century. She found an old grave near the back left corner of a Patrick Lavelle and his son, Thomas. I've no proof, but I think these two boys are the real deal. I raised a few pints to Lauren that night for her terrific find.
We searched the entire graveyard, finding five or six Lavelle graves in all. After an hour or so, we moved on, knowing we needed to pick up Dougie from Westport traing station at 5pm. Westport was our next stop. Can you guess where we went first?
Lavelle's Bar. The place is owned by the very humble Christopher Anthony Lavelle. We don't know whether we're really related, but we agreed that I'd tell everyone we are. So there you have it. He's a soft-spoken man with a kind heart. The moment Lauren and I crossed the threshold, we were greeted by Mr. Lavelle. He can spot a Yank at a one hundred paces, that's for certain. He asked how we were enjoying our visit. I told him that I'd come all the way from the States to visit that particular pub, because I am a Lavelle. Well, let me assure you, that's when the conversation got interesting.
We spent an hour or so talking about lineage and history, looking at pictures on his pub's walls, and showing him the pix we'd taken at the Abbey. He made a call to a friend named Joe, asking about Lavelle's down thattaway. (The grave of Patrick and Thomas mentioned a town called "Furnace", and Chris obviously thought his friend Joe might know more about it.) He asked Joe about each and every name we gave him, happy to try to help us connect with living cousins - not just the dead ones.
I mentioned that we were staying in Newport and he asked where.
"The Black Oak...something," I said.
Chris smiled and pointed at his phone. "That's Joe's place."
"Joe Reid?" I asked.
Turns out, the Joe that Chris had called was the very same Joe who was the proprietor of the B&B that Lauren and I had booked for two nights! The man who could probably answer many of my questions was our innkeeper! Small, crazy world.
Not wanting to make a pest of myself, we left Chris to his business, but not before a long hug and a photo. I promised to bring Doug in for a pint when/if his train ever arrived. Chris said he'd be waiting and when we returned three or four hours later, he was! I introduced my husband to Chris, we had a quick pint, said another goodbye and we were off.
The next time I come to Mayo, Lavelle's Bar (Father's it's also called) will be my first stop.
We headed back to Newport, had dinner in a pub and then hunkered down in the lounge of our B&B for a night nap. As I sat pondering the past two and a half weeks, out walked a man I knew - although we'd never met. Joe Reid in the flesh and blood came to welcome us. After a hearty handshake and a round of introductions, I invited him to sit. (Some balls, right? The place is his and I invite him to pop a squat!) He asks what I'm after and after I explain it, he gives it some thought. A quiet man, Joe is. Reminds me of my Dad in a way. Doesn't say much until he really has something worth saying, and even then, it's quiet.
Joe excused himself and made a few calls, consulting one of the local boys sitting at the bar. If you remember the tombstone I posted of a Ceilia Lavelle, that was the grandmother of one of the boys he called. Pat's young and not interested in finding Yankee family. He tells Joe there's no way we're related and I let that go, although we've a Ceilia in our tree that looks suspicious. You can't force this sort of thing on people. Not everyone has the drive or the desire and for those that don't, people like me are a nuisance. I let it go, making a mental note to buy the kid a pint the next time I'm in town. I'll get him good and liquored up and then we'll give it a go.
Joe tells me of a man he calls "Uncle", who is 94 years old and knows everything about local families, where they lived, and who they married. It was well after ten and, no surprise, Joe suspects that "Uncle" is in bed. He tells me to check with him in the morning and hopefully, "Uncle" will come to the B&B or we can to see him. It sounds great, but I don't expect it to happen. I'm grateful to Joe for going out of his way to help me connect with family. What a great guy.
After one drink, we get Dougie upstairs to put him to bed. Within a minute of laying his head on the pillow, he began talking in his sleep. It's something he does often, but it freaked Lauren out! He snored and snored while Lauren and I tried to adjust to our new situation. We'd developed a routine after three weeks, and a lifted toilet seat and deafening snores had never been part of the equation.
If only we could cram Zak and Kaley into this room, my family would be complete. Oh wait - Boozer and Bear, too. And Momma and Baby Kitty as well. Perhaps we need a bigger room.
We discovered a great secret! If you walk around the back side of a pub, where they store empty kegs, you may find the door open long before the pub is actually open for business. If so, sneak in like a tom cat and wind your way through the back halls by the toilets (this is what the Irish and other Euros call the restrooms) and make your way to the bar. Pretend you know exactly what you are doing. When approached, ask for breakie. Within minutes, you'll be served a wonderful breakfast with coffee or tea that's guaranteed to keep you going for hours.
Once our bellies were full, we jumped back into the car and headed out of town on the Mulranny Road in search of Carrickahowley Castle - known as Rockfleet Castle by the less-than-cool. We are cool, so Carrickahowley it is,
The road we took in search of it seemed very castle-worthy. Lauren and I discussed how unsurprised we would be if our car magically turned into a carriage. (She mentioned it would be helpful if the engine turned into a horse else I'd be pulling it whilst she wiped me.) She's such a sweet child.
As we rounded a sharp bend, BOOM!!! There stood a castle - a tower house much like Minard Castle on the peninsula where I had my "moment". It was on the edge of what was once deep water, but it's now shallow with rocks breaking the surface. The castle was....well,...wow. I came to a screeching halt and out of the car we bolted. Right to the side of the tower we went to touch the stone and press ourselves against it. Cold and hard and full of stories it was.
On the door was posted a sign indicating it had been closed for safety reasons. Our passage inside was blocked by a heavy wooden door and padlock. While I regretted the inability to get inside, I was grateful for the opportunity to walk all around it, touching each wall and all four cornerstones. The castle was built in the 1500's and was once home to Grainne O'Malley, the pirate queen. She and I'd have been fast friends, if I could find her.
In the recent past, if visitors to the castle found the front door locked, they went to the farm next door and borrowed the key from the farmer. We met that farmer's niece, but sadly her uncle has passed on and the castle is no longer open for visitors. While I'm sad to be kept on the outside, I'm so happy to be able to touch it. More than once, I laid my face upon the stones and pressed my hands to them...listening. What would this castle say if I listened long enough? The sound of a car engine disrupted our conversation. Two visitors from Germany arrived, who had been inside the walls of the castle just a few years back. The husband claimed to belong to the lineage. That's what they all say.
After another trip around the castle, touching and listening, we went on our way. I'll come back again during a rain storm, when the chances of other visitors interrupting my castle-time are slim to none. Until then, Carrickahowley, I'll see if there's a way to buy you and have you for my own.
Lauren and I had seen a sign post for an abbey on our way to the castle, so we made our way back and I'm soooooo very glad we did. What a treasure! Burrishoole Abbey is a place everyone should have the pleasure to visit. Hell, maybe it should be an obligation.
Where to begin? At first glance, you see the remains of a church, which is surrounded by a graveyard (the Irish don't say cemetery) packed with huge Celtic crosses. The grounds are on a small hill, the Abbey is at the summit with headstones all around, some of them about ready to fall into the water. There was no one at the Abbey besides me and Goo, and we were free to roam at will. Words can't do it justice; I doubt the photos will either. Suffice to say, the Abbey is breathtaking to those of us who love old churches, forts and castles. Those walls have seen so much history, it would take years to sit and listen to all of it. I stood against the walls and listened anyway.
After we'd scrambled through all of the Abbey's rooms, we began to search the church yard for Lavelle's. We found some here and there, but none of them obvious relations. Then my eagle-eyed girl made the find of the century. She found an old grave near the back left corner of a Patrick Lavelle and his son, Thomas. I've no proof, but I think these two boys are the real deal. I raised a few pints to Lauren that night for her terrific find.
We searched the entire graveyard, finding five or six Lavelle graves in all. After an hour or so, we moved on, knowing we needed to pick up Dougie from Westport traing station at 5pm. Westport was our next stop. Can you guess where we went first?
Lavelle's Bar. The place is owned by the very humble Christopher Anthony Lavelle. We don't know whether we're really related, but we agreed that I'd tell everyone we are. So there you have it. He's a soft-spoken man with a kind heart. The moment Lauren and I crossed the threshold, we were greeted by Mr. Lavelle. He can spot a Yank at a one hundred paces, that's for certain. He asked how we were enjoying our visit. I told him that I'd come all the way from the States to visit that particular pub, because I am a Lavelle. Well, let me assure you, that's when the conversation got interesting.
We spent an hour or so talking about lineage and history, looking at pictures on his pub's walls, and showing him the pix we'd taken at the Abbey. He made a call to a friend named Joe, asking about Lavelle's down thattaway. (The grave of Patrick and Thomas mentioned a town called "Furnace", and Chris obviously thought his friend Joe might know more about it.) He asked Joe about each and every name we gave him, happy to try to help us connect with living cousins - not just the dead ones.
I mentioned that we were staying in Newport and he asked where.
"The Black Oak...something," I said.
Chris smiled and pointed at his phone. "That's Joe's place."
"Joe Reid?" I asked.
Turns out, the Joe that Chris had called was the very same Joe who was the proprietor of the B&B that Lauren and I had booked for two nights! The man who could probably answer many of my questions was our innkeeper! Small, crazy world.
Not wanting to make a pest of myself, we left Chris to his business, but not before a long hug and a photo. I promised to bring Doug in for a pint when/if his train ever arrived. Chris said he'd be waiting and when we returned three or four hours later, he was! I introduced my husband to Chris, we had a quick pint, said another goodbye and we were off.
The next time I come to Mayo, Lavelle's Bar (Father's it's also called) will be my first stop.
We headed back to Newport, had dinner in a pub and then hunkered down in the lounge of our B&B for a night nap. As I sat pondering the past two and a half weeks, out walked a man I knew - although we'd never met. Joe Reid in the flesh and blood came to welcome us. After a hearty handshake and a round of introductions, I invited him to sit. (Some balls, right? The place is his and I invite him to pop a squat!) He asks what I'm after and after I explain it, he gives it some thought. A quiet man, Joe is. Reminds me of my Dad in a way. Doesn't say much until he really has something worth saying, and even then, it's quiet.
Joe excused himself and made a few calls, consulting one of the local boys sitting at the bar. If you remember the tombstone I posted of a Ceilia Lavelle, that was the grandmother of one of the boys he called. Pat's young and not interested in finding Yankee family. He tells Joe there's no way we're related and I let that go, although we've a Ceilia in our tree that looks suspicious. You can't force this sort of thing on people. Not everyone has the drive or the desire and for those that don't, people like me are a nuisance. I let it go, making a mental note to buy the kid a pint the next time I'm in town. I'll get him good and liquored up and then we'll give it a go.
Joe tells me of a man he calls "Uncle", who is 94 years old and knows everything about local families, where they lived, and who they married. It was well after ten and, no surprise, Joe suspects that "Uncle" is in bed. He tells me to check with him in the morning and hopefully, "Uncle" will come to the B&B or we can to see him. It sounds great, but I don't expect it to happen. I'm grateful to Joe for going out of his way to help me connect with family. What a great guy.
After one drink, we get Dougie upstairs to put him to bed. Within a minute of laying his head on the pillow, he began talking in his sleep. It's something he does often, but it freaked Lauren out! He snored and snored while Lauren and I tried to adjust to our new situation. We'd developed a routine after three weeks, and a lifted toilet seat and deafening snores had never been part of the equation.
If only we could cram Zak and Kaley into this room, my family would be complete. Oh wait - Boozer and Bear, too. And Momma and Baby Kitty as well. Perhaps we need a bigger room.
County Kerry to County Mayo - I'm driving!
Our last sleep in Camp (until next time) wasn't great because my mind kept practicing how to drive on the wrong side of the road in a standard with a gear box in the wrong place. Top that with a sore throat and stuffy nose and you've got a rather unpleasant night. I don't get sick, but my body sure has been trying to do just that since before we left the States, but I refuse to give in. However, my insides seem to know The Walk is over, and they are losing the ability to fight back. So be it.
We showered and hustled to the dining room for breakfast to be greeted by gregarious John Doyle. The man is a charmer, that's for certain. He inquired after "our patient" and fussed over us. I had only toast and coffee (but the toast was slathered with Kerry butter - pure gold that is) because we're not going to be burning hundreds of calories in the car. I can't afford the extra calories of rashers.
Back in our room, we pack in a hurry. As I'm reorganizing - our boots and walking poles are no longer needed - I get a text from Dougie. His flight out of Miami had been delayed because of weather. When he finally got to Philly, he'd missed his connecting flight by ten minutes. They put him up in a flea bag motel and told him to wait. We were planning to pick him up at the Westport train station that afternoon, but he wasn't going to make it. Poor Dougie.
No sooner are we packed when John announces that our ride to Kerry Airport has arrived. We exchanged a great big hug and he wished us well on our quest to find family. A little piece of my heart stayed behind in Camp. It will be happy there until I can go back to collect it...hopefully next year.
Should you be so lucky as to find yourself headed for the Dingle Peninsula, you must go directly to Camp and visit John and his lovely sister; you'll thank me later. www.campjunctionhouse.com
Waiting behind the Camp Junction House was a van labeled "Paddy's Bus". Below that it read, "He will drive you to drink" You can find Mr. Paddy at http://kerrytourist.net/, but the site is currently under construction. This is an idea that could easily be translated to the Keys, but I'm never going back so someone else can run with it- but please give the man credit.
Paddy was fairly quiet on the drive from Camp to Tralee, where we were to deposit the dwarf. At the train station, Lauren and I got out to hug Own and take pictures. We wished our friend God Speed and good health, promising to keep in touch. In spite of his grumpy disposition, we love our dwarf and were sad to part company.
I don't know where you are now, Owen, but we wish you safe travels in your magic underpants and much happiness. Be well and stay grumpy until we meet again.
Back in the van, I struck up a conversation with our driver. Paddy was a character, to be sure. Turns out, he assumed the dwarf was my husband and that he didn't trust my driving so he was taking the train rather than risk his neck in a car. I may have given Paddy an ear full. Speaking with a thick brogue, he advised me how to drive in Ireland. Throughout the three-quarters of an hour it took to get to the airport, our driver educated me on safe driving practices. His help was truly invaluable.
When we arrived, I paid him far more than the going rate - he'd charged us next to nothing and gave us much. He insisted on waiting outside in his van until we had our car and were ready to go. At that point, he directed me to follow him - it was in the opposite direction of where he was heading, but he said he'd turn around later. I did as I was told and once I figured out the gear box, we followed along. A couple of cars snuck between our car and his van, so he pulled over, waving on the offending motorists, and then pulled back to lead us like a momma duck with her babies.
When Paddy figured I was comfortable and could be trusted, he turned off, waving us on straight and was gone from sight. I will forever be grateful for his fatherly words of wisdom and the care he took to be sure we were safe. Like so many others we've met on this adventure, I wish I could repay his kindness.
If you ever find yourself in Kerry in need of a ride or a tour guide, please call Dear Paddy. (I feel like an infommerical.) His email is: jobie62@hotmail.com and his phone is 0877538679. Please tell him the red-headed American walker and her daughter who were headed to Mayo to find family sent you. He'll remember, I've no doubt.
Lauren is a kick ass navigator! I handed her a map and told her where we needed to go. She was spot on in her directions. I'd never have made it as easily as I did without her there to shout and point. She's a terrific pointer.
What should have been a four hour drive turned into six or so, because every time there was a symbol for a castle on the map, we drove off course to find it. Ten minutes, forty minutes, we didn't care. However long it took to find each one was absolutely worth it to us. I'm so happy we drove instead of taking the train, because we never would have seen some really great castles and met some cute gas station attendants when we needed to replace our stores of baguettes, apples, and waters.
At some point, we realized we needed to buckle down and just get to Newport or we'd never make it. It was actually easy to do, until Lauren fell asleep for five or ten seconds and I veered off our route. She still hasn't forgiven me.
"I repeated what we needed to do at least twelve times and then I fell asleep for five seconds and you go the wrong way!"
The dwarf's disposition must have rubbed off, because she couldn't let it go. We eventually got where we were going, so I don't understand why she was so pissy. It could have been that her tape worm needed to be fed.
We checked into the Black Oak Inn, across from the Black Oak River in Newport, Mayo. It's not the Ritz, but the owner - Joe Reid - has a heart that makes it much classier and homey than the Ritz could ever be. After dropping off our bags, we walked a few doors down to a pub and tucked into a hot meal accompanied by a few pints.
I felt restless and asked our server if there was a graveyard within walking distance. (My gut told me that most of the Lavelle's I'd meet would already be dead.) She said that there were a few graves in the church yard, but there was a bigger one about a five minute walk from the pub. Yes! Lauren agreed to walk there with me.
As with all Irish measurement, it wasn't anywhere near a five minute walk, which Lauren pointed out to me again and again on the way there. About a mile from the pub, we found a very old cemetery tucked in a gully off the road. Like the cemeteries we'd seen from the road, the tombstones are tall Celtic crosses in front of a large burial plot marked off with a short cement lip. We split up and found four or five Lavelle graves, none of them obviously part of my family tree, but there's really no telling. Once we were good and sweaty, we headed back to our B&B, while Lauren pointed out again that the cemetery was more than a five minute walk.
The sky was turning pretty colors and the hills were green. I was happy and thankful to have a daughter who understands how important this search is to me. Never does she complain. I am lucky to have such a wise and generous girl as a travel partner.
Back at the B&B, we discovered the wifi didn't work in our room, so we headed down to the lounge/pub to sip another pint while Lauren talked with friends and I watched Ghana and Germany go at it during that night's World Cup game. While I sort of watched the game, I studied the old photos on the walls and listened to the locals gossip, just waiting to hear something about a Lavelle.
As we settled into our beds for the night, with our windows wide open, we heard the sounds of the pub's patrons below. They were smoking and talking, enjoying the night air. We didn't begrudge them their fun. Another brief text from Dougie told us that he was enroute to Frankfurt. Hmm, I didn't realize that was in Ireland.
I fell asleep happy for driving us all the way from Kerry on the wrong side of the road without killing us. In fact, we didn't have a single white-knuckle moment. I felt bad for Doug who left home two days ago and still hadn't arrived. I'd hate to be the United Airlines customer service rep he deals with when he finally gets to Dublin.
Good night, Mayo. I hope to find family within your boundaries and hopefully, some of them on this side of the grass.
We showered and hustled to the dining room for breakfast to be greeted by gregarious John Doyle. The man is a charmer, that's for certain. He inquired after "our patient" and fussed over us. I had only toast and coffee (but the toast was slathered with Kerry butter - pure gold that is) because we're not going to be burning hundreds of calories in the car. I can't afford the extra calories of rashers.
Back in our room, we pack in a hurry. As I'm reorganizing - our boots and walking poles are no longer needed - I get a text from Dougie. His flight out of Miami had been delayed because of weather. When he finally got to Philly, he'd missed his connecting flight by ten minutes. They put him up in a flea bag motel and told him to wait. We were planning to pick him up at the Westport train station that afternoon, but he wasn't going to make it. Poor Dougie.
No sooner are we packed when John announces that our ride to Kerry Airport has arrived. We exchanged a great big hug and he wished us well on our quest to find family. A little piece of my heart stayed behind in Camp. It will be happy there until I can go back to collect it...hopefully next year.
Should you be so lucky as to find yourself headed for the Dingle Peninsula, you must go directly to Camp and visit John and his lovely sister; you'll thank me later. www.campjunctionhouse.com
Waiting behind the Camp Junction House was a van labeled "Paddy's Bus". Below that it read, "He will drive you to drink" You can find Mr. Paddy at http://kerrytourist.net/, but the site is currently under construction. This is an idea that could easily be translated to the Keys, but I'm never going back so someone else can run with it- but please give the man credit.
Paddy was fairly quiet on the drive from Camp to Tralee, where we were to deposit the dwarf. At the train station, Lauren and I got out to hug Own and take pictures. We wished our friend God Speed and good health, promising to keep in touch. In spite of his grumpy disposition, we love our dwarf and were sad to part company.
I don't know where you are now, Owen, but we wish you safe travels in your magic underpants and much happiness. Be well and stay grumpy until we meet again.
Back in the van, I struck up a conversation with our driver. Paddy was a character, to be sure. Turns out, he assumed the dwarf was my husband and that he didn't trust my driving so he was taking the train rather than risk his neck in a car. I may have given Paddy an ear full. Speaking with a thick brogue, he advised me how to drive in Ireland. Throughout the three-quarters of an hour it took to get to the airport, our driver educated me on safe driving practices. His help was truly invaluable.
When we arrived, I paid him far more than the going rate - he'd charged us next to nothing and gave us much. He insisted on waiting outside in his van until we had our car and were ready to go. At that point, he directed me to follow him - it was in the opposite direction of where he was heading, but he said he'd turn around later. I did as I was told and once I figured out the gear box, we followed along. A couple of cars snuck between our car and his van, so he pulled over, waving on the offending motorists, and then pulled back to lead us like a momma duck with her babies.
When Paddy figured I was comfortable and could be trusted, he turned off, waving us on straight and was gone from sight. I will forever be grateful for his fatherly words of wisdom and the care he took to be sure we were safe. Like so many others we've met on this adventure, I wish I could repay his kindness.
If you ever find yourself in Kerry in need of a ride or a tour guide, please call Dear Paddy. (I feel like an infommerical.) His email is: jobie62@hotmail.com and his phone is 0877538679. Please tell him the red-headed American walker and her daughter who were headed to Mayo to find family sent you. He'll remember, I've no doubt.
Lauren is a kick ass navigator! I handed her a map and told her where we needed to go. She was spot on in her directions. I'd never have made it as easily as I did without her there to shout and point. She's a terrific pointer.
What should have been a four hour drive turned into six or so, because every time there was a symbol for a castle on the map, we drove off course to find it. Ten minutes, forty minutes, we didn't care. However long it took to find each one was absolutely worth it to us. I'm so happy we drove instead of taking the train, because we never would have seen some really great castles and met some cute gas station attendants when we needed to replace our stores of baguettes, apples, and waters.
At some point, we realized we needed to buckle down and just get to Newport or we'd never make it. It was actually easy to do, until Lauren fell asleep for five or ten seconds and I veered off our route. She still hasn't forgiven me.
"I repeated what we needed to do at least twelve times and then I fell asleep for five seconds and you go the wrong way!"
The dwarf's disposition must have rubbed off, because she couldn't let it go. We eventually got where we were going, so I don't understand why she was so pissy. It could have been that her tape worm needed to be fed.
We checked into the Black Oak Inn, across from the Black Oak River in Newport, Mayo. It's not the Ritz, but the owner - Joe Reid - has a heart that makes it much classier and homey than the Ritz could ever be. After dropping off our bags, we walked a few doors down to a pub and tucked into a hot meal accompanied by a few pints.
I felt restless and asked our server if there was a graveyard within walking distance. (My gut told me that most of the Lavelle's I'd meet would already be dead.) She said that there were a few graves in the church yard, but there was a bigger one about a five minute walk from the pub. Yes! Lauren agreed to walk there with me.
As with all Irish measurement, it wasn't anywhere near a five minute walk, which Lauren pointed out to me again and again on the way there. About a mile from the pub, we found a very old cemetery tucked in a gully off the road. Like the cemeteries we'd seen from the road, the tombstones are tall Celtic crosses in front of a large burial plot marked off with a short cement lip. We split up and found four or five Lavelle graves, none of them obviously part of my family tree, but there's really no telling. Once we were good and sweaty, we headed back to our B&B, while Lauren pointed out again that the cemetery was more than a five minute walk.
The sky was turning pretty colors and the hills were green. I was happy and thankful to have a daughter who understands how important this search is to me. Never does she complain. I am lucky to have such a wise and generous girl as a travel partner.
Back at the B&B, we discovered the wifi didn't work in our room, so we headed down to the lounge/pub to sip another pint while Lauren talked with friends and I watched Ghana and Germany go at it during that night's World Cup game. While I sort of watched the game, I studied the old photos on the walls and listened to the locals gossip, just waiting to hear something about a Lavelle.
As we settled into our beds for the night, with our windows wide open, we heard the sounds of the pub's patrons below. They were smoking and talking, enjoying the night air. We didn't begrudge them their fun. Another brief text from Dougie told us that he was enroute to Frankfurt. Hmm, I didn't realize that was in Ireland.
I fell asleep happy for driving us all the way from Kerry on the wrong side of the road without killing us. In fact, we didn't have a single white-knuckle moment. I felt bad for Doug who left home two days ago and still hadn't arrived. I'd hate to be the United Airlines customer service rep he deals with when he finally gets to Dublin.
Good night, Mayo. I hope to find family within your boundaries and hopefully, some of them on this side of the grass.
Sunday, June 22, 2014
Castlegregory to Camp - The Last Stand
How can it be? How can this part of the adventure already be over? Aw feck and shit, too. I'm not ready for that. Lauren, on the other hand, is probably more than ready. Having said that, she's been a great sport - no complaints whatsoever, in spite of her sunburn, sickness and sore body parts.
We had a long breakfast, probably hanging around the table a bit longer than we should. We finally set off around 9:45am, but we only about 8 miles to cover, so getting an early start wasn't terribly critical. (Famous last words.)
We set off and just around the corner from our accommodations, we walked by a field of mares with their colts. The babies were literally out cold. Fast asleep in the grass while their mamas ate and fattened up. Lauren and I are suckers for anything warm-blooded with fur and four legs, but horses are one of our biggest weaknesses. We stopped to talk to the mares, taking care not to disturb their colts. The baby nearest us was snoring! I'd never heard a colt snore, but I assure you it maxed out the cute scale.
We took pictures and adored the beauties until our dwarf walked away without us. He does that frequently, but he usually stops and turns around to make sure we're following. This time, he just kept going so we figured he was serious. We said our goodbyes (the colt was still snoring) and followed our impatient friend. Not too far after that, we came upon more horses. We stopped and called to them across the pasture and to our extreme joy, they came to greet us! Four of them! They were beautiful. Cappuccino brown bodies and head, turning dark brown in the legs and chest. They must have smelled the apples in my backpack, because never, ever, has any horse found me that interesting. The dwarf grunted and kept going. I've already told you they don't like horses. Across the lane from the horses was a pasture with the cutest donkey I've had to pleasure of meeting. He liked us, too. Again, it had to be the apples.
After several minutes, the dwarf was nowhere in sight. Lauren and I knew we had to say goodbye to our four-legged friends, but stayed longer anyway. The fun is in the getting there. Getting there means enjoying everything along the way.
Eventually, we said goodbye and raced to catch up with our friend. He was waiting impatiently by a fence post. When we reached him, he gave us "the look" and took off at a brisk pace. I wish I remembered the dark chocolate I'd taken specifically for occasions like those, but I was too caught up in thoughts of horses and donkeys, so I just trudged along, not worried about anything or anyone.
In very short order, we were back to beach walking. Try as I might, I couldn't help but pick up shells and rocks along the way. By the time we get home, my pockets will be so loaded down with crap, I won't be able to walk. The weather was almost perfect. The sky was overcast and the temps had cooled. I actually needed a second layer! Yay! Along the beach, we walked and walked and walked.
I was distracted by a huge green expanse between us and the sea because at least twenty horses roamed it. . . . without fences. They could have run into the road if they'd wanted to. Or into the sea. Or into my arms. They were simply free. The house and a barn of sorts sat on one side of the property and the horses were free to go where they wished. Try to imagine how much this slowed us down. (Clue: it was a lot.)
Then there was a lab mix of some sort that raced from his yard to bark at the dwarf. Rather than continue walking/avoid making eye contact, the dwarf stopped in front of his drive to engage in a staring contest. The dog continued to bark and express his overall unhappiness with our dwarf. Then he saw Lauren and me. Tail wagging and legs running, he ran to meet us and threw himself at Lauren's feet. She laid down in the road with him to deliver a well-earned belly rub. I acted similarly. The dwarf grunted. Eventually, we HAD to go, although none of us were happy with the idea - except the dwarf.
"Will we EVER get to Castlebar?" I said.
"We would if you two didn't pet every horse and cow we meet," answered the dwarf.
Like that's gonna happen. Silly dwarf. I really should have broken out the dark chocolate.
Lauren's pace slowed and slowed until her walk barely resembled her normal pace. Her color changed and so did her mood. Long story made short is that my girl was running a slight temp, didn't feel good and wasn't going to make it another four miles to Camp. I sent the dwarf ahead, so that he didn't have to slow his pace to match ours, promising to catch up later. I kept telling Lauren "just a little bit farther" for the next hour or so, but Castlebar just refused to come into view. She was fading fast.
Suddenly, I began to question our direction. Were we even headed toward Castlebar? Nothing resembling a town was in sight. We could see a few houses here and there, but nothing town-like. Lauren continued to get slower and meaner. I knew if I didn't come up with a solution soon, she'd likely go zombie and eat my brain right there on the side of the road.
I waved down the next car. The driver waved back and kept going. My shoulders slumped. He watched my reaction in the rear view and stopped.
After thanking him for stopping, I asked if we were going in the direction of Castlebar. He asked if we were okay and I said yes, but Lauren wasn't feeling well and I needed to get to town to call a cab. He assured us that the town was just ahead, about a four minute walk. (You know the Irish; a four minute walk could be three miles.) He said he'd have given us a ride, but the back of his car was filled with bikes and he had his 11-year old twins in the back seat. We thanked him and told him not to worry; we were fine. He mentioned that he'd passed us on his bike about forty minutes earlier. (I'd waved and shouted a greeting.)
He drove off and we felt better knowing we were headed in the right direction and that a ride to Camp wasn't too far away. Lauren's pace slowed even more and I struggled to walk slowly to stay with her. About five minutes later, a familiar car pulled off the road. The man with the twins hopped out.
"Get in! It's not far, but this is more for your spirit than anything else." The man had dropped off his girls and their bikes and came back to get us. I warned him that we stunk like sheep, but he wasn't scared. We piled in and thanked him over and over.
Write this down. He was the first and only Irishman to reckon distance properly. In only a couple of minutes we were in town. I told him he was a kind man and that I wished I could repay him. He said that he'd been helped by others and was just trying to pay it forward. I told him that I hoped someone did something nice for him that day. I meant it.
I took Lauren to the nearest pub for lots of water and a bowl of pasta. She devoured it and laid her head on the table. She wasn't moving without a fork lift. The proprietors called us a cab, which turned out to be the very same woman who'd picked us up there the day before when we'd found a "short cut". She still drove like a bat out of hell, but she was very sweet.
Upon arrival at the Camp Junction House, the owner John Doyle stepped out to greet us. He was larger than life, as always. He remembered to ask about "our patient's burn" and our walk around the peninsula. Even thought it was early by B&B standards - 3pm - he sent us directly to our room and offered to make a pot of tea.
I wish I'd taken a picture of Mr. John Doyle. He knows how to work a room and its no wonder his place is always booked full. He goes above and beyond to make each and every guest feel like they're staying with family.
Four hours later, I pried Lauren from her cocoon (bed) and forced her to join me for dinner. We ate and then went right back to our room. I did sneak out to join the dwarf for a couple pints of Guinness while Lauren laid in bed, soaking up Mr. Doyle's wifi. I knew she was in good hands and I was just across the street.
Sunset that night was ...breathtaking. I've yet to adjust to a 10:45pm sunset. While it does allow for one hell of a happy hour, it's just not natural. Please don't interpret that as a complaint. It's not. I've nothing to complain about.
I crawled into bed, wondering what tomorrow's adventure will bring. We're renting a car and driving all the way to Mayo. God help us. Alert the presses.
We had a long breakfast, probably hanging around the table a bit longer than we should. We finally set off around 9:45am, but we only about 8 miles to cover, so getting an early start wasn't terribly critical. (Famous last words.)
We set off and just around the corner from our accommodations, we walked by a field of mares with their colts. The babies were literally out cold. Fast asleep in the grass while their mamas ate and fattened up. Lauren and I are suckers for anything warm-blooded with fur and four legs, but horses are one of our biggest weaknesses. We stopped to talk to the mares, taking care not to disturb their colts. The baby nearest us was snoring! I'd never heard a colt snore, but I assure you it maxed out the cute scale.
We took pictures and adored the beauties until our dwarf walked away without us. He does that frequently, but he usually stops and turns around to make sure we're following. This time, he just kept going so we figured he was serious. We said our goodbyes (the colt was still snoring) and followed our impatient friend. Not too far after that, we came upon more horses. We stopped and called to them across the pasture and to our extreme joy, they came to greet us! Four of them! They were beautiful. Cappuccino brown bodies and head, turning dark brown in the legs and chest. They must have smelled the apples in my backpack, because never, ever, has any horse found me that interesting. The dwarf grunted and kept going. I've already told you they don't like horses. Across the lane from the horses was a pasture with the cutest donkey I've had to pleasure of meeting. He liked us, too. Again, it had to be the apples.
After several minutes, the dwarf was nowhere in sight. Lauren and I knew we had to say goodbye to our four-legged friends, but stayed longer anyway. The fun is in the getting there. Getting there means enjoying everything along the way.
Eventually, we said goodbye and raced to catch up with our friend. He was waiting impatiently by a fence post. When we reached him, he gave us "the look" and took off at a brisk pace. I wish I remembered the dark chocolate I'd taken specifically for occasions like those, but I was too caught up in thoughts of horses and donkeys, so I just trudged along, not worried about anything or anyone.
In very short order, we were back to beach walking. Try as I might, I couldn't help but pick up shells and rocks along the way. By the time we get home, my pockets will be so loaded down with crap, I won't be able to walk. The weather was almost perfect. The sky was overcast and the temps had cooled. I actually needed a second layer! Yay! Along the beach, we walked and walked and walked.
I was distracted by a huge green expanse between us and the sea because at least twenty horses roamed it. . . . without fences. They could have run into the road if they'd wanted to. Or into the sea. Or into my arms. They were simply free. The house and a barn of sorts sat on one side of the property and the horses were free to go where they wished. Try to imagine how much this slowed us down. (Clue: it was a lot.)
Then there was a lab mix of some sort that raced from his yard to bark at the dwarf. Rather than continue walking/avoid making eye contact, the dwarf stopped in front of his drive to engage in a staring contest. The dog continued to bark and express his overall unhappiness with our dwarf. Then he saw Lauren and me. Tail wagging and legs running, he ran to meet us and threw himself at Lauren's feet. She laid down in the road with him to deliver a well-earned belly rub. I acted similarly. The dwarf grunted. Eventually, we HAD to go, although none of us were happy with the idea - except the dwarf.
"Will we EVER get to Castlebar?" I said.
"We would if you two didn't pet every horse and cow we meet," answered the dwarf.
Like that's gonna happen. Silly dwarf. I really should have broken out the dark chocolate.
Lauren's pace slowed and slowed until her walk barely resembled her normal pace. Her color changed and so did her mood. Long story made short is that my girl was running a slight temp, didn't feel good and wasn't going to make it another four miles to Camp. I sent the dwarf ahead, so that he didn't have to slow his pace to match ours, promising to catch up later. I kept telling Lauren "just a little bit farther" for the next hour or so, but Castlebar just refused to come into view. She was fading fast.
Suddenly, I began to question our direction. Were we even headed toward Castlebar? Nothing resembling a town was in sight. We could see a few houses here and there, but nothing town-like. Lauren continued to get slower and meaner. I knew if I didn't come up with a solution soon, she'd likely go zombie and eat my brain right there on the side of the road.
I waved down the next car. The driver waved back and kept going. My shoulders slumped. He watched my reaction in the rear view and stopped.
After thanking him for stopping, I asked if we were going in the direction of Castlebar. He asked if we were okay and I said yes, but Lauren wasn't feeling well and I needed to get to town to call a cab. He assured us that the town was just ahead, about a four minute walk. (You know the Irish; a four minute walk could be three miles.) He said he'd have given us a ride, but the back of his car was filled with bikes and he had his 11-year old twins in the back seat. We thanked him and told him not to worry; we were fine. He mentioned that he'd passed us on his bike about forty minutes earlier. (I'd waved and shouted a greeting.)
He drove off and we felt better knowing we were headed in the right direction and that a ride to Camp wasn't too far away. Lauren's pace slowed even more and I struggled to walk slowly to stay with her. About five minutes later, a familiar car pulled off the road. The man with the twins hopped out.
"Get in! It's not far, but this is more for your spirit than anything else." The man had dropped off his girls and their bikes and came back to get us. I warned him that we stunk like sheep, but he wasn't scared. We piled in and thanked him over and over.
Write this down. He was the first and only Irishman to reckon distance properly. In only a couple of minutes we were in town. I told him he was a kind man and that I wished I could repay him. He said that he'd been helped by others and was just trying to pay it forward. I told him that I hoped someone did something nice for him that day. I meant it.
I took Lauren to the nearest pub for lots of water and a bowl of pasta. She devoured it and laid her head on the table. She wasn't moving without a fork lift. The proprietors called us a cab, which turned out to be the very same woman who'd picked us up there the day before when we'd found a "short cut". She still drove like a bat out of hell, but she was very sweet.
Upon arrival at the Camp Junction House, the owner John Doyle stepped out to greet us. He was larger than life, as always. He remembered to ask about "our patient's burn" and our walk around the peninsula. Even thought it was early by B&B standards - 3pm - he sent us directly to our room and offered to make a pot of tea.
I wish I'd taken a picture of Mr. John Doyle. He knows how to work a room and its no wonder his place is always booked full. He goes above and beyond to make each and every guest feel like they're staying with family.
Four hours later, I pried Lauren from her cocoon (bed) and forced her to join me for dinner. We ate and then went right back to our room. I did sneak out to join the dwarf for a couple pints of Guinness while Lauren laid in bed, soaking up Mr. Doyle's wifi. I knew she was in good hands and I was just across the street.
Sunset that night was ...breathtaking. I've yet to adjust to a 10:45pm sunset. While it does allow for one hell of a happy hour, it's just not natural. Please don't interpret that as a complaint. It's not. I've nothing to complain about.
I crawled into bed, wondering what tomorrow's adventure will bring. We're renting a car and driving all the way to Mayo. God help us. Alert the presses.
Friday, June 20, 2014
Cloghane to Castlegregory with Baboon Butt
We woke rather late; it was nearly 8:30am when I reluctantly opened my eyes. I had to force myself from the bed and Lauren too. We were still wiped out from yesterday's battle with the mountain. Our joints were stiff and I walked to the bathroom like a ninety-year-old woman. Lauren did too.
We had breakfast with Flopsey and Mopsey and while we lingered over brown bread and butter, Lauren's dwarf called. He was itching to go because there were actually clouds in the sky. The sun was, at least momentarily, hidden from view. We rushed as much as possible, collected our packed lunches (butter and jam sandwiches, apples, juice boxes and monster-sized KitKats) and settled our tab.
"Who drank all these pints?"
"Herself, of course."
Hmm. I think I've heard that before.
We set off on our first cloudy morning of the walk, happy to be shielded from the blistering rays. (Sounds crazy, I know, but its been extremely hot for Ireland.) The first good bit was road walking, which isn't our favorite way to go, but the route was pretty and everyone was in good spirits. Even the dwarf was in good humor. In spite of three severe cases of baboon-butt, we were all pretty happy.
What's that? You're unfamiliar with baboon butt? Consider yourself lucky. Allow me to illustrate...Ireland's version of toilet paper is most like medium gauge sandpaper in the States. It's coarse and rough. After wiping our backsides with it for a few days, we are...raw. It's painful and uncomfortable and makes me think of the monkeys at the zoo with the bright red butts. I know they aren't baboons, but baboon butt has a nice ring to it. Unless you are suffering from it.
Anyway, baboon butt is by itself a nasty affliction, but when you've been walking for fifteen miles or so and sweating and chafing, it's downright intolerable. However, this particular morning, our baboon butts were mostly in check. We did, however, speak of wadding up four-ply American toilet paper and sitting on it like a nest when we get home. Is that too much information?
After a couple of miles of up and down road, we wound our way to a beach; Ireland's longest beach and what a treat we were in for. The waves were crashing (remember that in the Keys, the reefs prevent rollers from coming to shore, so all we hear is a gentle lapping; never any waves) and the wind was blowing. The air smelled salty, but not like the smell of old crab pots drying in the sun, but of fresh, salty sea air. Lauren's step became a bit bouncer and, like all kids, she played a game of chicken with the rushing waves. She soaked her boots more than on
In spite of the pack on my back, I found myself bent and looking down, combing the beach for treasures. Within no time, the dwarf was nearly out of sight. We weren't concerned. We had waves and wind and beautiful shells and stones to collect. Lauren drew in the sand with the tip of her walking pole while we sang and laughed. We'd have stayed there all day, but it was a long haul to Castlegregory and the day was wearing on.
We passed a couple of other walkers and one family making a picnic. Aside from that, the beach was empty! Such a huge expanse of beauty and no one there to enjoy it.
Miles later, we consulted the map. Lauren and I decided to cheat and cut across the tip of the peninsula, taking a short cut to our B&B, thereby cutting out about three or four miles of walking. Our legs and hips were sore from the mountain challenge the day before and we realized just how tired we really were. As we parted ways, the dwarf rewarded Lauren's valiant efforts with a big Snickers bar, which she gladly accepted.
We cut through the dunes and found a place to sit out of the wind. From my pack we pulled out our sandwiches and fruit and made quick work of them. As I ooed and ahhed over all of the treasures I'd collected on the beach, Lauren devoured her candy bar. We then took turns watching the path while answering the call of Mother Nature.
After a short bit, we came to a fork in the road. I was fairly certain our road lay to the left. Just then a car happened by and we hailed it down to confirm. Inside was a family from New Hampshire. We were on the right road and they offered us a lift. We thanked them, but declined, happy to walk the miles ourselves. The road was quiet and we chatted about who knows what. Our pace was similar to an evening stroll by old people. We simply weren't in a rush. We'd cut off the tip of the peninsula and we had time to kill.
After a mile or so, we came upon a big, open field of cattle. Lauren and I can't pass up the opportunity to talk to/watch/pet cows. These guys were comedians and their antics kept us watching for well over thirty minutes. A steer was apparently confused about the state of his being, because he continued to chase and mount one particular cow. It was obvious she was getting tired of it. Her calf of about four or five months decided to show the steer who was boss and tried to mount him! A little bitty calf mounting a ginormous steer. What a sight. That just got the rest of the herd riled and before you could say, "Bob's your uncle," everyone was mounting everyone else. Cow porn at its best.
Knowing we had to eventually reach Castlegregory, we pulled ourselves away only to stumble upon a weed-filled field in which a mangy horse was tied to a broken-down piece of equipment. The poor horse had wads of skin and hair hanging from him and he looked pretty darn unhealthy. Lauren and I were heartbroken and the only thing that kept me from untying him and taking him with us was the fear of being shot. He was in a sad state.
The yard surrounding the house was littered with trash and discarded junk. It was a rough looking place and I knew we'd be fighting a losing battle to even attempt to help that poor horse. I turned Lauren away and we went on, heavy hearted. I hate to see animals mistreated. There's just no reason for it.
Half a mile or so from there, was an old church surrounded by a graveyard on three sides. The gate was open, so we let ourselves in. Old tombs covered in moss and vines gave testament to their age. An old stone wall with a narrow window stood, likely held together by the moss and vines that clung to it. It appeared to be part of what was probably the original church. We walked the property, minding our feet to be respectful of those resting there. No Lavells to be found. I hope that changes in Mayo.
About three miles or so from where we left the beach, we stumbled upon the town of Castlegregory. What a quaint village with quite a lot of shops and stores. It was the biggest town we'd encountered since Dingle. Our B&B was called "The Harbor House" and while we assumed it would be at the base of the village near the water, we decided to ask someone before walking all the way down to the water only to be told it was back at the top. I went into the post office and asked for directions.
Imagine my surprise when the postman told me that our B&B wasn't actually IN Castlegregory. "It's in Castlegregory Parish, not Castlegregory Village."
Well, of course it's not. Only a bloomin' idiot would think otherwise.
Remember that bit of beach/peninsula walking that Lauren and I cut out when we took our short cut? If we'd kept walking the Dingle Way, we'd have come upon it three miles later. Instead, we went three miles out of our way and it would be another three or four miles (by road) to the point where our B&B was located.
We called a cab.
I can't explain the deflating feeling of defeat when you think you've arrived at your destination after a long walk only to find you're still miles away. Nothing takes the mustard out of you quite like that realization. Cab it was.
Our driver was a woman in her sixties with an accent so thick you could paint it. She was lovely and difficult to understand. She talked the whole way while I struggled to answer accordingly. She had a lead foot and more than once I thought I might redecorate her back seat. Thankfully, I managed to keep it in check, but it was no easy feat.
We were dropped off at Spillane's Bar where our dwarf was enjoying a pint after his long beach walk. We joined him for a Smithwick's and a light bite before walking the rest of the way to our B&B. We were fortunate enough to walk by a lush, grassy field of horses. Five or six females each had a colt nearby and they were very well taken care of. We cooed and talked to them, complimenting them on their adorable babies (horses appreciate that sort of thing) for several minutes before the dwarf got sullen. Dwarfs don't like horses anymore than they do cows.
We said our goodbyes to the beauties and made our way to the water once again. The Harbor House was appropriately named. Inside we found our room to be very comfortable and wi-fi was available for my girl. The dwarf went to his room to nap while Lauren and I went to the upstairs lounge to chill. She laid in what appeared to be a huge dog bed, covered in a blanket and was asleep within ten minutes. I sat on a comfy sofa facing the water while I sipped a pint and tried to catch up on my blogging. About an hour and half later, Lauren's tape worm woke her. We went to the dining room to feed it.
We shared some of the most delicious fried brie I've ever had. It was served with a jam for dipping and accompanied by a peppery salad. Lauren then tucked into a huge platter of fish and chips while I had creamy vegetable soup and steamed mussels. Our server was a young kid from Michigan on an internship with the B&B's dive shop. (Scuba diving is becoming a big deal in Ireland!) and he talked to us about trekking in Nepal. It sparked some ideas for future trips. With full and happy bellies, we returned to the lounge, which we had to ourselves all evening. Lauren napped on and off while I blogged.
Around 10:30, the sun began to set and the sky was bathed in glorious oranges. A new group of horses appeared right outside the B&B, so I had to go out and talk to them. The wind was blowing and the temps dropping. I chatted with the horses and made fast friends with a tabby cat who insisted I hold her while I talked to the horses. I fancied myself an animal magnet that night.
Back inside, I finally convinced Lauren to climb out of the dog bed and into her people bed around 11pm. I fell asleep knowing there was only one more walk on the Dingle Way. How did that happen? Months upon months of planning and only one walk left?
I drifted to sleep to the sounds of the ocean one more time, grateful for my walking partner who allows me to live my dream. If she only knew how much she's loved.
We had breakfast with Flopsey and Mopsey and while we lingered over brown bread and butter, Lauren's dwarf called. He was itching to go because there were actually clouds in the sky. The sun was, at least momentarily, hidden from view. We rushed as much as possible, collected our packed lunches (butter and jam sandwiches, apples, juice boxes and monster-sized KitKats) and settled our tab.
"Who drank all these pints?"
"Herself, of course."
Hmm. I think I've heard that before.
We set off on our first cloudy morning of the walk, happy to be shielded from the blistering rays. (Sounds crazy, I know, but its been extremely hot for Ireland.) The first good bit was road walking, which isn't our favorite way to go, but the route was pretty and everyone was in good spirits. Even the dwarf was in good humor. In spite of three severe cases of baboon-butt, we were all pretty happy.
What's that? You're unfamiliar with baboon butt? Consider yourself lucky. Allow me to illustrate...Ireland's version of toilet paper is most like medium gauge sandpaper in the States. It's coarse and rough. After wiping our backsides with it for a few days, we are...raw. It's painful and uncomfortable and makes me think of the monkeys at the zoo with the bright red butts. I know they aren't baboons, but baboon butt has a nice ring to it. Unless you are suffering from it.
Anyway, baboon butt is by itself a nasty affliction, but when you've been walking for fifteen miles or so and sweating and chafing, it's downright intolerable. However, this particular morning, our baboon butts were mostly in check. We did, however, speak of wadding up four-ply American toilet paper and sitting on it like a nest when we get home. Is that too much information?
After a couple of miles of up and down road, we wound our way to a beach; Ireland's longest beach and what a treat we were in for. The waves were crashing (remember that in the Keys, the reefs prevent rollers from coming to shore, so all we hear is a gentle lapping; never any waves) and the wind was blowing. The air smelled salty, but not like the smell of old crab pots drying in the sun, but of fresh, salty sea air. Lauren's step became a bit bouncer and, like all kids, she played a game of chicken with the rushing waves. She soaked her boots more than on
In spite of the pack on my back, I found myself bent and looking down, combing the beach for treasures. Within no time, the dwarf was nearly out of sight. We weren't concerned. We had waves and wind and beautiful shells and stones to collect. Lauren drew in the sand with the tip of her walking pole while we sang and laughed. We'd have stayed there all day, but it was a long haul to Castlegregory and the day was wearing on.
We passed a couple of other walkers and one family making a picnic. Aside from that, the beach was empty! Such a huge expanse of beauty and no one there to enjoy it.
Miles later, we consulted the map. Lauren and I decided to cheat and cut across the tip of the peninsula, taking a short cut to our B&B, thereby cutting out about three or four miles of walking. Our legs and hips were sore from the mountain challenge the day before and we realized just how tired we really were. As we parted ways, the dwarf rewarded Lauren's valiant efforts with a big Snickers bar, which she gladly accepted.
We cut through the dunes and found a place to sit out of the wind. From my pack we pulled out our sandwiches and fruit and made quick work of them. As I ooed and ahhed over all of the treasures I'd collected on the beach, Lauren devoured her candy bar. We then took turns watching the path while answering the call of Mother Nature.
After a short bit, we came to a fork in the road. I was fairly certain our road lay to the left. Just then a car happened by and we hailed it down to confirm. Inside was a family from New Hampshire. We were on the right road and they offered us a lift. We thanked them, but declined, happy to walk the miles ourselves. The road was quiet and we chatted about who knows what. Our pace was similar to an evening stroll by old people. We simply weren't in a rush. We'd cut off the tip of the peninsula and we had time to kill.
After a mile or so, we came upon a big, open field of cattle. Lauren and I can't pass up the opportunity to talk to/watch/pet cows. These guys were comedians and their antics kept us watching for well over thirty minutes. A steer was apparently confused about the state of his being, because he continued to chase and mount one particular cow. It was obvious she was getting tired of it. Her calf of about four or five months decided to show the steer who was boss and tried to mount him! A little bitty calf mounting a ginormous steer. What a sight. That just got the rest of the herd riled and before you could say, "Bob's your uncle," everyone was mounting everyone else. Cow porn at its best.
Knowing we had to eventually reach Castlegregory, we pulled ourselves away only to stumble upon a weed-filled field in which a mangy horse was tied to a broken-down piece of equipment. The poor horse had wads of skin and hair hanging from him and he looked pretty darn unhealthy. Lauren and I were heartbroken and the only thing that kept me from untying him and taking him with us was the fear of being shot. He was in a sad state.
The yard surrounding the house was littered with trash and discarded junk. It was a rough looking place and I knew we'd be fighting a losing battle to even attempt to help that poor horse. I turned Lauren away and we went on, heavy hearted. I hate to see animals mistreated. There's just no reason for it.
Half a mile or so from there, was an old church surrounded by a graveyard on three sides. The gate was open, so we let ourselves in. Old tombs covered in moss and vines gave testament to their age. An old stone wall with a narrow window stood, likely held together by the moss and vines that clung to it. It appeared to be part of what was probably the original church. We walked the property, minding our feet to be respectful of those resting there. No Lavells to be found. I hope that changes in Mayo.
About three miles or so from where we left the beach, we stumbled upon the town of Castlegregory. What a quaint village with quite a lot of shops and stores. It was the biggest town we'd encountered since Dingle. Our B&B was called "The Harbor House" and while we assumed it would be at the base of the village near the water, we decided to ask someone before walking all the way down to the water only to be told it was back at the top. I went into the post office and asked for directions.
Imagine my surprise when the postman told me that our B&B wasn't actually IN Castlegregory. "It's in Castlegregory Parish, not Castlegregory Village."
Well, of course it's not. Only a bloomin' idiot would think otherwise.
Remember that bit of beach/peninsula walking that Lauren and I cut out when we took our short cut? If we'd kept walking the Dingle Way, we'd have come upon it three miles later. Instead, we went three miles out of our way and it would be another three or four miles (by road) to the point where our B&B was located.
We called a cab.
I can't explain the deflating feeling of defeat when you think you've arrived at your destination after a long walk only to find you're still miles away. Nothing takes the mustard out of you quite like that realization. Cab it was.
Our driver was a woman in her sixties with an accent so thick you could paint it. She was lovely and difficult to understand. She talked the whole way while I struggled to answer accordingly. She had a lead foot and more than once I thought I might redecorate her back seat. Thankfully, I managed to keep it in check, but it was no easy feat.
We were dropped off at Spillane's Bar where our dwarf was enjoying a pint after his long beach walk. We joined him for a Smithwick's and a light bite before walking the rest of the way to our B&B. We were fortunate enough to walk by a lush, grassy field of horses. Five or six females each had a colt nearby and they were very well taken care of. We cooed and talked to them, complimenting them on their adorable babies (horses appreciate that sort of thing) for several minutes before the dwarf got sullen. Dwarfs don't like horses anymore than they do cows.
We said our goodbyes to the beauties and made our way to the water once again. The Harbor House was appropriately named. Inside we found our room to be very comfortable and wi-fi was available for my girl. The dwarf went to his room to nap while Lauren and I went to the upstairs lounge to chill. She laid in what appeared to be a huge dog bed, covered in a blanket and was asleep within ten minutes. I sat on a comfy sofa facing the water while I sipped a pint and tried to catch up on my blogging. About an hour and half later, Lauren's tape worm woke her. We went to the dining room to feed it.
We shared some of the most delicious fried brie I've ever had. It was served with a jam for dipping and accompanied by a peppery salad. Lauren then tucked into a huge platter of fish and chips while I had creamy vegetable soup and steamed mussels. Our server was a young kid from Michigan on an internship with the B&B's dive shop. (Scuba diving is becoming a big deal in Ireland!) and he talked to us about trekking in Nepal. It sparked some ideas for future trips. With full and happy bellies, we returned to the lounge, which we had to ourselves all evening. Lauren napped on and off while I blogged.
Around 10:30, the sun began to set and the sky was bathed in glorious oranges. A new group of horses appeared right outside the B&B, so I had to go out and talk to them. The wind was blowing and the temps dropping. I chatted with the horses and made fast friends with a tabby cat who insisted I hold her while I talked to the horses. I fancied myself an animal magnet that night.
Back inside, I finally convinced Lauren to climb out of the dog bed and into her people bed around 11pm. I fell asleep knowing there was only one more walk on the Dingle Way. How did that happen? Months upon months of planning and only one walk left?
I drifted to sleep to the sounds of the ocean one more time, grateful for my walking partner who allows me to live my dream. If she only knew how much she's loved.
Thursday, June 19, 2014
Feonaugh to Cloghane - An Epic Adventure
This 15-mile walk felt like 115 and not a meter less. Never before has a walk taken the mustard out of me so. Whew, but it was worth every aching joint and blister. Here's what happened:
Our normal morning routine calls for me to get up and get dressed/ready to walk and then start packing. At the very last moment, I wake Lauren and we go down to breakfast. When we get back to the room, she applies a few layers of burn meds, waits for them to dry and then dresses. Then she applies sunblock. By that time, I've fought with our bags and stumbled down the inevitable flight or ten of stairs, stacked them by the door and settled the bill.
"Who drank all these pints?" is a frequent question from me.
"Herself," is typically the answer. Odd.
No matter. Off we go on another day's adventure. The day to Cloghane meant climbing Mount Brandon. Mount as in "mountain". Meaning a monster-sized hill with an attitude. And this particular mountain is Irish. Lord love a duck, as my parents used to say. What the hell that means, I've no idea, but it seems to fit the situation.
After a two and half mile climb up and out of the town of Feonaugh, we found ourselves at the foot of Mount Brandon. Think about that for a moment....climbing two and half miles before even getting to the mountain. Lord Jesus.
The climb was very, very steep in many places. My billy goat (Lauren) came alive as she does at times like these and scrambled uphill like she was on one of Miami Airport's people movers. Out of respect for her Mum, she stopped every so often to let me catch up before she scampered off again, leaving me in her dust. My calf and Mount Brandon don't care for each other very much at all. Need I say more?
We started the day under a heat advisory, which meant we were the only people crazy enough to climb a mountain. Full sun, high temps and no shade to be found. Brilliant!
About five hours or so after leaving our B&B, we approached the summit, but in typical European style, Brandon was sporting a fake summit. If you've never climbed a mountain, you may not know what that means, but let me assure you it's nasty business. Here's the basic idea; you climb like a sun of bitch and when you are almost at the top, ready to drop dead from exhaustion, another summit appears! What you thought was the top was just a fake! The altitude prevents climbers from seeing the real and true summit.
Aside from the shenanigans of a false summit, the views were scandalous. Never before have I been given the gift of such beauty. The agony of the climb was worth it for just two minutes at the top. Wow!
Lauren and I baptized the summit. Sorry, but we had to. We drank over a gallon on the way up. After answering the call of nature, we stopped to scarf down a quick sandwich. All too soon, it was time to begin the long trip down the backside of Brandon. Unlike the front side, his back was nearly straight down in spots and muddy. Aw feck and shit, too. There were many times on the way down that I held my breath while watching Lauren jump a section of ground, hoping she landed right. That's a mother's curse, though, isn't it? Matters not how old they get, I suppose.
About two hours later, we were back on the flat with an ugly, hard stone road to follow. At the risk of sounding like a complainer, the damn road just refused to end! On and on it went, under a relentless sun without so much as a twig of a tree to hid under. Water was running low, along with our energy. There was nowhere to find shade and our feet were on fire. We followed a stony switchback path that eventually turned into a sheep's trail and the going slowed as we fought our way through prickly wisps of this and that.
The appearance of speed limit signs is always a good thing; it means you're approaching a village. I nearly kissed the first one we saw. A mile or more down the road we found ourselves in town. Owen parted our company at the hostel while Lauren and I continued on.
Our B&B was of our favorite flavor; it was a pub. O'Connor's doesn't disappoint. Immediately inside, we found the Brits we've been walking and bunking with since Dunquin. I call them Flopsey and Mopsey, don't ask why because I can't tell you. Their real names are Derek and whatever the Welsh name is for William. They are funny, silly boys in their late fifties/early sixties and we had a lot of fun with them. Those two clowns took a taxi from Feonaugh, unwilling to have their assess handed to them by the mountain. We walked in stinking like the business end of a sheep, disheveled, limping and hungry. They were fresh as spring daisies, enjoying a pint and the company of a couple from Northern Ireland. We exchanged insults, the last of which involved me telling them that "we men" climbed the mountain while the girls were pampered all day in a taxi. It made for an interesting night.
Lauren and I grabbed hot showers and headed back downstairs where we shared a few pints with Flopsey and Mopsey. Only a few moments after mentioning a craving for pasta, the proprietor stopped by to let us know about the evening special; penne alfredo with mushrooms! Talk about luck. I then said I was craving a billion dollars, but nothing happened. I suppose I was being greedy. It was the first pasta we'd had in about nine days, and I expected my girl to lick the bowl clean. Instead, she ate a bowl of soup and gave more of her pasta to her dwarf, who ate all of his pasta and most of hers. I guess she was too tired to be hungry.
After the Brits and Owen called it a night, Lauren and I hung in the lounge where she made use of their wifi - I was unable to connect. Around 11:30pm or so, we headed off to bed. Mount Brandon kicked my ass. I had blisters, achy hips, my shins burned and my calves were on fire. The back of my legs were sun burned and I had several horse fly bites. Lauren's burn wasn't happy, her hips were screaming and her feet hurt. Whenever one of us had to move, there was grunting and moaning, much like you'd expect from a nursing home pair.
I am happy for my aches and pains. I climbed a mountain and won!! We did it! We climbed Mount Brandon and kept going. We were so high at the summit, we could see the curvature of the Earth! That's something everyone should experience at least once.
I am dead on my feet. I never want to move again. Tomorrow is another 17 mile day, most of along the beach. In the words of Scarlett O'Hara, I'll think about that tomorrow.
Our normal morning routine calls for me to get up and get dressed/ready to walk and then start packing. At the very last moment, I wake Lauren and we go down to breakfast. When we get back to the room, she applies a few layers of burn meds, waits for them to dry and then dresses. Then she applies sunblock. By that time, I've fought with our bags and stumbled down the inevitable flight or ten of stairs, stacked them by the door and settled the bill.
"Who drank all these pints?" is a frequent question from me.
"Herself," is typically the answer. Odd.
No matter. Off we go on another day's adventure. The day to Cloghane meant climbing Mount Brandon. Mount as in "mountain". Meaning a monster-sized hill with an attitude. And this particular mountain is Irish. Lord love a duck, as my parents used to say. What the hell that means, I've no idea, but it seems to fit the situation.
After a two and half mile climb up and out of the town of Feonaugh, we found ourselves at the foot of Mount Brandon. Think about that for a moment....climbing two and half miles before even getting to the mountain. Lord Jesus.
The climb was very, very steep in many places. My billy goat (Lauren) came alive as she does at times like these and scrambled uphill like she was on one of Miami Airport's people movers. Out of respect for her Mum, she stopped every so often to let me catch up before she scampered off again, leaving me in her dust. My calf and Mount Brandon don't care for each other very much at all. Need I say more?
We started the day under a heat advisory, which meant we were the only people crazy enough to climb a mountain. Full sun, high temps and no shade to be found. Brilliant!
About five hours or so after leaving our B&B, we approached the summit, but in typical European style, Brandon was sporting a fake summit. If you've never climbed a mountain, you may not know what that means, but let me assure you it's nasty business. Here's the basic idea; you climb like a sun of bitch and when you are almost at the top, ready to drop dead from exhaustion, another summit appears! What you thought was the top was just a fake! The altitude prevents climbers from seeing the real and true summit.
Aside from the shenanigans of a false summit, the views were scandalous. Never before have I been given the gift of such beauty. The agony of the climb was worth it for just two minutes at the top. Wow!
Lauren and I baptized the summit. Sorry, but we had to. We drank over a gallon on the way up. After answering the call of nature, we stopped to scarf down a quick sandwich. All too soon, it was time to begin the long trip down the backside of Brandon. Unlike the front side, his back was nearly straight down in spots and muddy. Aw feck and shit, too. There were many times on the way down that I held my breath while watching Lauren jump a section of ground, hoping she landed right. That's a mother's curse, though, isn't it? Matters not how old they get, I suppose.
About two hours later, we were back on the flat with an ugly, hard stone road to follow. At the risk of sounding like a complainer, the damn road just refused to end! On and on it went, under a relentless sun without so much as a twig of a tree to hid under. Water was running low, along with our energy. There was nowhere to find shade and our feet were on fire. We followed a stony switchback path that eventually turned into a sheep's trail and the going slowed as we fought our way through prickly wisps of this and that.
The appearance of speed limit signs is always a good thing; it means you're approaching a village. I nearly kissed the first one we saw. A mile or more down the road we found ourselves in town. Owen parted our company at the hostel while Lauren and I continued on.
Our B&B was of our favorite flavor; it was a pub. O'Connor's doesn't disappoint. Immediately inside, we found the Brits we've been walking and bunking with since Dunquin. I call them Flopsey and Mopsey, don't ask why because I can't tell you. Their real names are Derek and whatever the Welsh name is for William. They are funny, silly boys in their late fifties/early sixties and we had a lot of fun with them. Those two clowns took a taxi from Feonaugh, unwilling to have their assess handed to them by the mountain. We walked in stinking like the business end of a sheep, disheveled, limping and hungry. They were fresh as spring daisies, enjoying a pint and the company of a couple from Northern Ireland. We exchanged insults, the last of which involved me telling them that "we men" climbed the mountain while the girls were pampered all day in a taxi. It made for an interesting night.
Lauren and I grabbed hot showers and headed back downstairs where we shared a few pints with Flopsey and Mopsey. Only a few moments after mentioning a craving for pasta, the proprietor stopped by to let us know about the evening special; penne alfredo with mushrooms! Talk about luck. I then said I was craving a billion dollars, but nothing happened. I suppose I was being greedy. It was the first pasta we'd had in about nine days, and I expected my girl to lick the bowl clean. Instead, she ate a bowl of soup and gave more of her pasta to her dwarf, who ate all of his pasta and most of hers. I guess she was too tired to be hungry.
After the Brits and Owen called it a night, Lauren and I hung in the lounge where she made use of their wifi - I was unable to connect. Around 11:30pm or so, we headed off to bed. Mount Brandon kicked my ass. I had blisters, achy hips, my shins burned and my calves were on fire. The back of my legs were sun burned and I had several horse fly bites. Lauren's burn wasn't happy, her hips were screaming and her feet hurt. Whenever one of us had to move, there was grunting and moaning, much like you'd expect from a nursing home pair.
I am happy for my aches and pains. I climbed a mountain and won!! We did it! We climbed Mount Brandon and kept going. We were so high at the summit, we could see the curvature of the Earth! That's something everyone should experience at least once.
I am dead on my feet. I never want to move again. Tomorrow is another 17 mile day, most of along the beach. In the words of Scarlett O'Hara, I'll think about that tomorrow.
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