EVENTFUL TRAVELS

LEAVING INISHEER

After a full Thursday June 3 on Inisheer, I take evening-sun photos of the poppies in front of the South Aran Restaurant.  And pictures of Maria and Enda serving their delicious dinners.  (They won’t pose.)

I set three alarms so I’ll wake up on time Friday morning but wake up at 5 AM on my own.  I will miss this beautiful place.  At breakfast Maria asks whether I have heard the cuckoo.  “Yes, on three different days but I never saw it.”  She assures me that they’re hard to find.

Both Maria and Enda drive me to the dock after breakfast.  “To be sure you actually leave,” says Enda grinning wickedly.  The ferry arrives at 8 AM.  It’s a fun ride from Inisheer to Rosaveal because of high wind and waves.  

Rosaveal Ferry Landing

ON THE WAY TO CONNEMARA:  A Challenge

When I get off the boat, I ask a crew member where to catch the bus to Galway.  He mutters something I barely comprehend and waves vaguely at a space above the exit ramp.  I wander aimlessly up there, watching a bus pull out.  MY bus, as it turns out.  I learn this when I finally locate an office where a short, stern woman blames me for missing the bus.   “I saw your bus,” she says with a disapproving frown.  [If I were Bill Bryson I would write the choice words I said to myself.]    

Another bus will come in 45 minutes.  This is my first misconnection.   It is a bit unnerving.  I feel unsure of myself.  During the entire day I check and re-check pieces of paper, the location of my wallet, my passport, my camera, my suitcase.

I am so glad to find a couple who also missed the bus because she needed a stop in the bathroom.  We console each other and talk a bit, sitting on the outdoor bench.  The wife wears a raincoat and sits very compactly with her purse held firmly in her lap.  Her husband is jovial and kind to me.   She normally takes the nine minute flight to Galway from the Aran Islands.  “But this time I’m with my  husband.”  (What does that mean?)  

The bus driver had to get special permission to drive the three of us east to Galway.  He was originally going to Spiddle.  I thank him profusely.  

Sign inside the bus.

Once in Galway, the couple and I exchange handshakes and well wishes.  I need to ask three different people to help me find the next bus terminal — the one where the bus will take me west to Letterfrack. So I successfully came east to Galway and am now about to go west to Connemara.

My bus will leave at 1600 hours.  Somewhat undone by this morning’s travel shenanigans, my brain is confused about what 1600 hours means.  I think it means 1:00 PM.  Since it really means 4:00 PM, I have a few hours to kill on the streets of Galway. 

This sign would never appear in the U.S.  Half of us do not know what "commencing" means.

Human signpost guy does it the easy way.

Both Irish and English wording is on all street signs

I’m lugging my big, black suitcase on cobblestones and up/down curbs.  It gets heavier every 15 minutes so I eventually go back to the terminal to sit.  

Returning an hour early to the terminal, I read my book, “Bear in the Backseat.”  It is by a Smokies forest ranger so I will give it to someone at the Connemara National Park.  I share some dark chocolate with an old Irish guy sitting next to me.  We kind of converse but I understand only half of what he says.  I just nod my head and say “hmmm.”

Lots of folks want to get on the bus.  The driver asks first for people who had reservations (which I have), and he loads my suitcase into the compartment near the tires.  He has my name on a list, which is so reassuring. 

 “I understand you pass right in front of Rosleague Manor Hotel in Letterfrack.  Could you let me off there?”

“Yup, if you remind me when we get closer.”  My elderly (or is she my age?) bus neighbor says she’ll let me know when it’s time.  She and I sit right up front.  She can get carsick and bemoans the bumpiness of the roads.  “I came to Galway to shop for clothes but got so tired from the trip I didn’t have the energy to try them on.”  She used to live in Letterfrack but had to move to Clifton, a much bigger town, because of better services.

Here are a bunch of roadside photos.

What is "Master Bespoke Tailor?"

Fishing in a Galway river.

What kind of store sells beer, books, eggs, marble and wool?

I love the sheep and cows along the road.  We pass the Twelve Bens (a.k.a. Twelve Pins), a bunch of low mountains.  The tallest is about 2400 feet high.  In several fields I see peat cut for fuel set out in geometric piles.

The roads in Ireland are so very narrow.  I remember being the driver when Marguerite, Roseann, Judy and I toured western Ireland in 2012.  It was terrifying.  I spent time shrieking, shouting for directions, panicking in general, and even stopping the car completely when lorries and buses got close.   Not only is your lane skinny, but the steering wheel is on the wrong side of the car and the car is on the wrong side of the road.  

This driver is a professional, so he skips the screaming.  But when he and another big bus approach each other they each reduce speed to about 10 mph.  I get a photo of the other bus’s rear view mirror, which is six inches away from “my” guy’s mirror.  The opposing driver is grinning!

Finally we come to the ferry landing for Inishbofin, the last stop before we approach Letterfrack.

My driver lets me off right in front of the hotel.  A younger (than I am) woman from Belgium offers to help me with the suitcase as we walk up the hill.   “Thanks, (pant, pant), but I can handle it (pant, pant).”

Andrew welcomes me and carries my bag up to the second floor.  [NOTE to people with mobility deficits:  be sure to check that your hotel or B&B has either an elevator or rooms on the first floor.  It is not a “given” in Europe.  I met a couple who used airbnb and discovered their room was on the fourth floor without an elevator! ]  

The hotel is like an antique maiden aunt with old lamps and furnishings.   Bathroom fixtures are fancy, though.  

 The dining room is elegant. I am starving, having had only breakfast and snacks.  Earlier, Andrew asked whether I would like dinner at the first setting, which is 7 PM.  “Oh yes,” I said, although I knew nothing about what they would serve.

I go into shock when I open the menu.   The least amount I can spend is 36 Euros, which entitles me to two different main items.  Yikes!   Oh well, consider it a birthday treat.   I order an Aran Island crab dish and a tasty, well-prepared local fish with mixed vegetables.  The view out the window captures me, as do the antique furnishings.  I will focus on the deliciousness of the food and the beautiful view — not the high price.

Candle at an antique mirror

After dinner I walk down to the bay, enjoying it until the midges start biting. 

When I return to the hotel, a French couple drive up in their fancy sport car.  THEY belong here.  I am not sure about me.  Some young people play “stick” with the friendly hotel dog.

SATURDAY AT THE BOG FESTIVAL

The next morning I am the first one to arrive at the 8 AM breakfast, which is marvelous!  And comes “free” with the room.  

Fruits, cereals, breads on the table.

I order scrambled eggs and Irish Smoked Salmon

Andrew has agreed to drive me to the park for the Bog Festival.  When he goes for his car “up at the house” I wait in front, watching the French couple tool off on their next driving adventure.

It is only one km (less than a mile) to the Connemara National Park in Letterfrack.  But Andrew warns, “You don’t want to walk along this road.  It is too narrow and winds around too tightly to be safe.”  He says if I call the hotel, they may have someone who could pick me up later; there is a taxi but it is costly.

I am very excited to be at the Conamara Bog Festival.  I go on a nature walk, poetry-in-the-park, a bit of a walk through the village, and hear some Irish musicians at Molly's.  Here is my 12 minute movie about Saturday.   Just click on it.    Saturday at the Conamara Bog Festival

I buy some mementos at the National Park office and gift shop.  The folks behind the counter love the “Bear in my Back Seat” book I gave them earlier in the day.  One woman has begun reading it already and loves it.

At a village restaurant, I have a most wonderful and inexpensive (7 Euros) dinner: a jam-packed seafood chowder with two slices of Irish brown bread.  

I begin walking home because I do not have numbers for the hotel or taxi in my phone.  But how bad can it be?  The first little bit is comfortable, with even a sidewalk.  The next bit is a dirt pathway next to the road, with a big yellow line showing drivers not to hit me.  Then the dirt pathway disappears.  I have to walk in the street.

I am too scared to take pictures; I just want to get home.  A three foot high stone wall is on both sides of the road.  Could I leap up on it if I need to?  Nope.  Better switch to the other side of the street because oncoming cars won’t be able to see me as they make the severe turn.  And now, back to the other side because the road loops the other way.  I switch sides seven times.  As cars approach I swing my shopping bag like a lantern so they will notice me.

Finally I see the Welcome to Letterfrack and the Hotel signs.  Thank God!  And that’s when I nearly get hit — as I cross the street right in front of the driveway.  Do I not look carefully enough?  Is he going too fast at a blind spot?  Don’t know but I sure am happy to be climbing up the hill to my hotel.  I promise myself:  never again!

I sleep well after planning Sunday’s adventures.

NOTE:  Some folks have not been able to leave me comments successfully on the blog.  If you have trouble, please email me instead:  rwoodel.woodel@gmail.com.  I love hearing from you.