On Ireland: Part 4

Last odometer shot of the trip

My biggest challenge the next morning was taking a shower without getting my bandages wet. After getting ready, Helen and I decided to enjoy the arts festival. There was a play that billed itself as a reenactment of the American/Soviet space race done by two guys with props. That was good light fun, and we went back to the hostel to make plans for the evening, as well as eat a nice diverse assortment of some cheese we picked up. Dinner was this nice spot that straddled a little river, and Helen had a nice philosophical debate about Satan’s involvement in my accident.



I was in the mood for another play, and Helen was kind enough to humor my every move so we went to another theater to try and get tickets for Uncle Vanya. The show was sold out, but we lucked out when a man sold us two extra tickets. The cast was very good, and the play had a decidedly more comic slant than the text suggests. We walked back to the hostel and went to bed.

The next day was to be the last day in Western Ireland. Helen had found this bus tour company that would let us go around Conemarra. I was really looking forward to biking around it, with its barren landscapes, scenic lakes and an actual fjord. In my condition, this was impossible so going on a bus would be the next best thing. Our tour guide was a pretty lively fellow who gave Helen and I a bit of a scare when he welcomed us on the tour of the Cliffs of Moher, before correcting himself.



Connemara is the region to the northwest of Galway. The land is granite, and not as arable as other parts. However, until the potato famine, it was one of the most populated places in Ireland. Oliver Cromwell (the guide would spit when mentioning his name) forced a lot of the Irish to move to these barren lands, saying “To Hell or to Connaught.” (Connaught is the name for the northwest part of the island). The Irish people, however, had just started to realize how great potatoes were and grew them all over Connaught. To compensate for the lack of soil, they would haul seaweed and spread it on the ground to make arable land, meaning that it took decades for anything to grow in some parts.



Of course, all this came crashing down on people during the potato famine. The Irish had grown very reliant on one crop; by some estimations potatoes account for 90% of the calorie intake of the Irish. So when there were two straight years of failed potato crop, Connemara was devastated. There’s stories of villages wiped out by famine, of starving people walking roads in search of food, of Britain failing to provide proper aid to the Irish people, and of other people volunteering whatever they had. Particularly memorable was a Native American tribe that suffered the Trail of Tears, and donated a few hundred dollars to help the Irish that were enduring the same conditions. In many ways, Ireland has not recovered from the famine. The population of the island has only recently reached pre-famine levels, and the countryside of the west is filled with abandoned houses from the famine.

I’d like to think that our history classes were relatively even-handed, but there’s definitely some historical figures and nationals who are portrayed as “good guys” or “bad guys,” sometimes deservedly, sometimes not. The Greeks were good, the Persians were bad, which is why Thermopylae was totally awesome. The Germans got their comeuppance in two World Wars. August Caeser was a tyrant, but he was a good tyrant, as opposed to Genghis Khan who was a bloodthirsty savage. I think the key difference I saw in the Irish view of history was how downright awful Britain had been, specifically Queen Elizabeth I and Oliver Cromwell. Elizabeth is portrayed more positively, maybe by virtue of being a woman or maybe because she expanded British power in an era when they were underdogs. Cromwell is seen as a great reformer and someone who ended blood dynasties. But both enacted policies that were pretty much genocide in Ireland, and I had no real idea until this tour.

We made many stops on the bus ride, but there were a few notable ones. Cong was a nice place and supposed to be the final destination for the bike tour. Helen and I walked around the abbey in the sun and took pictures. By the way, if it looks like the pictures here suck, it’s because I was still in pain and couldn’t focus on getting a decent shot. A thousand apologies.







We also stopped at Kylemore Abbey, which is a picturesque manor on a lake that now houses a dwindling convent. There’s about 10 elderly nuns remaining on premise and they’ve had no luck recruiting new members. The abbey has some wonderful gardens and a nice path for walking around it. At the same time, they charge you an arm and a leg for anything there. The clouds burst open and it rained so hard we had to go inside. Normally I’d be willing to bear the rain, but I needed to keep my bandages dry.





There was also this nice spot in between two of the large lakes of Conemarra. A cyclist blazed by us and I vowed to come back in a few years and finish what I had started.

The tour guide poked a lot of fun at us, dubbing us “The Mad Cyclists.” Most of the bus was filled with French high schoolers who weren’t paying much attention, so he had plenty of time to answer my questions. Helen was asleep for much of the trip; I think being in a moving vehicle just knocks her out. I’m envious.

We got back around 5, packed up and went to the bus station to leave Galway. It started to rain pretty hard again, and the station wasn’t exatly much shelter. Around 8:30, we got on the bus to Dublin and rode through the dusk and twilight. I started to write a speech for a wedding I was going to officiate, but passed out once we got on the highway. Eventually, we pulled in to Dublin and took a cab to Dun Laoghire. Dun Laoghire is a largish suburb to the east of Dublin and a nice place to stay. There’s enough interesting things in the immediate area, and you are a short train ride away from Dublin but don’t have to pay Dublin prices for things. John, the owner was kind enough to let us in when we came in at midnight and helped us put our stuff away.

Sadly, my rain jacket was a casualty here, lost in the cab ride over. I offer a poem in memory.
There once was a blue rain jacket,
When it rained, I made sure to pack it
But in a cab to Dun Laoghire,
I left it (my theory)
And that’s how I’ve come to lack it.
My rain jacket had born over two weeks of punishment without a tear or leak. It shall be missed.

I fell in to bed and was asleep pretty quickly.

I had intended for Dublin to be the relaxing part of the trip, so my condition didn’t really restrict activities. So we took things easy the next morning. After breakfast, we went around town looking for bike boxes. I also picked up a suitcase to replace the one I abandoned in Durrow. I also needed a rain jacket. Helen found this hot pink one that was slightly too small for me and I had to struggle to put on. I’m pretty sure she gave it to me just for a laugh. Thankfully, I found a blue one that fit. We then took a train in to Dublin. Helen found a hostel for her to stay in on her way back and got information on how to get around Northern Ireland, which was her next destination.

After that, we went to Trinity College. Ten Euro gets you a witty student or former student who will lead you on a walking tour of the grounds, point out the buildings and give you a good history lecture. I was iffy on it, but the admission included the nine Euro charge to go and see the Book of Kells, so we figured it was worth it. Our guide was good fun and we learned a lot of amusing stories about the college. I think the most worthwhile thing he did though was giving more context to the Book of Kells.



The Book of Kells is a Bible written and illustrated about 1200 years ago. A great deal of work went in to the illustrations, with the first letters drawn in the shapes of mythological creatures, various words stylized and illustrations of scenes done in great detail. And if I left it at that, you’d have a nice exhibit that you’d check out for about 10 minutes and then move on. Indeed, Helen’s guide book described the scene as people shuffling in, looking at the two pages on display (the Book is open to two different pages for a few months), then shuffling out. Our guide pointed out however, that the Book is one of the few examples of truly original artwork that scholars have to this day. The artists were working in isolation, with very little knowledge of what new innovations there were in illustration. He encouraged us to examine everything as closely a possible because of how unique this work is.

So with that in mind, Helen and I spent a good two hours in the exhibit, looking at details of individual pages and what materials were used until we actually entered the chamber. The book was opened to two pages and I tried translating some of it for Helen with my long-forgotten Latin knowledge. The book isn’t huge, and I can see how some people who hurried in to the exhibit would be disappointed. Luckily, we weren’t one of those. I had an amusing chat with the security guard and asked if anyone had ever tried to steal it. He eyed me suspiciously, but then told me a story about his first week on the job when there was a power failure. The alarms on the book were on a different system and the book drops down to an underground safe in the event of an emergency. He, of course, had no idea that this was the security procedure and just saw the book vanish in to the floor.

We headed out through the Old Library, which was used when filming Episode III. I wish they allowed photography, and perhaps one day I will sneak in, render the guards unconscious and take some lovely pictures. The books are sorted by size, not by title, so the shelves don’t topple over.

After that, we took a walk over to Dublin Castle. We got a spot on the last tour and went over to a nearby library and checked out an Asian art exhibit then headed back for the last tour. Dublin Castle is home to the President and is used for official state events and entertaining. The back end is this amusing patchwork of extensions to the building, each of which is painted a different color.



We got on the train back to Dun Laoghire, and it started to rain pretty hard by the time we disembarked. Dinner was pretty nice, but the highlight was this excellent dessert called banoffe pie, a blessed union of banana, toffee and pie. Helen and I went back to the B&B, took apart our bikes and went to bed with the intention of getting up early the next day.



Neither Helen nor I had an alarm set, so we overslept by a good couple of hours. We needed to be Dublin by noon to make the last tour bus to Bru Na Boinne. We had planned on making the earlier one, but this wasn’t going to happen. We ate and hopped on the first train we could get. Helen dropped her bike off at the hostel, while I checked out the Ancient History museum and gold exhibits. We met up again at the tourist center and hopped on the shuttle to the Boinne valley.

I’ve mentioned my love for all things old, so Bru Na Boinne was a wonderful place to be. There are three burial mounds, thought to be 5,000 years old. This means they predate pretty much every civilized society with the possible exception of the Sumerians. The people who built them are lost to time. They actually predate the Celtic migration to the island. The exact purpose of the burial mounds is uncertain, but what is known is that the entranceways line up perfectly with the sunrise on the Winter Solstice. Some think that the Neolithic people believed that the dead spirits of their kinfolk would travel on these beams of sunlight to the afterlife. Others believed that the tombs would be reminders to their spirits to make the days grow longer again. I’m just surprised that any culture would place faith in anything that would require any period of sunlight in Ireland.





Our tour guide made an interesting point here. The Neolithic people who built these tombs had little knowledge of physics, writing or math. They had to struggle to feed themselves and survive each winter. But they were able to construct mounds that were so water tight that in five millenia of Irish weather, water has never made it in to the interior. They were the true masters of stone and earth.


Some of the scenery was Tolkienesque.



We left Bru Na Boinne around 4 and made it back to Dublin around 5. Our last outing, The Literary Pub Crawl, wouldn’t start until 7 so we spent time in St. Patricks Green checking out the statues and people watching. I imagine we were a good sight for people watchers too, as I noticed a few lingering glances at my mummy-like cast.



The Literary Pub Crawl is done by a two actors from local theater companies. It is a walking tour of about a mile around Dublin with stops where they reenact scenes from plays, novels and other works of literature while you drink heavily. It was a must-do for the both of us. We piled in with our tour group of 30 people to a pub, where Colm Quilligan sang “Waxie’s Dargle” to open things off, and then led us on a great walking tour. They did scenes from Waiting for Godot, The Risen People and even read some letters from Oscar Wilde from his travels around America. There was plenty of good craic with the entire tour group and we got to chat for a good while with Colm at the end of everything.




Helen and I had made dinner plans at some swanky restaurant to celebrate the end of the journey. However, upon exiting the last pub, it became clear to us that the six pints we had collectively drank would make navigating the twisting Irish roads difficult, so we ducked in to this American-style diner and ordered burgers, fries and brownies. And of course it was delicious. We talked about the end of the trip, and I mourned how sad I was to leave with unfinished business, while Helen was psyched about making it to the Giants Causeway. After dinner, we cabbed it back to Dun Laoghire, and I sadly noted that I had less than twelve hours left in the country. We packed up our stuff, and chatted until late in the night, then turned in.



The last day, we woke up and headed down for the last breakfast we’d have together. Helen helped me get to the bus stop, since I couldn’t carry my bike and suitcase. Fittingly, we got rained on for a few seconds but just a few. The bus to the airport arrived, and we made promises to do this again in a couple of years.

My journey home was relatively uneventful. I made nice conversation in the airport pub with a Frenchman and drank my last Guinness. I was in and out of consciousness throughout the flight, mostly due to exhaustion and the transition from physical activity to the lack thereof. I ate a ton at O’Hare, my body still thinking that it needs 5000 calories a day to survive. Eventually, I landed in Seattle and met my parents. They did not freak out too much at my appearance and took me to my apartment. I crawled in to bed, closed my eyes and wondered what I would do now that I was back to my normal life.

And so here's to you, Ireland. I have seen every shade of green on your hillsides; I have greeted a stranger as my brother in your pubs; I have sang your songs, drank your drinks and rode your roads. I have been refreshed by your sea breezes and battered by your gales. I have stood in the ocean, and dangled my feet hundreds of feet above it. I have been winded by your climbs and invigorated by your descents. I've seen an old friend enter the next phase of his life with a wonderful bride. I have left my name in guestbooks, my tracks on paths, my footsteps on staircases and my blood and bone on the curb side. I've seen almost 600 kilometers of your land and have done so in the company of the best travel partner I could have asked for. And I can't wait to see you again.