Luck O' The Un-Irish

So there I was: 10 miles from my goal, in the oncoming front of a storm, paying far more than I should for a night in the country, and quickly realizing that traveling on a Sunday in the south of Ireland for whatever reason is not a good idea. But that's all far in the future, so allow me to fill you in.

My trip to Ireland was, in retrospect, successful...but it was the kind of success that one can only recognize once the goal in question has been achieved. The summit summited. The dragon slain. But whilst one is breaking limbs on the ascent or getting hairs scorched off by fiery eructations during the battle, things can seem quite grim-- and so they were. I began the trip on a excellent note by rising with plenty of time to spare on Wednesday morning, eating a hearty breakfast, and being driven the short distance to the Glasgow Airport. This is where things begin to go wrong.

There are two airports in Glasgow. And when I say "in Glasgow," I mean that one is in Glasgow and the other is 45 minutes out of the city in the middle of the countryside. Of course, upon arriving exactly one hour before departure at Glasgow Airport, I discovered that, while my timing was correct, I was in the wrong location. So back in the chariot and onto the highroad to Prestwick, upon which we were, of course, enjoying the back end of a line of traffic which had accumulated behind a tractor moving at imperceptible speeds farther up the road. Almost an hour later, 20 minutes before the plane was due to fly, we gasped and staggered into the terminal, only to be very politely told that check-in had closed long before and we were, to put it in colloquial terminology, screwed.

Luckily (Can we call it that?) I could pay £50 to get myself onto the next available flight at 6:50 pm (It was 9 am at this point in time) and so get to Dublin on the same day as I had originally planned. Hooray? Question mark?

I resigned myself to a classy day in the terminal and bade my farewells to Peter MacDonald, my lovely host, who was off to speak in the Scottish Parliament and so had to make himself presentable. Cor blimey. Kicking myself for making such an idiotic and costly mistake, I sat down morosely and had some highly unsatisfactory porridge before heading upstairs to the lounge and falling into fitful slumber. The day passed slowly, but eventually I was back at the check-in desk (First in line -- not taking any chances) displaying my passport and taking out extra clothes to wear so my bag would fit the weight limit.

The flight was incredibly brief for such a long build-up, and soon enough I was walking through the familiar halls of Dublin International Airport. I felt positive. I had directions. I was going to the hostel. I knew what bus to take. All was well in the world. This proceeded in a positive fashion until I got within about 5 minutes of the hostel itself. My directions were to head South from Heuston Station. My decision, since the large compass I had expected to find sunk into the concrete was not forthcoming, was to head North instead. Mistakenly believing that I was heading for a warm bed and a pleasant home, I set of boldly across the river.

I progressed, growing less bold with each passing half mile, for another 45 minutes. Under normal circumstances, this would hardly phase me, but with 50 pounds of assorted junk strapped to my shoulders (Why did I pack so much RUBBISH!?) it quickly became a kind of purgatory (Why did I decide to wear my FLIP FLOPS!?) which I barely struggled through without breaking down and hailing a taxi (Why are there so many TAXI RANKS in Dublin!?) while descending to a level of pain and despair so great that I ended up hurling a torrent of caustic expletives at every vehicle that passed me with such smug ease on the highway.

After completing my giant loop of folly, I was back at the station. I collapsed on a bench and gathered my thoughts, then set out in the other direction. Soon enough I was passing the giant, brick Guinness storehouses and factory buildings which, since I was in search of the Brewery Hostel, was a good sign. At last...at long last...I spotted a sign which held the words I had so long been searching for. I staggered through the doors and fell into a corner, giving my check -in details from my prone position to a rather surprised-looking French guy with dreadlocks behind the counter. It was 9 pm. I was finally safe.

My room was on the very top floor (10 flights of stairs -- Thank you Murphy and your damnable legal procedures) but, once reached, very nice. This was good news because in my state, had it been cold and depressing and inhospitable, I probably would've broken down in tears. Waiting for the computer in the lobby to free up, I recorded the day in my journal amidst a gaggle of conversations between Americans, French, Germans, Swiss, Spaniards, Australians, and Irish. At last I checked my email and was about to go to bed when I was pulled into the orbit of a group who were planning on watching Transformers that night. I felt that my stamina was restored to a point where this might be possible, and so I joined them, slept for a couple hours on the couch, and then, at 1 am when the film was finally ready to be watched, I woke up. I approved of it on the whole. It was well-done and surprisingly amusing and pretty to look at in a robots turning into cars kind of way -- so bravo there. I then dragged my carcass upstairs and fell into bed, ready for slumber.

The next day I explored downtown Dublin -- a fantastic, bustling place full of nooky side streets and unusual shops and lovely churches and lots of pubs. Tall, brick rows of flats and broad cobbled boulevards. Bliss. I wandered and wandered and finally headed home around 4 pm and toppled into bed. I napped until 8:30 pm! It was FANTASTIC! I dreamt of reunions in airports with long-lost friends and coming home to the arms of my family. At 9 the hostel threw a BBQ for all the guests, frying up loads of sausages and onions and other tasty gubbins to consume with buns and ketchup. Hooray for free dinners! I chatted with a lot of people before excusing myself and toddling up to bed around 2 am, preparing for my journey the next day.

Cappoquin! That land of legend and bread which I had been charged with locating. That unattainable Shangri La of countryside cottages which would be within my grasp soon enough. I could find it on a map and estimate its distance from the nearest hostel and would GET THERE! Such naively simple thinking compared to what lay ahead.

I had booked myself into a hostel in the seaside town of Tramore, just outside Waterford. A 3 hour bus ride from Dublin got me to Waterford proper, while a 45 minute local bus put me in Tramore. The hostel was awesome, I got to check my email at the local library, and then I was sleeping, waking, packing, walking, and calling the Barron Bakery, convinced that I would find answers. Solutions. Ways to get around the canceled bus service to my destination of choice.

Esther, my contact from Laignee's family, wasn't able to help me with bus service info, but pointed me towards Dungarvan, the closest largish town where I could probably find a hostel and then make my way to Cappoquin, 10 miles from the center. This sounded like a good plan so I booked myself a return ticket and bussed it another 3 hours to Dungarvan, arriving around midday. The tourist info office was closed for lunch so I decided to meander about for a while. The tide which normally fills the river outlet into the ocean seemed to have some more pressing arrangements and had abandoned the various sailboats dotted about the harbor. They sat upright despite the lack of water to support them, stabilized by the five feet of mud into which their keels were sunk. Deeper pockets of water kept small rowboats afloat, while seabirds bickered and skipped around in the exposed rocks. It was relaxing, small, calm. Come 2 I headed back to the office and inquired about the Dungarvan Hostel.

This is where things started to go wrong.

"Oh, the hostel closed a couple months ago."
"No there isn't a bus to Cappoquin."
"Of course not, it'll be Sunday."
"You could go back to Tramore."
"The cheapest Bed and Breakfast here will be €45."
"It looks like the hostel in Tramore is booked for the weekend."
"I would suggest staying here."
"No there aren't any hostels in Waterford."

I was running out of options. I hadn't anticipated any of this, and so I did the only thing I could think of.

"Alright, that will be €90 for two nights. If you head back to the N25 to Waterford and just walk a little ways, it's right past the gas station. Thanks very much. Bye bye!"

Ninety euro. Good God. I could stay two weeks at the hostel for that kind of cash! I could eat 25 hearty meals in fancy restaurants! I could buy a very expensive hat! Still, it was somewhere to sleep, and better than my briefly entertained fantasy of purchasing a tarp and roughing it in the local park. And I got breakfast. And an en suite bathroom. And a room to myself. Was it worth it? Maybe.

The directions I had received from the tourist office were excellent aside from their accuracy. Sure, I passed the gas station about half a mile down the highway, but after that the deceptively short distance on the map to the B&B lengthened into a couple miles of barren highway which, since they contained no landmarks, the designers of my map hadn't seen fit to include. More trekking, more swearing under my breath at passing vehicles, more pain in the shoulders. I guess what doesn't kill you makes you stronger, right? After Ireland, I'd like to introduce myself as Clark Kent.

So I checked in and spent Saturday afternoon preparing. Buying food. Resting. Bracing myself to walk the 10 miles to Cappoquin the next morning, disc of photographs clutched firmly to my breast. The owner of the B&B offered to ask around and see if any of her friends were driving to Cappoquin, but it being Sunday, nobody was. And so that glimmer of hope was snuffed. 9 am the following morning, breakfast in belly, I prepared to hit the road. Then the rain came. It wasn't too bad when I set out, but I was subjected to intermittent downpours as I walked along the mostly-deserted highway. My rain jacket was more than damp by the time I had reached the turn-off to Cappoquin from the main highway.

The N72 to Cappoquin is not really a highway. It's a lovely country lane. A lovely small country lane. And on a Sunday, although there was a smattering of traffic on the main road, this tiny backwater was deserted. So I walked, and walked, and walked...and only passed one road sign telling me that I still had 19km to go. After about an hour I heard an engine in the distance. Human contact! A chance for salvation! I worked up my courage and thrust my thumb out as the vehicle rounded the corner and -- Good Lord! -- stopped! The couple inside were consulting a map. The woman turned and handed it to me. "If you can show us where you're going we can probably get you there," she smiled.

The two of them had come from England on holiday, never having been to see the Emerald Isle next door, and were going to Killarney for the last couple nights of their stay. Cappoquin is directly en route to Killarney and they were more than happy to drop me there on the way. We chatted easily as the rental car ate up the miles with enviable ease until the signpost loomed and the streets narrowed and we were there. A simple 15 minute drive which cut ages of my estimated travel time. Thanking them profusely, I waved the car off the curb and set off in search of the Bakery, which turned out to be right around the corner. (Cappoquin is not a large place by any means.)

So a call to Esther was placed, and she very kindly invited me 'round even though they were preparing to dash off to Mass at 11:30. She and her husband Joe live in the old Cappoquin station, a beautiful airy house with a large garden and bees! (In hives. Not just...you know...around) I passed her the disc, marking my successful completion of the mission, then chatted while she made beds for the upcoming family event - 50 relatives in one place! My goodness. Joe went and showed me around the bakery, which was amazing. The heat still wavering off the giant stone ovens, shelves of tins ready to receive dough for baking the following morning at 2 am -- this was a place of traditional skill and wholesome, bready goodness. I loved it. And Laignee, you should get over there and become a baker. I really recommend the whole experience. And by gosh it's been in your family since the 1880's! Get with the trend!

Since there were few other options for socializing, Esther invited me to attend Mass with them, an offer I accepted as I hadn't been to Mass in southern Ireland before. Hell, I don't think I've actually ever been to Mass anywhere. Except perhaps once at midnight on Christmas in Norfolk...Anyway. We were treated to a marvelous sermon by the preacher, who eternally placed himself in my memory for likening Mass to a football match and praying as the spiritual equivalent of shouting at the ref. He also calmly explained that he'd been getting complaints that Mass was boring, and responded to them by saying that he generally found people who found things boring to be quite boring themselves.

So, despite being the Pagan child that I am, I have found a soft spot in my heart for the small congregation of Cappoquin and it's unusual views on religious practice. We're all essentially saying the same thing, talking about basic human goodness and love. Mr. Vonnegut's following passage got it right in my book, and should be recited by schoolchildren in place of the Declaration of Independence.

“Hello, babies. Welcome to Earth. It’s hot in the summer and cold in the winter. It’s round and wet and crowded. At the outside, babies, you’ve got about a hundred years here. There’s only one rule that I know of, babies — God damn it, you’ve got to be kind.”

As the rain returned we were walking out of the church, and Joe very kindly offered to drive me back to Dungarvan so I wouldn't have to hitch in the bad weather. We chatted about global issues and theatrical traditions, then shook hands and made promises to keep in touch.

I walked back into the B&B with a spring in my step and a glint in my eye. I had completed my quest. Slain the dragon. Summited the mountain. Fought the nemesis. Destroyed the Cube. Melted the Ring.

The next morning I was jumping from bus to bus to tram to lightrail to bus to foot to hostel. Boogied down with a variety of folks from different countries, happy to be back in communal living, happy to be able to make my own food and listen to other folks snoring at night. This is the life I like to lead. In the pitch black the next morning I packed with my cellphone between my teeth for illumination, burst through the freezing Dublin air to the bus station, averted panic when I found out the airport shuttle wouldn't start running until after my flight went, dashed to the other airport shuttle stop via lightrail, made it to the airport convinced I would repeat my Glasgow snafu and miss my flight, arrived seconds before they closed the desk, checked in, walked to the plane, and sank into blissful contemplation of the pleasures waiting for me at the other end of the line.

Those pleasures included: my mum, a letter from a lovely friend, a picnic to enjoy in London, tea with marvelous companions, vehicular transport, and a stay with amazing friends from Ojai.

I'm in London now in a flat which feels like the best combination of London and California, with my mother, who I got to curl up with on a big air mattress under a down comforter last night for the best sleep I've had in weeks. Things are looking good. I worked hard to get here, and now I can take a break and get my systems back in order. It's only going to get more fantastic as the new month rolls around.

Thought you all deserved to know. I promise I'll write more frequently over the coming weeks and beyond, but for now I'm taking a bath and eating soup and generally luxuriating in the fact that I am as close to home as I've been for a long time and I finally feel like I've arrived somewhere I belong.

Thank goodness.