I Let You Down

OK, I'm sure you're not exactly let down, but perhaps you're at your desk thinking 'Hey! Mandy! You've been back for a week now, where's the rest of the blog?!' Keep your pants on. I left off in Belfast, right? Unfortunately, that's also where my camera is at the moment. So, while I'm sure you all only come here for my poetic recollections of the trip, I thought you might like some visuals as well. As soon as the camera (and therefor, all my later pictures) are back in the States, my firey fingers will blog once again. And do stay tuned - there are thrilling action scenes involving me using my feminine wiles on the side of the M1 to come. Nail biter, I know!

Diggin' An Early Grave

Hello my lovelies.  I've missed you...

Some like a nice filet, a glass of fine champagne, or a taste of caviar.  Me?  Definitely a Club Lemon and Crunchie kind of girl.  Seriously, I would live on these if it were humanly possibly (and not completely foul).  Yippeee for Irish 'food'!!

No Cover Up

Day 7: Sligo to Belfast

Rain, rain, rain.  No complaints, since it's been A.MAZ.ING weather this whole trip and this was really our first rainy day, though it did put a bit of a damper on plans.  The original thought was to hit the North coast en route to Belfast: Carrick-a-Rede rope bridge, Bushmills distillery, and Giant's Causeway. New plan?  Bail on ALL of it (darn, I guess I'll just have to go back...) and drive straight to Belfast.

Now of course, if it were up to me, I would have parked in Belfast on day one and never left.  I'd still be there, meandering throughout the city Boglean style, hopping from park to park, bench to bench, happy (and grimy) as a clam.  Alas, it was not my time to do so.  Yet.

Wide-eyed and awed, I was given a driving tour of everything I'd been dreaming about for so long - City Hall, Queen's University (which, I was told quite bluntly, would never hire me.  How's that for Northern Irish pessimism?  Way to crush my dreams in a single solitary sentence, K...), Linen Hall Library, Crown Liquor Saloon, Waterfront Hall, St. George's Market, Europa Hotel, Rugby Road (hi Ryan!).  While I didn't actually get to be the tourist I had hoped, I would experience a side of Belfast more realistic and beautiful than I could ever have hoped for.

Stop 1 - Katy Daly's to see Pickle...errr...Stephen.  After downing a cider at record speed and receiving my AWESOME birthday prints, we bailed in search of a quieter venue.  Round the corner to the bar at the Ten Square Hotel.  Pickle- I wish it had been better circumstances, I could have chatted with you forever!

Stop 2 - quick stop back to the friends' place (our hosts for the night).  Everyone sorted?  Right then, into the taxi.  

Stop 3 - Blick Studios.  Sweet little artsy space on Malone Road where friend Donal Scullion was performing.  This is it.  Defining moment of the trip, of my life.  If there was any hesitance or doubt about living here, it's vanished after this.  This is one of those memories that is seared into my brain.  I remember the very details from what was worn, to the bottles and cans on the table before me, to the architecture of the studio.  Memory burn.  Thank God every day for it.  And thank you, DS (errr, not Duke Special this time), for supplying such a heartbreaking and striking soundtrack.

Stop 4 - Couch. Pillow. Sleeeeeeeeep.

Thank you Belfast.  I love you.  See you soon.

Freewheel

Day 6 (cont'd): Sligo

Despite my unbelievable stiffness and exhaustion, we forged on towards Sligo. It was meant to be a pass-through destination, but we ended up staying and having one of the most wonderful nights of the trip! This stop only served to reinforce my belief that the best vacations aren't fully planned.

I had wanted to see the W.B. Yeats grave and memorial and give respect to the author who had shaped so much of my life and inspired my only tattoo. The graveyard and small church are just off of the roadside in the tiny town of Drumcliffe. We arrived at dusk - how fitting. Under the cawing of crows we meandered through the graves...Cunningham, Carter, Shaw, Cooney, Yeats.

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

'He Wishes For The Cloths Of Heaven'

-W.B. Yeats

As night descended upon us the basics of food and shelter needed to be found. Just down the road from the grave was the surprisingly modern and fancy Davis' Restaurant @ The Yeats Tavern. As we dined on penne pasta and relaxed from the day, we made the fortuitous choice to ask our waitress for a recommendation on a hostel or hotel, and she offered to call a friend of hers at The Glasshouse Hotel in downtown Sligo. What a place! Just from what we could see from the road, we knew that we were in for quite the treat. A hot shower (not shared with a dozen other people), a huge cozy bed (with linens we didn't have to wonder about), a balcony, a television... ahhh, the luxuries we so often take for granted!

Tomorrow's destination - North!

The Glasshouse Hotel - Sligo

Grave of W.B. Yeats

St. Columba's

St. Columba's graveyard

Feet In The Sky

Day 6: Galway to Sligo

Huge day!  The scenery on the drive alone was magnificent.  Out of Galway...through Connemara, where one slip off the road in either direction would have found us stranded in a bog...into Westport.  This was it.  One of the sole reasons for this trip.  Croagh Patrick.  I had researched, I had come, and now I must conquer.

Water - check.  Flapjack (gotta keep the energy up, right?) - check.  Layers - check.  Shoes off - check.  Wait, what?  Croagh Patrick - St. Patrick's Mountain - has been a site of pilgrimage for thousands of years, and for the hardcore pilgrims is made barefoot.  Croagh Patrick, known as Cruachán Aigle before Patrick's time, is most well known for the saint's own pilgrimage in 441 AD.  It is told that St. Patrick climbed the mountain, fasting for forty days.  At the top of the 764 m (2510 ft) mountain, he is said to have thrown a silver bell down the side, thus banishing all of the snakes from Ireland.  All I have to say is thank goodness there are no snakes here, as this would have been a hotbed for them and I, like a few crazies before me, was barefoot.

I began slowly, sticking to the grass and mud just off the rocky path.  About 20 minutes in, Kiran and I ventured off the path and towards a wee meadow.  It was here that he and I split and went on our separate climbs, and also where I found a better souvenir than could ever be bought in a gift shop (see below).  Onwards...  

At first, the climb was moderate, only made difficult by the tiny rocks that make up the path.  Pressing on, I was cheered on by passers-by from around the world for my barefooted attempt.  Upon reaching a stone structure I thought that I must be near the top.  Oh my, was I mistaken.  Pressing on... 

I thought the mountain would never end.  At each pass, a few more feet would rear themselves into my vision.  After 3/4 of the way, my determination was beginning to fail me.  Here I was, at a crossroads.  I could turn back now and make my way down, having already accomplished an admirable feat, or I continue on, not knowing what lay ahead.  Continue on...

Nearer still to the top the climb becomes a far cry from a walk, and the luxuries of grassy patches, sheep, marked paths and comfort are but distant memories.  The 'path' has now become nothing but a slim line of dirt littered with rocks, stones, pebbles, broken glass and scree (if I never see another rock again, it will be too soon).  I am forced to use my hands at this point and pull myself up with all fours.  Still, I carry on...

Just when I think that this mountain will never end, I see it.  A bench.  Well, it wasn't actually a bench, but that's what I thought it was at first.  I exclaimed to myself 'Yay!  I've never been so happy to see a bench!'.  Later I realized what a peculiar thing this was to say, and wondered if I would ever exclaim these words again.  Regardless, it was the first sign that I had made it, I had reached the top in just 2h 46m.  Barefoot.  Relax...

                                                         

Modest chapel.  Breathtaking views.  School group of French boys.  Many congratulations from those who passed me on the way up.  On the steps of the chapel I sat myself for a snack and attempted to wedge my tender feet into my trusty Chuck Taylors.  Time for the descent.  So. Much. Harder.

About an hour and a half later I reached the bottom, only to find that the visitor's center had closed (no 'I Climbed Croagh Patrick' t-shirt for Mandy).  No bother, though, the moment I didn't know I had been dreading had finally arrived.  I sat down.  This was to prove an extremely painful decision!    Sweaty.  Grimy.  Shaking, I eventually had to get up, and I. Thought. I. Would. Die.  Back in the car, I fell asleep immediately.  Onwards again - destination Sligo.

Completely authentic sheep skull.  Picked up from the meadow off the beaten path.  I couldn't ask for a better souvenir!

 

Chapel at the summit.

  

On our way!

Looks like a delight for the bare feet - no?  Can anyone say pedicure?

Hurts so good...

As Good As It Gets

Day 5: Dingle to Galway

Reluctant though we were to leave the Dingle Peninsula, we hopped into our trusty Golf and motored on down the road - Conor Pass again.  It was a long day of driving, made all the moreso by the cold I've developed.  No bother.  

Passing through Tralee, Listowel, over the Shannon by car ferry, Ennis (hi Siobhan!!) and into Galway.  We were able to meet up with Miss Ails (of DS message board forum fame) for a bit of a beach walk and a nice dinner - Happy Birthday to meeee!  Feeling as I am, we checked into a private room at the Kinlay House hostel in Galway City Centre for a bit of cheap luxury.