We are back on the left side of the Atlantic after an 8-day, 150 km tramp with Lynn and Louise along Ireland’s Dingle Way, five more days on the road in a rented Skoda Octavia and two wandering the streets of Dublin by shank’s mare. We were blessed: Serendipity arrived early and stayed late. As if leprechauns were looking after us. Prepared for rain, the weather proved far better than we feared, nearly as blithe as we dared hope.
Our Canadian red-maple walking sticks and the twins’ trademark rubber boots attracted attention wherever we tramped. We identified 65 bird species during the Dingle walk, none more special than the remarkable chough, a reckless red-billed aerialist that frequents dramatic coastal cliffs. On the flanks of Dingle’s Mount Eagle we watched more than a dozen impersonating WWI dogfighters, hurling themselves earthward at top speed, averting disaster only at the last moment.
At Anascaul I chanced upon a statue honouring Tom Crean, a real-life, unassuming hero of four British Antarctic expeditions, someone I knew about from my reading on the subject. Across the road is the South Polar Inn which houses a pub Crean himself operated between the world wars. Surrounded by old Antarctic photos and memorabilia, we had fish-and-chips washed down with draught Guinness. I was happy as can be.
Serendipity delivered two new friends: affable Yanks Rick and David, also on a Dingle walkabout. We deviated from our prescribed route to follow them on theirs, over a mountain, Cruach Mharthain. Turned out to be the best day of the entire Dingle walk.
Years ago a Boston neighbour of Bob Nagel’s gave him a homemade CD of Irish songs featuring a voice evoking a Humvee rumbling over coarse gravel. I like the unknown voice a lot. Walking into a Killarney pub I heard it rendering a familiar song, Dirty Old Town. I demanded identification. A customer at the bar said the voice belonged to an Irish institution, the late Ronnie Drew of the Dubliners. The barkeep directed me to a music store around the corner where I could procure as much Ronnie Drew as I liked. I did.
At Lispole a friendly shopkeeper gave us an events calendar that led us to a folk concert at St. James Church, Dingle. The evening of vocals, fiddle, guitar, uilleann pipe and low whistle was a musical feast.
Other feasts surpassed expectation too. At Dingle we were led to a diner, Out of the Blue, claiming it doesn’t open its doors if it doesn’t have the finest fresh seafood to offer. We all chose squid and decided it couldn’t possibly be beaten. Then it was, by the seafood stew at Bianconi’s in Killorglin along the Ring of Kerry. And again by the crab claws at Monk’s in Ballyvaughan on Galway Bay.
We time-travelled. To 1916 and the Easter Rising in Dublin; to the General Post Office where bullet holes still evoke the heady days of April when republicans briefly held off the British Army. And dreary Kilmainham Jail where 14 were executed by firing squad in May. We travelled to 1690 and the site of the Battle of the Boyne, the “eye of the storm of Irish history”. To Monasterboice where elaborate high Celtic crosses have stood for ten centuries. To Knowth where ancient people built great mounds three thousand years BC, decorating them with a quarter of Europe’s known Neolithic stone art. Even further back, to the portal dome at Poulnablone which has stood a thousand times longer than I have cluttered planet Earth.
Serendipity abandoned us only at the end. We arrived early at the Dublin airport for our Air Canada flight. Trouble was, there was no Air Canada flight, neither ours nor any other that day. Nor was there an Air Canada counter to raise an alarm. We might still be wandering the airport, abject and helpless, but for this: one of our quartet is a genius. Jan somehow deduced we were meant to fly British Midlands –- who else could have figured it out? –- an Air Canada partner in Star Alliance. We made it to Heathrow late, found fresh trouble: landing in Terminal 1, we had to get to Terminal 3, fast. By running and with the aid of shuttle bus Jan and I made it with three minutes to spare but where were the twins? We’d lost them. As I’m about to panic, a tap on the shoulder –- Louise. She and her twin had got there on footspeed alone, no shuttle. On the flight to Toronto I de-stressed on a combination of plentiful French wine and egregiously violent movies. But trouble wasn’t over. At Toronto our Airbus 320 was disabled by mechanical problems. Delay. We were squeezed into a 319. I couldn’t escape into my latest Jack Reacher novel because the overhead light didn’t work. Landed late in Halifax and one last problem: two pieces of baggage missing. Briefly, I vowed never to fly again.
Now we are back in the Cape Breton woods and all is calm again. October peace-and-quiet is every bit as sublime as that which greeted us in May. But daylight is in shorter supply. We have decided to take a break from intensive travel and will return the easy way, by air –- gulp –- rather than truck and camper. Our ETA in Victoria is the afternoon of October 16. Friends and creditors can look for us starting then.
Alan
on a new route into the Sooke Hills. The weather was ideal, our friends’ boon companionship a match. More than once the sign on Bob Nagel’s kitchen wall came to mind: These Are The Good Old Days.
On Tuesday Steve Nash commences his fifteenth NBA season. It so happens his Phoenix Suns open just down the road, In Portland. I have never seen Victoria’s – and Canada’s – pride-and-joy in the flesh. We decided to remedy that. We head to Portland Monday, will spend a couple of days at the Benson, prowl the city, head south for a reunion with Terri and Ed, look for suitable birding opportunities along the way.
