Toast & Tracy's Epic Ireland Adventure
August, 2006
-----
Day 
One
We took off from Logan Airport in Boston around 6:30 PM, right around the time of day my energy level is peaking. Had to resign myself to the fact that getting any kind of meaningful sleep in the books was pretty much a non-starter. As we flew east through five time zones, it was like we were fast-forwarding through the night, an experience that's kinda trippy if, like me, you're not used to it.
Making matters weirder still was our flight attendant, a chipper little sadist who immediately took a deep disliking to me. She refused to take our drink orders until I took the small bag of pretzels from her hand. She admonished me to put my seat in the upright position during dinner, then reached around and started jerking it forward for me before I could get the words "but it's not reclined" out of my mouth. She stood before me like a coffee-carrying dominatrix, repeatedly instructing me to put. The cups. On the tray. Before she would pour our coffee. (which tray? my tray? tracy's tray? help me, i'm tired and confused. oh, that tray. the special tray in your hand. forgive me, madam, i am a fool.) Quite bizarre, really. If she hadn't been so comically hostile, I might have complained.
Looking around the plane I kept seeing the strangest sight: family members. Cousins, aunts, uncles, in-laws, my mom, all scattered about the rows of seats. We were all on our way to The Wedding. See, my cousin Kristin met an Irishman by the name of Thomas a few years back. He was a big hit at family parties. Had a successful career in finance and a nice place on the upper east side of Manhattan. Oh, and he was a Yankees fan. Obviously, a Keeper. Luckily for everyone involved, love bloomed, a marriage proposal soon followed, and before you knew it half the family was booking travel plans to the Emerald Isle, where the two were to be wed.
We landed around 5:45 AM at Shannon Airport. After collecting our luggage, we all set up camp at the breakfast restaurant across from the car rental agencies where we waited for Kristin and Tom's plane to arrive from New York. I bought coffee and a stick of Remegel antacid chewables (quite effective, BTW). Then I wandered out the doors to stand on the sidewalk. Took a deep breath of air. Thought "I am in Ireland." Stumbled back inside and waited some more. And some more. More. Moooooorrree...
Kristin popped through the arrival doors at 7:45 AM. Tom followed half an hour later. I'm still unclear on what that was all about. Having finally arrived, he took Tracy and my uncle Joe with him to go pick up our vehicles, which he had rented from someplace off site. Way off site. Finally, at about 9:15 AM, four vehicles bursting with luggage pulled away from the airport. Tom in the lead driving a Landrover, Tracy next at the wheel of a Suzuki Aerio, uncle Joe behind us in another Landrover, and my cousin-in-law John bringing up the rear in a Hyundai sedan.
Destination: Sligo county. Three hours away. Three hours I'll never forget.
The first time my life flashed before my eyes was just moments away from the airport. Sitting on the left side of the car as Tracy drove down the left side of the road, I blanched as we entered our first roundabout, a terrifying, chaotic whirlwind of steel and rubber. These people could not be serious, I thought, as Tracy edged her way into the maelstrom. Traffic lights are bad why? I wondered, as vehicles cut across our path with reckless abandon. Finally, thirty seconds and a dozen gray hairs later, we were spit out the other side. Tracy had passed her first (and toughest) test with flying colors. And I had managed not to wet myself.
We stopped at a hotel in Ennis for breakfast, and then headed out for the countryside of western Ireland.
Fatigue drew me towards sleep, but fear kept me awake. As we made our way north, the roads, which were quite narrow to begin with, became almost impossibly constricted. I could not believe what I was seeing as we threaded our way through the hills on the 12' wide ribbons of asphalt that make up the bulk of the Irish highway system. Where one would normally expect to find a breakdown lane or at least a soft shoulder ("verges"), I instead saw stone walls, mailboxes, and trees whipping by inches from my head. Repeatedly I implored my wife, both verbally and using some improvised charade movements I came up with for the occasion, to move in towards the center. But the oncoming vehicles flying towards us like we were in some sort of motorized jousting match, drifting out towards the edge of the road at the last possible moment to make room for us, presented Tracy with a strong countervailing stimulus to keep us on the far outer edge of the roadway. Oh, and passing ("overtaking"). That was fun. Keeping four vehicles together as each driver waited for just the right moment to take their life and those of their passengers in hand and pass that lumbering semi or crawling tractor was truly an interesting challenge. (Lot of tractors on the roads over there. Lots of tractors.)
We saw some awfully picturesque countryside that morning, but the memories are mostly lost to me due to the mild case of post-traumatic stress syndrome that I developed during the ride. Luckily, I took a photo or two. This first is a shot of the coast in Tom's hometown of Templeboy, which we passed through on the way to our B & B in West Dromore. (Click on any picture for a larger version.)
When we arrived at the B & B, I nearly kissed the ground. We were shown to our room by the proprietress. The quarters were on the tight side and there was no furniture (except for, inexplicably, an extra bed) but we didn't care. Nearly 17 hours had passed since we took off from Logan. It was nap time.
Nap time lasted a little under an hour. That was all I could take. We were in Ireland dammit. Time to explore a little before everyone got together for dinner.
West Dromore is a tiny town. It consists of about a dozen businesses, of which fully a quarter are bars. Tracy and I looked around a little, walking down by an old building with a waterfall next to it, poking our heads in the drugstore, and then quickly realized that there was only one thing to do in town. So we made our way across the street to an establishment called The Still. We took our seats at the bar and ordered two pints of Guinness. Ah, yes, our first pints in Ireland. It was a Moment. A strange moment to be sure, as a lone crusty local sat at the opposite end of the bar and the English version of "Big Brother" played on the giant plasma TV over in the corner. Not quite the Irish Bar Scene of our imagination. But still, a Moment.
Having thus lost our Guinness-in-Ireland virginity, we repaired to the B & B, freshened up a bit, and were shortly thereafter picked up by Tom and taken down to his family farm in Templeboy. Tom's mother, Mary, surprised us all by setting out a vast spread of appetizers and, later, dinner. The original plan had been to go out to eat someplace, but that, she apparently decided, was an insufficient show of Irish hospitality. And so Kristin's family and Tom's family all packed into the kitchen at the farm and proceeded to eat ourselves silly. There was much good noshing to be done, but the highlight of the evening for me was the Rancheros™, a puffy, bacon & cheddar flavored snack unavailable here in the States. (Luckily for me, as their presence on the market here would probably result in my going up at least one pant size.)
Following dinner, we loaded once again into our vehicles and drove down the ox path to the Beach Bar. (I say "ox path" because nothing about the single lane road we took to the coast suggested that one might reasonably drive an SUV on it.) There, we spent an hour or so drinking beer and whisky and further unwinding from our day. Just as I was getting into full-on Bar Mode, however, we were somewhat unceremoniously collected for return to our accommodations. This did not sit well with me, but it was the price we had to pay for pressing our hosts into Designated Driver duties.
In an act of rebellion, my cousin Tommy and I decided upon our return to West Dromore that, no, the night was not over. We said goodnight to the family -- assuring them we wouldn't be out too late -- and walked through the recently-arrived drizzle back to The Still, which had livened up considerably since the afternoon. After doing some catching up between ourselves, we started chatting up the locals. There were two friendly gentlemen at the bar who helped us get things rolling. And there were lots of young women around. Yep.
Some time after midnight, Tracy came into the bar to find me surrounded by three young blondes, regaling them with my witty criticism of a certain Dr. Pepper ad which was on the TV. For some, this might have been an awkward moment. Luckily, my wife is a trusting and insightful woman, and, realizing my intentions were altogether innocent and that I was simply basking in my American-as-Rock-Star status, she calmly suggested it might be time to call it a night.
Rumor has it the town was abuzz the next day about the American whose wife had to drag him out of The Still in the wee hours. I gather such things are a rare occurrence.