Road Trip Inception: The Tale of Ireland

Riding shot gun in Indiana waiting for Kath to buy cough drops, and I’m thinking of Ireland. Only because it has been a highlighted topic the past few hours of the beginning of our road trip. A little over a year ago, we were on the “wrong” side of the road looking for our BNB in the twilight of the emerald island.
Last November, Kath and I woke up in the very apartment I’ve been living in the past three months in Jersey. We packed our shiny new hiking packs, ready for to make our way to JFK and hop on our Aer Lingus flight to Dublin. The seven hour drive through the entirety of PA from the flight before was longer than our international flight would be. Groupon had supposedly set everything up for us and we were carefree as we hopped on the plane with our packs just passing as carry ons. A woman at the check in location had demanded we show our carry ons in order to determine if they qualified as carry-ons. We had both nervously turned to the side to show off our fully stuffed packs, looking very unsure of ourselves. She gave an exasperated sigh and nodded her perfectly coiffed hair.

I think making it on time to the airport is the only punctual thing about us. I’ll chalk it up to a disciplined love for travel. I’m just relieved I’m a woman so I am guaranteed not to miss my child’s birth due to my incredible lack of a sense for time. Granted, they may end up being born on my couch because I thought I had a solid fifteen minutes left to finish my Pringles and see who gets a rose on The Bachelor.

We left around 9pm from JFK and arrived in Dublin sometime in the morning the next day. We had experienced our first airplane meals (the man next to me had daringly ordered the shrimp dish) and now we smelled of curry and  un-brushed teeth.

Picking up our car was made easy by Groupon (I am in no way paid to make statements promoting this company. You’ll believe me when you read on). The car rental worker showed us a generic drawing of a car and told us we could inspect the car with him to confirm any present damage. Just before he started circling the car like a hawk circles roadkill, he scribbled on both sides of the diagram of the car. He simply said “because of our roads we just expect there to be scrapes. Our roads are just so narrow. Good luck!”.

Flustered by the ominous encounter from the man with the Irish Brogue, Kath went towards the passenger door while I walked to the drivers seat. We both looked up at each other and exchanged looks of exhaustion mixed with amusement. Kath was supposed to drive. We quickly switched sides. This opposite side thing was going to be somewhat complicated. We started on our way to the Wicklow mountains and away from Aith Claith (aka Dublin) without so much as glancing at the city. Our road trip had begun.

The first hour or so involved a ton of focus and a search for wifi as our international plan proved to be patchy at best. We stopped in a village with fake thatched roofs and expensive cafes. There, we saved a map of Ireland (or at least the southern portion) to our phones via google maps. We could use the map without wifi. There’s a travel tip for ya! Technology has come so far as to stop us from buying maps and therefore commit to the idea that when our battery runs out we will be more lost than a student nurse trying to place a foley on a 500lb lady. As ready as we could be, we switched seats so I could get a taste for driving, and we were off.

The wonderful thing about being without service or wifi is that there is no planning en route. No coffee, fork, or gas nozzle icons floating in our path, or SIRI telling us to proceed to the route. That is how we ended up stopping to admire Powerscort Estate; a massive mansion with gardens and dozens of stone statues.  Basically how I pictured all of Europe to be in my head. We took our time walking around the perfectly cut grass and then headed to the car and drove towards the mountains.

It wasn’t long until the road gave way to sweeps of green fields which turned into beautiful, brush covered mountains. We were seeing in layers. A whipped, white topping followed by a thick gray layer had started to form at the very top of our visual field. It faded down in an abrupt gradient, only lightening where the mountains scraped the edge. The rocks and wheat made a red, crunchy line that faded into a soft yellow green velvet. Cresent dips of chocolate brown mud made pools and a roar of water could be heard just beyond one of the stacks of layers. Dull sunlight shot a horizontal line through the piles of color, slicing it like it was the last piece of cake, presented to us as if we were the latest guests to the party.

And man we’re we late. Being the end of fall, the two hour car ride, combined with our slow driving and occasional wrong turn, our light was fading fast. Knowing this, we insisted on pulling over and attempting a small hike off of an overgrown trail. Possibly just a place where a cow had decided to lay down and matted the grass in a promising way. I’ve learned since to follow paths mostly from maps. Google or paper. The results are the same.

What started as a leisurely walk down the mustard yellow hill turned into our boots being sucked into the earth, making me try to recall any survival techniques for quick sand. This was just mud, but my tendency to overdramatize knows no bounds. We kept making our way towards something that sounded like running water. Boots and wool socks drenched with mud, we felt we couldn’t turn back. Then it started hailing. So we turned back.

Running through the mud, our boots squelching and us laughing loudly over the hail, we finally made it to the hill where our car was parked. On our way we passed a single boot left behind by some unfortunate hiker. I had wanted a picture in front of the mountainside when the weather was calmer, and in our state of hilarity, we decided it was an even better photo op. I jumped up to face to scenery laid out in front of me and face the hail. It burned my face and made me laugh harder as Kath took a picture revealing the side of my face all scrunched up. We ran back to the car and cried laughing, the defrost stinging our frozen faces.

With the plane trip being overnight, we were exhausted and starving, but we pressed on. Stopping at Glendalough, where scenes from Braveheart were filmed (which meant nothing to Kath or me), we walked up to the lake. Pure serenity. While that serenity would not last for very long this night, Kath found this to be her favorite place. This has become a game while traveling. A new spectacular view and then we force each other to rank and compare. And then we always come to the conclusion that we can’t make comparisons. It may be a silly cycle, but it is not to be broken!

The darkness permanently settled as we drove past hostels and a small town. We were on our way to our first BNB chosen through the Groupon agreement with Ireland bnb’s. It was pitch black when we parked in front of the well labeled bnb. A rarity in Ireland, as there are no street addresses to be found. That would be the easiest thing for us to find, too bad there wasn’t a soul there. We cautiously exited the car and walked up to the all white building. There were faint shadows of sheets on the furniture with what little light the moon cast from the sky. We knocked and then panicked and ran back to the safety of the car. Kath attempted to call the website but was redirected and eventually hung up. Thanks a lot Groupon! We both agreed that we did not want to wait by the abandoned building, for fear of what might be lurking around. As I started the car, a loud dinging sounded informing us that the trunk was open. I held my breath and ran to close the trunk. Jumping back in the car, we headed back to town.

We stopped at a pub, ordered a Guinness each, and attempted to plan our next move. The inn keeper (no joke, this was also a bnb) offered us a room for something like 70 euros.The amount may have been lower but we were both worn out from the day and didn’t want to pay any extra. She also attempted to call the other bnb owner because this was apparently a true Irish village where everybody knew everybody. Nobody answered when she attempted to call. Spooky. We called the hostel we had passed and explained our situation; they assured us that they had space for us.

Let’s flashback to the night before we left for Ireland. Kath had explicitly asked me if she should buy soap or was I bringing some? To which I had responded “Now Katherine, don’t be silly! We will of course be provided with soap at all of our BNBs!”. Well not hostels.

The hostel employees took pity on us and gave us free towels for our trouble (normally a fee of one euro) and sent us to our dorm. The dorm was housing two German hikers who were nice enough, but to themselves. We both also realized in that moment that we were without shower shoes. So without soap and in our wool socks, we attempted to wash off the past 32 hours of travel. Feeling grimy, we clambered into our beds, the faintest laughter and shrieks could be heard through the thin walls. This was a youth hostel and there was apparently some sort of European field trip going on with what looked to be ten year olds jumping around in the lobby where we first entered. Kath mentioned her need for an outlet adapter and one of our roommates overheard us. She kindly offered us her adapter. We began talking and told her our story of being without soap and a place to stay. She looked amazed that we hadn’t asked to use her soap and we felt some kind of foolish all over again.

After such a long day, the cot was basically a tempurpedic mattress. We may have left smellier than we had arrived, but when has that ever mattered? We didn’t get murdered, which is the only impression I had of hostels up until that point thanks to the movie Hostel. Shout out to my dad for never caring about the rating of a movie and letting me pick without either of us ever reading the synopsis! Shout out to director Eli Roth for allowing me to waste a full 95 minutes of my life seeing tits and unsuspecting travelers get murdered in their cost effective lodging choices! Well we made it out Eli!

The drive to our next town was a few hours, and in between we attempted to see a cavern that had been selected by Kath via pinterest. We drove down more country roads and found that we were unable to locate an address on any houses, let alone streets. We later found this to be the norm in Ireland. We pulled into the parking lot where the trailhead to the cave was, only to find it closed off. We sat in the car, attempted to redirect ourselves, and we heard the news that there had been multiple terrorist attacks in Paris. Scared and numb, we drove through the fog, towards our (hopefully) warm BNB.

The next town was Kilkenny. We arrived at our BNB in the daylight and met S., our hostess. The split Dutch door opened to reveal an Irish woman straight out of a fairytale or disney movie. Her hair a perfect little white-blonde bob and an apron around her waist. No joke, she offered us tea and cookies and had us sit in her sitting room that had a view of the garden. Ireland is cold in November, but some stubborn flowers remained, trodden on by multiple black cats roaming around in the backyard. As soon as S. left the room, we devoured the cookies and had a quick conference over the cuteness of our hostess. S. returned to the room to give us a tour, mentioning her husband F. casually, even though he was nowhere to be found.

The tea did nothing. We were exhausted, so we decided to go out to dinner at a pub with live music to get our energy up. I think I almost fell asleep in my shepherds pie. I looked across at Kath and she looked sleepier than ever. A look of determination passed between us and we downed our beers. We had to get up and get moving.

We walked out into the cobblestoned street and saw a crowd of people yelling (joyfully) and moving in and out of a bar in a constant wave of motion. Not as ideal as a Redbull, but that looked like a way to wake us up. We crossed the street and entered the bar, steam collecting on the windows looking out onto the otherwise quiet street. Kath ordered us some vodka Redbulls to complete the effect. We danced a bit, but the place became too hot and slightly creepy. We left in search of a third bar in the tiny town.

Teenage boys snuck out of an archway to an alley as we passed. They yelled to us from across the street that we should check out the live music there. We basically told them “yeah right” turned a corner, and then waited until they were gone so we could further investigate. There was a sign pointing to the alleyway marking a bar named “Hole in the Wall”. We carefully made our way to the back where there was a line of people crowding the stairway. They quickly moved upstairs with us closely behind them.

The landing was small and opened up into a room with a hodge podge of chairs scattered about, adults of all ages sitting and sipping on beer and holding instruments. In front, a band was playing an Irish song that I didn’t recognize, performing in front of a French flag. The song was just beginning but Kath knew it already. It was Galway Girl, the song she had been hoping she would hear in Ireland. We sat down and immersed ourselves in the crowd of percussion instruments being played by the audience. The next song I was handed bongo drums and reminded of why I never became a drummer. We stayed there for a few hours, playing and dancing with other tourists and some locals. The band paid their respects to France, the lead singer singing a song in French and calling for peace.

The next morning, we met F., S.’s spouse. We had imagined him to be gruff, uninterested in the business of BNB’ing. That was not the case. He helped S. bring out our breakfast and later chatted us up to no end. He wanted to send us to the Rock of Cashel before we made our way to the Blarney Stone. As he went into the kitchen to draw up directions, we began tackling the plate of meat and eggs in front of us. It was our first experience with a full Irish breakfast. This included two types of sausages, eggs, bacon, tomato slices, and black and white pudding. That was what was listed for us but we could not figure out what part was the pudding. We soon found the puck like sausage must be it. We weren’t really sure at the time.

F. returned with full directions, including diagrams of every roundabout in the Southern part of Ireland. As we said our goodbyes, F. and S. waved to us out the front door, the top of the dutch door open. F. made a silly comment about looking like a pair of horses in a stable. And to think two nights ago we were trying not to get murdered outside of an abandoned inn.

Pulling up to the Rock of Cashel, we were utterly shocked. it was a massive, beautiful castle. Here, we thought it would be a rock. After climbing a steep hill, we were among the beautiful ruins. Huge stone stacked on each other, towering above us and withstanding incredibly strong winds. I wish we still had that informational pamphlet on the Rock so that I could give a little history briefing. But I don’t soooo….

We ended up staying longer than expected, rushing to go kiss the Blarney Stone. The drive passed quickly, emerald green fields seeming to glow against the grey sky. Walking up to the castle, we were excited to see that we could go up to the top. While slightly more intact, this castle was vandalized beyond repair. Filled with the writings of teens declaring their love or cursing the world. There were silly cartoon signs providing little historical information. It is what it is, though. A tourist destination to the max. We climbed the stairs around and around the turret until we reached the top. The wind threatened to throw any unsuspecting tourist off the ledge. Luckily, I have some solid thighs that kept me grounded. I walked towards the castle employees who assisted in the kissing of the stone. I guess that it promised the gift of gab, but I was too busy hoping I wouldn’t die. To kiss the stone, one has to lie on his or her back, tip their head off the ledge of a drainage space and aim their lips at a lopsided stone just within reach. Who in the heck thought that one up?

Later, I heard about how locals pee on the stone to stick it to tourists. Jokes on them. I have dealt with so much pee as a nurse that as long as it doesn’t touch my mucous membranes, I am a happy camper. Dried pee on a rock that I only just pecked, NBD. Especially if said rock carries magical powers that makes me a slightly less awkward individual. Although I am not quite sure I need to gab all that much more.

I watched as Kath kissed the rock in a fluster, then realized she kissed a different rock. I started fretting over whether or not I kissed the right rock and she told me to pull myself together. We spent the rest of our day looking around the grounds and taking pictures of the gardens. I ended up becoming so obsessed with a tower, that I tipped my phone up to take a picture, coffee in hand. Coffee splashed in my eye just as Kath walked over to me. We both nearly peed our pants in that tower, howling with laughter and living up to what it means to be Americans.

As always, daylight was fading fast. We sped through Cork and admired its pristine streets and twinkling lights. We were on our way to Killarney. There was an inn in the Gap of Dunloe with a room waiting for us. The dark soon made the bends of the road treacherous. The mountains loomed next to us, then all around us. The streets remained unmarked and it seemed like we would be without a place to stay again. After a few wrong turns and backtracks, we miraculously came upon our inn. The house was warm and inviting, in stark contrast with the downpour that had begun outside. Somehow, we made our way to the only restaurant around and tried Banoffi pie for the first time. Pure heaven.

Before breakfast, we drove further into the Gap to watch the sunrise. The mountains on either side of us were filled with orange colored trees and horses roaming in the fields in front of us. The view was worth a thousand hours of missed sleep.

That morning, among the many Christ and Virgin Mary figurines and artwork, we met a couple at breakfast who were on the same Groupon adventure, except they were staying at the same inns in reverse order. We told them to say hi to S. and F. for us. We were off to Galway for the next two nights, with many stops in between.

It is pretty weird to think back to the fact that the first national parks I visited were in Ireland and not the U.S.. Killarney National Park was phenomenal. I found a spot there. This was part of that same game that Kath and I like to play. A spot where you feel a connection. A favorite place. My spot was on a rock, staring out onto a lake divided by a jut of a cliff. The lake grey, the sky not much lighter, and a strong quiet that was not eerie, but comforting.

The sun came out again as we walked through the grounds of Muckross House and the brightest rainbow I had ever seen arched over the lake. The sun lit the grass, making it as green as it could possibly be. How was Ireland real?

After a ton of gawking, we got back in the car and headed toward the Cliffs of Moher. We popped in the meditation room built to clear one’s head (and as a suicide awareness promoter; morbid, I know). The visitor’s center was a building built into one of the cliffs and felt slightly like a hobbit dwelling. We climbed up the soft, hilly part of one of the cliffs and felt the sea spray from hundreds of feet up. There were weak barricades a few yards from the edge, which bore the marks of many feet that had walked on or around them. We took a calculated risk and walked close to the inside of the barriers. Still what we would call a safe distance from the edge. Down below, froth built up and faded away with each crash against the rocks. The ground was slick with mud and a platform of smooth rock. The wind felt like it was playing a game, how hard could it push before we fell over.

There is this internal struggle when looking at a natural wonder. Being in awe but trying to hold on to what little bit of “common sense” (such a relative term, ugh) a person has acquired throughout his or her life. I like to think I have picked up every nugget of sense that has come my way, but maybe like Hansel and Gretal, some damn birds have fucked some of it up for me. What I mean is, how close is too close? Nobody wants to be that person that is known in the afterlife for dying over a profile pic. No offense intended because it is sad how people have died over such a trivial thing. It’s just a strange thing to be in the moment and want more from nature. I don’t think it is mainly driven by social media. I think it is an inner urge to want to mentally declare that there was not an ounce of experience missed. Even before the internet could make that statement for you, the drive was there. There is an element of the unknown somehow vanquished with a little pride and foolish bravery.

That whole string of thoughts can probably be summed up by saying that curiosity did and often will kill the cat. Luckily, we were not cats. We hiked up and down the coast a few miles. Sometimes playing it safe, other times living life a few yards from the edge. Don’t think this was a purely spiritual experience. This is also where we tried to use a selfie stick for the first time. Such a failure. How can one selfie when one feels the need to cringe at the use of the stick?

Before making it safely back to our tiny car, a mess with our belongings, Kath stopped to admire one of the many cows in a field next to the parking lot. That is just another reason we are friends. No other point to that detail.

Galway was next. The BNB was larger. It was equipped with the full Irish breakfast (of course) as well as a strange little muppet of a dog. Now, I consider myself the female dog whisperer, but this was a cat in a dog’s body. Let it be known that I am also incredible with cats. But weird hybrids. No thanks. The little ankle biter was sweet and cute and then tried to bite me once he realized I had not a sausage link to toss him. I digress.

The city was full of little shops and cafes. We milled about the next day looking at what there was to see. A child on the street sang Wagon Wheel with such a purity that Old Crow Medicine Show in its entirety would have shed a tear. And Darrius Rucker would have bowed down on the cobble streets and announced his retirement from the music industry. Yes, the kid was that good.

That night, we got as dressed up as we could from what wrinkled clothes we had left that were clean. The square of the town was lit up with white lights. Kath found a cute, little charcuterie place on the second story of one of the buildings. After a lot of cheese and a bottle of wine, we headed toward a French restaurant for dessert and some sort of hot drink with Baileys. Just add beer (which we did later) and you have the recipe for an upset stomach/mean hangover. Also a recipe for a heart to heart with a best friend. Or a proposal. Whatever. Deep thoughts and a heavy chocolate cake. It can’t be beat.

From there, we ended up dancing at a bar. We were carefree, until we realized we were dancing with men ranging from 17 to 19 years of age. ALERT! ALERT! ABORT! ABORT! Nah. Just kidding. We just adjusted our dance moves from Missy Elliot to Mom-in-the-Supermarket-when-Journey-comes-on. I asked my favorite question for both a first date and student being mentored: what are you studying/what career path are you on? That stone was a bunch of Blarney, I tell ya. Where was my gift of gab?

The next morning we nearly missed breakfast. I had read that it started at 9am when really it ended at 9am. We awoke to our hostess knocking on our door asking if we would like breakfast. We rushed as best we could to get ready for breakfast. I felt I had just enough time to investigate exactly what black and white pudding was while Kath brushed her teeth. I discovered that it was in fact those puck shaped sausage things. I also discovered that it was mostly congealed animal blood. Yikes.

After that discovery and about four other full Irish breakfasts, we stuck to yogurt and fruit. Always a good choice when traveling and wanting to stay regular! There’s a little travel tidbit for ya! Also, stay hydrated! Also exercise!

The day before we had made it to Connemara National Park. By far and away one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen, and it was covered in fog a majority of the day. Kath had picked out a small hike up Diamond Hill. We stopped at a visitor’s center and were scolded by the local cashier. Didn’t we know that the fog could grow, consuming us and our future? Didn’t we know that it costs thousands of dollars to save dumb tourists from the mountains? Were we experienced hikers?

There was that shrug again between the two of us. We both made a vow to her that we would not be risky. We would not be curious, prideful cats! And we stuck to it. The wind blew, the fog was always thick just above us, so we didn’t complete that hike. It was embarrassing that we didn’t because it was considered a hill and not a mountain, but we had made that random local some sort of promise. It didn’t matter anyway. The sun glowed for us during the golden hour as we turned back to the car.

Our exercise of choice the next day ended up being horseback riding. Kath was a trooper and said that she wanted to make sure we got to ride since it was something I had been hoping to do. What a gem! Especially because she is afraid of horses.

The trail ride included just us and our instructor, C. She was from Switzerland and loved to travel. Younger than us, her next aspiration was to become a flight attendant and travel the world. Gotta love an independent woman. She led us back to the stables after about an hour of riding through around the tree lined pastures. The owner of the stable invited us in to a sitting room off of the main house where we sipped on instant coffee and made small talk with a few other riders.

The last two nights of our stay were in a hotel modeled after a castle. It was rumored to be haunted. Every last inch of the wallpapered walls were covered by tapestries, oil paintings, brass moulds, swords, and suits of armor stood guard on the landings of the staircase. A wolfhound (about three feet tall on all fours) paced in the entrance way, indifferent to our presence. The woman at the front desk was around our age and soon began chatting with us as if we were friends. From her we learned that “getting the shift” meant kissing, that buying a drink for someone was a friendly gesture not a romantic one, and that Dublin was a bus ride away.

Our room was drafty in a creepy way. The shutters could be closed from the inside, creating a cavern-like feel. The breakfast menu to be placed on the door had already been filled out by someone named Craig. From that day on, Craig the Ghost has followed us and caused more mishaps than we can count. Oh Craig, you.

Making the bus was easy enough, except that we were not allowed to bring coffee for the ride. The ride was a groggy blur that turned into the streets of Dublin. With foot traffic like NYC, there was a hustle and bustle we had not yet seen in Ireland. We stopped in a coffee shop that overlooked the busy streets. From there, we strolled through St. Stephen’s Green and then to the National Museum of Ireland. We thought we might make it to the Guinness Brewery, but a local shopkeeper told us it was way overrated. She told us to just go have Guinness and a toasty like the locals do.

We went to the suggested pub, of which I can not recall the name, and ended up sitting with a middle aged couple, M&M. It was the man’s birthday, but the couple kept turning the conversation to us. We ate our glorified grilled cheese and finally learned a little about them. They were artists who loved to travel. When we asked Lady M what her favorite place had been, she paused. What followed remains with me today. She said that it isn’t about the place, but it is about the associated feeling. Who she was with, what was going on in their lives. Happy, sad, that didn’t so much matter. At least, it didn’t to me when she made that statement. I saw the glue that glistens on the edges of a memory of a scene, a feeling stuck to a corner or a full edge, forming a seam.

Our last day was in typical KP JP fashion. We tried to squeeze in a trip to the ruins Knowth and Dowth but only made it to the museum. While there was a replica of the ancient tomb like dome, we still pressed the employees for when the next tour would be. It was at 1pm and our flight was for 3:30pm (or something along those lines) and we were 30 minutes from the airport… dare we?

No. Yet another conquest not quite fulfilled. We could see the green domes in the distance through the windows of the museum, only to be explored with a tour guide. But we pick and choose what to truly be disappointed by in life. So I will say I have no regrets over that little blip. Kath, however, was allowed to be disappointed later by her airplane meal of a ham salad sandwich. It looked and smelled like cat food. Doesn’t get much worse than that. And people ask me why I love to travel! No but seriously, they do.

I’ve tried to explain and describe my need for travel to the many questioning people who come my way. I have seen mountains upon mountains (both literally and figuratively) of beauty, enough to last a lifetime. But, like any other beautiful thing, it leaves you wanting. The past year for me has felt so decadent. Like a piece of Wicklow Mountain cake presented to me on a silver platter. So I think I would say that my love for it is driven by the idea that I know what I could be missing. Kinda like FOMO (fear of missing out) but a bit more profound. At least, I hope. It is less about the curiosity and more about the familiar emotions and experiences I associate with traveling, that I will inevitably encounter and connect to that place and time.