All that Blarney - A tour of Ireland
by Davina Penny
Copyright Davina Powell 2011
Published at Smashwords
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Chapter 1 – The Build Up
We were sitting in the lounge sometime in January, watching a programme on TV. Don’t ask me what was, I have no idea or memory of what I was watching in January. I would defy anyone to say that they can recall these insignificant details, but they always seem to manage it on the films don’t they? A sure sign of guilt if you ask me. Anyone who recalls the fact they were watching a particular episode of Eastenders 6 months after the event, definitely has to be hiding something. If I was arrested for a murder and asked to account for my movements, I would be stumped. I would even be hard pushed to say if Steve was there, so alibi possibilities are slim indeed. Basically it was just another cold and boring winter evening. The type which makes me want to find a tree stump somewhere where I can hibernate, ready to wake up around April time. I love Autumn, and Spring, but winter does nothing for me. Thank goodness both Steve and myself have formed a habit of heading off to a faraway place each December, only to return once the hassles of Christmas and New Year have passed. Yes, I am the humbug of all humbugs. Dickens’ Scrooge has nothing on me. I do not put up decorations, and refuse point blank to be bullied into doing so. I do not go to Christmas parties at work, and I am sure that I am gossiped about royally for it. Do I care? No. Am I happy with my life in general? Absolutely. It gives me a great deal of personal satisfaction to fly in the face of convention occasionally, and when it comes to Christmas time, I do so as much as possible. Doesn’t get me out of buying presents though. Each year, I am as fleeced as the next person when it comes to trying to find presents for seven nieces and nephews. This task has to be managed with great dexterity and thought. If the presents are different you run the risk of fights breaking out over them, and accusations of “you spent more on Fred than you did Freda,” and such like.
Buy them the same presents, you then run the risk of being accused of putting next to no thought into it. A real no win situation. I really do sometimes rue the fact my sisters are so damned fertile. Believe me, I drink bottled water whenever I visit – just in case it is caused by something the water company have added to the supplies. Suffice to say I have done the practise sessions for having children, but have resisted actually taking the plunge and having one of my own. Yet another reason to do a runner each Christmas time. My duty has ended at the buying of presents stage. As an Aunt there is absolutely nothing in the contract to say that you have to be in attendance when the said gifts are presented and unwrapped – normally at some unearthly hour because they kids have been awake all night with excitement.
So now the scene has been set. We were watching TV when the phone went.
Most of the phone calls are either from Steve’s Mum, or my sister so it is a judgement call as to who answers it. Steve flinched first on the sofa, so that was a cue that he was to get up and answer it. I pretended I hadn’t heard it. Now you may be wondering as to how I remember this? Bearing in mind I could not recall what programme was being aired? It is because it is the norm whenever the phone rings. This usually then ends up with someone eventually moving their backsides, whereby they then try to get to the phone before the answer facility kicks in. A routine no doubt repeated in houses all over the country. It is amazing how often a person’s hearing can diminish when the phone rings, and they want someone else to answer the thing instead. Yet their hearing can miraculously reappear when they tune in to the ensuing conversation. Due to the fact Steve was on the phone for a few minutes I assumed it was his Mum, so settled back down again. There were no raised voices, no long pauses so I guessed the conversation was going quite well. Sometimes this is a difficult call to make, so I have developed a type of sixth sense whenever his Mum calls.
The wrong assumption on this occasion, as the caller turned out to be my wee cousin in Ireland. (Note the use of the Irish term of endearment there?)
He was calling to tell us that he was getting married in July, and would we like to attend. I made my mind up in a nanosecond, but this was something that I had to discuss with Steve first. He had never met my family from Ireland before, and it is a bit presumptuous to assume that they will want to go, knowing they will be in a different country with people they have never met before. I had two cousins in Ireland, and both of them are wee cousins to me. They are both grown men now, one of them being in his 30’s but I have such strong memories of them as babies. The older of the two I recall climbing out of a baby bath on his Mum’s living room floor, sending the thing flying. She was not too chuffed with having a few gallons of bath water on her carpet, but there was not a lot I could do about it. I wonder if he knows that one of my endearing memories is of seeing his tiny white backside as he scampered off along the floor out of the way as his mum went ballistic at him? He was only around 10 months old at the time. I was bought out of this whimsical reminiscence by Steve. He passed the phone to me, so that I could also hear the good news for myself.
“Do you want to go?” he asked when we had both had long chats with my cousin.
“Yes, too right I do, but only if you do. I know you don’t know them at all and it could feel strange for you.”
“Hey I am up for it,” he said.
With this you could have knocked me down with a feather. When I first met Steve three years ago, he was quite shy and would have resisted meeting new people. He has blossomed so much in that short time, and is now at ease in any situation. Just as well really. Some of my family members can be a little intimidating, but he seems to hold his own with them on each occasion. My sister even scares me at times, (think of the matron played by Hattie Jaques in the Carry On films and you will have an idea of her character), but he seems to wrap her round his little finger. A few dozen Irish men plying him with beer would pose no problems for him.
“So does that mean we can make a holiday of it then?” I asked hopefully.
I had always wanted to tour the coast of Ireland in a camper van, and this opportunity was giving us the glimmer of a chance of doing so.
“Yes, I reckon we could make a holiday out of it.”
“How many days then?” I asked, my mind already going into overdrive with what we could do, and where we could visit.
“I don’t know. Somewhere around the two week mark?”
Ireland wasn’t that big, so I did a quick calculation in my head and somehow came up with 12 days. To this day, I have no idea of my thought process behind this decision, but truly regret it. Ireland does not look big on the map, but do not be fooled. It is quite roundish and stumpy looking. To drive across country point to point, is a reasonable enough journey. Yes, it would take a few hours, but could be done in a day. Driving round the coastline is a different kettle of fish, and I had totally underestimated what would be involved, as you will see later.
The following months went by in a blur. Around February time I purchased two small guidebooks for Ireland, and promptly ignored them. They were scanned in the initial few weeks with a note being made of the interesting looking places. There lies the problem with guidebooks. They are always bought with good intentions, but once you read past the introduction you come to a grinding halt. They are invariably not user friendly and don’t really tell you the nitty gritty of what you need to know about the various places of interest. Honestly, if you had gone by the images on the front cover and first few pages, you would be of the opinion that:-
It is always sunny in Ireland, (yeah right…)
All the children will be dancing in the street in the style of Riverdance.
All the pubs will be filled with Guinness drinkers cheering on the local band who play the backing tracks for Riverdance.
Everyone has the same accent and says “Top of the morning to ya” to each tourist they encounter.
A tiny bit disillusioning in my opinion. I had been to both parts of Ireland before, and had an idea of the reality of the place. I have to say, that I had fallen in love with everything about Ireland on both visits. The people are friendly, there is no doubt about that. A welcome and refreshing change to the situation in the UK, whereby you invariably have to be living next door to someone for around two years before you even get onto nodding terms with them.
The streets were spotless and well kept. Over here in England, I am used to the sight of chewing gum super glued to pavements. Some of it must be so old, the only way to date it is by carbon dating. If I saw as much as a sweet wrapper on the floor in Ireland, it knocked the prices of the surrounding houses down by around 20%.
The pace of life is so much slower, and yet Ireland still manages to be the second richest country in the EU behind Luxembourg. Heck knows what Luxembourg does, or produces, but I take my hat off to them. It can’t be down to tourism surely? I have never yet met anyone who has visited this country. Come to think of it, I have never even seen it in any travel brochures.
As I type I’m looking at it on the map pinned to the wall by the side of the computer. It is shown by the letters ‘Lux’, which totally engulf the tiny area, before over spilling into Germany. If they had spelled it out fully I am sure Poland would have also hosted part of the country’s name. Heck how do they manage to host the Formula One grand prix each year? The start line must be in Luxembourg, with the far stretch being in a totally different country.
Ireland in comparison looks at least 20 times bigger, so perhaps I should be giving the guidebooks a little more than a cursory glance.
One of them listed the 10 ‘must see’ sites.
It was almost as if I could hear Fluff Freeman describing them as a countdown to the number one slot on Top of The Pops. (Yes I am that old that I remember him, and certainly old enough not to have watched it for years because I haven’t heard of half the acts they show these days).
“Coming in at number 10, Ireland pickers is that Ulster-American Folk park. See how the Irish immigrants lived when they headed across the Atlantic to start new lives for themselves in a far away place we now call America.
Climbing a few places and in at number 9 is The Rock of Cashel. Not actually a rock, but a ruin of a 13thCentury Cathedral, so be prepared to be impressed. Hear how St Patrick slipped with the sword and caused a nasty injury. If you want to know more, go out and visit the place!
Holding steady at number 8 in our chart is The National museum at Dublin. A firm favourite of yours obviously, showing a great array of archaeological finds in the area. A sort of old worlde version of Ratners if you like!
Falling down slightly at number 7 we have Muckross House. Yes, it is a big house pop fans, but you like it!
Surprising us all at number 6 is not a tourist attraction, but a town.. yes a whole town folks! Kilkenny has shown that you fans can take anything to your heart and appreciate it.
Climbing slowly at number five we have the ever eternal, wedding weepie favourite of the Giants Causeway. Those of you who have tried and tried to get your tiling lined up in the kitchen will marvel at how nature did it with such ease!
Dropping a place at number 4 we have that area off the West coast, which Noel Edmunds loved the sound of. Yes it is the Dingle, which I will go on record as saying, has no similarity to a part of the male anatomy. (If you don’t believe me pop pickers, check the maps!)
Now we are at the top 3, and getting close to finding out what is this week’s number one. I know you can hardly contain yourself, but the wait is nearly over!
At number 3 we have Clonmacnoise. Try saying it five times over very quickly and I guarantee your tongue has formed a new type of knot!
Slipping one place to number 2 we have Brugh Na Boinne. Make sense of the doodles you have been drawing for years when you see the artwork on the stone at the entrance!
And a new entry at number one, going straight in there are the Aran Islands. Gaelic is the national language here, and the main export is Aran wool. Speaking slowly, and making hand gestures may be the way forward here. This is sure to be a long stayer at the top spot!”
This list looked very interesting indeed, and one or two caught my eye immediately. The Causeway had to be a ‘must see’. Any quirk of nature that has endured the passing of time, and the passing of feet over its rocks had to be worth a visit. I knew it was only about 3 hours away from where my family were living so there was no reason why it shouldn’t be on the list of places to see. My Aunt had previously had me rolling with laughter when we had discussed the Causeway.
She has lived Northern Ireland all her life, being born and bred there. She has never ever seen the Causeway. That in itself is not funny. I have lived in England all of my life, and have seen just a few places of interest or beauty. The fact is, she was taken there once on a romantic trip by my Uncle her husband. After hearing the story I cannot accept that romance is dead. It is actually dead, buried and cemented over in some cases. The trip was arranged and off they set. Two and a half hours later, they were in a car park at Portrush, just a few miles to the west of the Causeway. They parked up, had a cigarette and a sandwich and headed home again. A five hour round trip to see…… a car park.
When Steve took me out on a romantic day trip it was to Hunstanton. In comparison I had been taken to heaven and back. Bless his cotton wee socks; he has progressed in the three years I have known him. The second day out was to Skegness, and occasionally (if I am very good) I may even be taken for a KFC. As I said earlier: romance is sometimes not just dead, but totally extinct.
I am a sucker for beautiful coastline scenery, so the Aran Islands also caught my eye. My favourite beaches up until this point were sadly not Hunstanton or Skegness. If anyone is visiting South Wales, go and see Rossili and the Worm’s Head. The beach is breathtaking, and if you get there as the tide is leaving, you can even climb over the causeway to an outcrop of rock that is absolutely stunning. Timing is important though. Get it wrong and you will be stuck on the rock for another few hours until the tide once again turns around. A lot of people have made that mistake and no doubt felt rather stupid. The walk along the cliff is so relaxing with the sheep not even bothering to give you a glance as you walk within a few feet of them.
Also the small bay at Tintagel castle is worth a visit. The sea was a lovely aquamarine colour and was crystal clear. If you are fit, or you want to develop iron solid thighs then give the castle a visit also. You get a great deal of satisfaction showing the photographs to friends whilst making a big thing of pointing out all of the steps you had to climb to get there. They will either be admiring in their praise or will think you are just being a cocky so and so. Alas the cast iron thighs developed whilst walking and climbing to the castle don’t last long once you have got back home, so you may have a hard job convincing anyone that you actually made the journey in the first place.
Getting back to the book, it was noticeable how much there was to see in Ireland. I had a sneaky, niggling feeling that we had not really left ourselves enough time in which to do it justice. I had to be really strict and choose two or three things to do each day, knowing that we had to be in Armagh on the Friday for the wedding. Timing and planning were going to be crucial. Little did I know that Steve had other ideas, which I should have guessed having known him for three years.
“Right,” I said excitedly, “I have got a list drawn up of where we can go.”
“Really,” was the reply as he continued working on his computer. This was not the anticipated response but I was not going to be deterred. I had hoped for a high level of enthusiasm, with all tasks being dropped so that he could give his opinion on the list I had painstakingly compiled.
Shuffling in closer to where he was sitting, the list was dutifully placed in direct line with his keyboard:
Day one – arrive at airport (Thursday)
Day two – Wicklow mountains & Powerscourt House waterfall
Day three – Cork city centre & cork jail, & Blarney castle
Day four – Ring of Kerry
Day five – Kilarney park and Inch
Day six – Dingle and Dingle peninsula
Day seven – Aran Islands
Day eight – Causeway and rope bridge
Day nine – wedding
Day ten – Newgrange
Day eleven – Dublin
Day twelve – travel back to England.
“So what do you reckon then?” I said once had no option but to look at it.
“I thought we were going to just drive around and see where we were each day?”
“We are, but we need to know what is on the route though and where it will be good to visit.”
“Yes… but this is a plan. We can play it by ear can’t we?”
My enthusiasm deflated even more at this stage. Instead of being totally enthused by my ideas he was just shrugging his shoulders.
“Well, can you have a look through the books, and let me know if there is anywhere you want to visit?” I suggested, more with hope than anything else.
“I am not bothered Dee. As long as Newgrange is on there, which Alfie recommended, and the Causeway, I am pretty easy as to where we go. Don’t lose sight of the fact that the wedding is the most important thing here.”
There spoke the voice of reason. The wedding was important, and I was in danger of losing sight of that fact. It was going to be the chance to meet up with members of my family we usually only see on rare occasions. We had to dedicate at least a day to this process, and no matter what I thought now, it was the most important day of the holiday.
“Let’s have a look at the list though,” he sighed, knowing there would be no peace until he had least glanced at it.
I gave him a few minutes, occasionally peering over his shoulder to show that I was waiting with keen anticipation for his opinion. I thought I had put together a pretty impressive itinerary.
“So, what do you reckon?” I asked when he eventually made the mistake of looking up from the scrap of paper I had forced him to consider.
“So what you are saying is, we have a shortish journey to Wicklow, followed by a longer journey to Cork.”
I checked the map, wondering where he was going with this tact.
“Yep, that’s about right.”
“And then, we go to Kerry with some other stops after that up until the Aran Islands. And then you want me to do a huge journey to the Causeway, which is going to be one day before the wedding? Have you seen how far that is Dee?”
I sensed the disbelief in his voice, so once again checked the map, only to find he really did have a point. Re-calculating, I guessed that the drive would take approximately 6 hours, assuming there were no hold ups along the way. Even that was going to be pushing things a wee bit too far. I had to admit defeat here, because it was no apparent I was asking way too much of him, knowing that he would end up doing most of the driving. At the time though, it really did look possible. Once again, I had not taken into account the fact that Ireland is actually quite a large country. And you have to add the fact that the roads are sometimes…. well… rather rural. They don’t really believe in resurfacing until a whole lorry has been swallowed up, and the driver reported missing. Therefore, in deference to any car you drive, the speeds are normally reduced in comparison to what we are used to.
“So what do you suggest?”
“As I said, we play it by ear.”
“Aren’t you going to look at the books to see what is available then?”
“Yes, but when I am ready. This trip is weeks away yet.”
With that, it signified was the end of the conversation. I was left forlornly looking at my list, wondering how much, if any, of it would be completed.
The next discussion point revolved on how to get there.
The choices were as follows:
a) Hire a camper van in the UK and drive it across on the ferry.
b) Hire a camper van in Ireland. (We had been told that there was a company in Banbridge where my cousin lives, who would hire them out for the duration).
c) Drive over and use our car to tour with.
d) Fly over, and then hire a car to tour with.
Too many choices, and this in itself caused stress. Steve hates having too many alternatives being presented, particularly if there is no clear-cut preference. I tend to make instant decisions, most of which are okay, but occasionally huge clangers are dropped, as seen by my attempt at an itinerary.
Eventually we decided on flying over, with hiring a car at the other end. We had looked at the option of hiring a camper van, but having never ever used one before, Steve was quite rightly reluctant to try one out. The excess you sign up for on the insurance is horrendous enough with hire cars. It would require a second mortgage for a camper van no doubt, as they probably get banged and dented more than most cars would. No, the safer option had to be the car. As it turned out, the camper van hire cost was astronomical, and all because we were looking to tour during the school holiday period. Yes, we had been caught in the trap of being fleeced because we were looking to be in the country from 15th July onwards. How I sometimes curse the fact I am limited to school holidays with my annual leave allocation. Calculations were done, (by Steve I hasten to add who has ‘A’ levels in maths, beating my grade C at ‘O’ level hands down) and the advantages and disadvantages weighed up. It worked out roughly as expensive to hire a car for the duration whilst staying in B & B accommodation along the route.
Now came the next challenge: Who to fly with?
I had previously used Easy Jet and found them to be fine. If you are only going to be in the air for 50 minutes you really are not bothered about the fact it is a ‘no frills’ company. A packet of crisps and a bottle of water is enough to see me through so there was no question that we would be going to use a budget airline. Why pay up to another £100 for the sake of having a lukewarm meal served in tin foil?
Eventually, after yet more careful consideration, we opted to take Ryanair to Dublin. This meant that we could tag the wedding on the end of the trip, allowing Steve recovery time Saturday, with the visit to Newgrange being fitted in on the Sunday. It would also mean that we would not be under pressure to stay in the Armagh area with my family who would no doubt want to play host for as long as possible. I love them to bits, and was looking forward to spending time with them, but we had so much we wanted to do we could not afford to spend more than a day or two in that area. If they knew we were heading back to Dublin and only had two days left, they would not put as much pressure on us to stay. I felt a little guilty at doing this, but was sure they would understand. Steve had never been to Ireland before, and I really wanted him to experience what I had experienced on previous visits. Although he wasn’t as enthusiastic as I was, I knew he was going to be in for a real treat. As far as I was concerned, this holiday could not come round soon enough. Even the threat of a possible luggage handler strike was not going to stop me enjoying this 12-day break in the Emerald Isle.
Chapter 2 – The Day of Departure
On our previous holiday to Canada, we had gone through what could be classed a ritual of what to pack and how. A ritual and system repeated in most households no doubt, and possibly the cause of early holiday arguments. Our relationship is still at the ‘mushy’ stage so annoying little niggles we have, never ever blow up into anything even having a remote resemblance to a tiff. However, that is not to say that in future, perhaps when I am menopausal it won’t result in my wanting to rip his throat out, all because he packed the wrong brand of deodorant, or something equally as trivial. I had been married before and still have memories of a 3-day sulk my husband of the time went into - all because the directions we had been given for the dog kennels had been rather vague. My Springer spaniel was booked in for the duration, but it was not a kennel we had used before. We ended up spending all of 10 minutes looking for the place, which was the excuse he needed to throw all his toys, and blankets out of the pram. Naturally it had all been my fault, and no he was NOT going to stop and ask for directions at a nearby service station. Made for a really quiet flight though, so some good had come out of it.
The issue at the packing stage is that of will we be over our allocated limit or not? This was going to be a shortish visit, so that was never going to be an issue. Even taking into account we had to pack a suit for Steve, and my entire make up back in readiness for the wedding, we were confident we would be well within the allocated allowance.
“So, what do you reckon then, rucksack or suitcase?”
I immediately knew what had been behind his train of thought. We were looking ahead (with some excitement I may add) at our Christmas holiday, which was hopefully going to be 9 weeks in duration, and was going to culminate with a visit to New Zealand. There was a fair chance we were going to have to do a short amount of hiking, with some overnight stops in Youth hostels and such like. Therefore a suitcase would be totally unpractical. Not only would it be difficult to carry over anything over distance, it would make us look totally nerdish if we tried to book into a Youth Hostel. The fact we would be registered with them would not make any difference – there is no way we would be considered as being serious travellers if we traipsed in with two suitcases, and totally crease free and smell free clothes.
Steve was itching to try out using a rucksack for a holiday, and had dug out his old one, which he had used in his youth for a trip to the Peak District or something similar.
It did seem a good idea, and one I would have been up for it if hadn’t been for the fact we had to look after our wedding clobber. Screwed up and creased T-shirts are acceptable whilst trudging through the outback, but I doubt if a suit that has been given the same treatment would be seen in the same way at a posh wedding. I have total faith in his packing ability, but even this got me thinking.
“What do you want to take?” I asked, not wanting to come across as one of those bossy women who always knows better. It was going to be to my advantage if the decision taken seemed to be his to start with. That way, if there were any subsequent problems, I could pass total responsibility over to him. A sort of catchall disclaimer if you like, but I had gotten used to doing this whenever he was unsure what to do for the best. The previous holiday to Canada had stood me in good stead, and had been a good learning experience in that respect.
“Well, I want to take the rucksack. It’s going to be easier for lugging around bed and breakfasts.”
“And where is your jacket going to go?”
“In the rucksack.”
I looked at the bag lying on the floor, and then looked at Steve. He could not be serious surely? His jacket was quite bulky, and it would be akin to stuffing a turkey trying to get it through the opening of the rucksack. With all the best will in the world, after 9 days of doing this around Ireland it would have more creases than Bruce Forsyth.
“Do you reckon your jacket will be able to take it though?” I put forward.
“Yes, should do if it’s packed right.”
In other words, as long as I didn’t go anywhere near it. I knew my limitations, and the unsaid words hung in the air. My packing was atrocious, only beaten by my ability to wrap Christmas presents.
“So what is the alternative?” I asked.
“Well, you could take your little case, or we could put everything into my big case.”
I had already tried my small suitcase, and it was just that little bit too small. It meant Steve still had to take something big enough for his clothes etc, along with my overspill. This narrowed the options available, unless he wanted to go and buy a medium sized case which would no doubt end up gathering dust in the loft once this trip was over. A bit wasteful looking at the big picture, so it had to be either the rucksack or the suitcase.
Steve spent a good half hour pondering over this, muttering away to himself as he looked at the pros and cons of both systems.
Eventually we put everything we planned on taking into his case. On its own it weighed 6 kilograms, so lightweight it certainly wasn’t. With all of our clothes, it weighed in at 20 kilograms. Manageable but only just. I had helped out a little by purchasing a really gadgety overnight bag. Not only did it hold all toiletries, make up and such like it also housed all of my underwear and socks. It was like a Tardis. Outside it looked like a handbag, but once it was opened you could virtually move a family of three into it. Oh, and included was a paperback book, a set of tarot cards (which always go on holiday with me) and a puzzle book. I was so fascinated with it, I was opening it every five minutes just to check that it really was as good as it had first appeared. It also meant if the suitcase went missing and didn’t arrive at the airport I had a change of underwear. Steve would have been a bit up the creek, but I would have been charitable and lent him a pair of my Matalan knickers. Would have drawn the line at my socks though. I only had a few pairs, and besides which the colour wouldn’t have suited him.
Eventually we were happy with how we had packed, and with the contents. Steve always took control and ownership of the important documents. My trust and faith in him is unwavering, and I knew there was next to no chance of them going missing or being mislaid. The other question now arose:
Do we drive to the airport on the day, pre-book the parking, or stay at a nearby hotel that offered parking?
On previous visits to Luton I had just parked at the long-term stay car park and hadn’t had any problems with this. However, when we had gone to Canada, it had worked out a lot cheaper to actually stay for a night in a hotel and use their parking facilities for the duration of our holiday. In addition they had laid on complimentary transport to and from the terminal.
“What should we do?”
“I don’t know. I have been to Luton before and it is easy to park in the long stay.”
”Shall we book it beforehand?”
“Up to you babes,” I answered.
“We could stay in a hotel again.”
“We could, but is there any point?” I replied. “The flight’s in the afternoon and the airport is only 90 minutes away. We don’t have to leave at the crack of dawn to get there, and we can still avoid any heavy traffic.”
Eventually Steve took the decision to just drive down and park, taking on board the comments I had made about previous experiences.
Little did I know that this would come back and haunt me.
On the morning of the flight, the car was dutifully packed, and the house once again checked over for any dripping taps, gas rings left on or windows left open. It’s a really strange thing though: no matter how many checks are made I defy any woman to admit that they have nagging thoughts as they drive away as to whether they remembered to check the bath taps also. How many have actually returned from a holiday to find that they have in fact left a tap running? Probably none, but it is still something that goes through your mind regardless of the likelihood being next to nil. How many have given in to the urge to request that they go back, just to make one more final check?
The route to Luton airport is fairly straightforward, but we were going to approach the airport from a different direction to any I had made before. I was fairly confident of the way, so we decided to leave the GPS system packed away in the rucksack on the back seat.
“You sure you know where you are going?” were Steve’s words as we headed towards the A1.
“Yes, no problem. Just aim for Hitchin and it will be sign posted from there.”
“Are you sure you want to go this route, or do you want to go the way you know?”
“No, we’ll be fine,” I said with confidence. This was my chance to show to him that I knew where I was, and more importantly, how to get to where we wanted to be. A skill most guys think that women lack, but I was prepared to fly the flag for the ladies out there who know they can map read. We are in the majority, albeit a silent one, letting men have their laughs and giggles when they think we don’t know what we are doing. Deep down we know exactly what we are doing, but sometimes men have to have their ego’s massaged so we just pretend to get it wrong, just to keep them happy. A secret now in the open for all to realise. Yes gentlemen, women CAN read maps, sometimes without the need to turn it upside down in the process! We just don’t harp on about this ability, as we know you need to feel that you are the only ones who can actually fulfil this task.
45 minutes into the journey we were still on the A1, approaching the turn off to Bedford. A journey I had done hundreds of times before having lived there for 18 years.
“You sure you want to carry on?” Steve asked. “Let me know now before it’s too late.”
“Nope, carry on,” I replied, totally confident in the fact that going via Hitchin would be easier and quicker.
Another half hour on and I was looking out for the turn off to take through the town. I knew it was near to the turn off for Welwyn Garden City, as I had been there once before. However, the further we drove, the more the feeling of unease set in. Not one sign had indicated that we were anywhere near to where I was hoping to be.
“Should be the next one I reckon. We’re not that far from London now so it must be coming up.”
Two more junctions passed and still no sign of Hitchin. By now I was starting to panic that we had either missed the turn off or I had been wrong in my assumptions in the first place. Steve just stayed very, very quiet. That sort of silence which says “see, I knew you would get it wrong,” without the words actually being said. The sort of silence most women can tune into and decode. The next sign told us that Letchworth was next. Not exactly what I was hoping to see at this stage of the proceedings.
“Take this one,” I yelled. “We can check the GPS somewhere if we get off this road.”
These two sentences summed up the fact that I was panicking, and had no idea where Hitchin was.
The GPS system Steve uses is great at plotting routes from where you happen to be at the time, as well as showing a detailed map system of the country. Once we had pulled over, Steve went to work. Apparently we had not missed Hitchin at all. It was shown as being one junction further down the road. Had it always been that close to London, whereby I just hadn’t realised?
This detour had only added around 10 minutes to the journey so there was absolutely no danger of us missing the flight. However, I now felt very silly indeed and stayed quiet for the rest of the journey, just pointing out the odd signpost where Steve may have missed it, due to its positioning. I just hate getting things wrong, especially if Steve is involved. Even though he doesn’t say much, I always feel totally inferior, with this emotion lasting for ages.
My next moment of feeling as large as a cockroach was soon to follow. Nope – sorry a cockroach is too big. Make that a single celled amoeba instead. Believe me, I felt incredibly insignificant.
Luton airport, although a major and well-known airport (many thanks to Lorraine Chase for immortalising it in a song) it is not one of the largest. Most of the car parks are well signposted and it wasn’t long before we were heading past the Luton Vauxhall car factory en route to the long stay area.
Only to find that we couldn’t use it.
A really large sign was posted at the entrance making it perfectly clear that it was full, and that it was also only for use by people who had pre-booked. The only words missing were the ones telling you that you were an idiot for not realising this, and to bog off to the medium stay car park where you would be fleeced, even though you would be staying for the same amount of time. My feet were frantically working away on the floor of the car in an attempt to create a hole I could crawl into. I had never ever had this problem before, but had to confess that the last time I had used this airport had been 8 years previously. Obviously a few changes had taken place in the intervening period. Someone had come up with a way of making sure that they could reap in as much money as possible at the expense of holiday makers who may have no choice but to go ahead and pay the extortionate costs at the other car parks.
By now Steve was getting just a little stressed.
“Now what can we do?”
“I guess we have to go back to the other one then. Honest Steve, I have never had this problem before!”
“I said we should consider booking first.”
This then made ME stressed.
“Yes,
but it was your choice hun. I didn’t say not to. You know I left
it with you.”
”Yes, but you didn’t say we definitely had to,
so I assumed you knew what you were doing.”
This I felt was somewhat unfair. However, I bit the bullet and assumed responsibility for the mess we had found ourselves in. If the other car park was also full, we were well and truly in the brown smelly stuff.
Luckily, it wasn’t but it was going to cost us £11 a day to park there. As we trundled across to where the bus stop was situated I was making a mental note to never use this airport again. Before we had even got as far as checking in, the experience had cost us £132. Even establishing how to use the car park was stressful. We are both used to having a ticket issued that we then guard with our lives, making a note on it of exactly where the car was. (How many people have not done this, convincing themselves they will remember in two weeks time, only to spend another three days searching for their car). No such thing here. Oh no. Steve had to insert his credit card into the slot, and then use the same credit card as we leave the area. This would register somewhere, and would credit his account with the required amount. So why did the notice at the barrier say, “please take ticket”? There was no damned ticket! We waited ages for it to appear but no such luck. Even parking the car was turning out to be a totally confusing experience. I was becoming more and more convinced that someone somewhere was having a laugh at our expense. I felt more than a little sorry for foreign visitors. If there is one thing that will put them off ever using Luton airport again, it is the parking system.
Fortunately checking in was stress free, and we found ourselves with plenty of spare time in which to have a look around before finding something to eat.
Once we had passed through passport controls, we headed for the shops and the food court. There was the usual offering of burgers, KFC and pizza. Not the healthiest of offerings, but heck we were going to be pigging out for the next 12 days so decided to make an early start on our fat intake. The pizza had seen better days though and we rued the fact we hadn’t gone for a KFC (Steve’s favourite meal of all time). However, it was going to be a good few hours before we ate again, so we gamefully continued, aware that every mouthful had to be chewed at least 20 times before it had a chance of being digested properly.
The flight itself was fairly uneventful. The take off is always my favourite part, closely followed by landing. We were only going to be in the air for a total of 50 minutes, which meant the whole experience should be fairly enjoyable. Ironically the seats were the most comfortable I had ever come across on an aircraft. Bearing in mind it was only a short haul flight I felt we were being more than a little pampered. I also had to take my hat off to the attendants on the flight. Serving up duty free wares, and food to all of us in the space of 40 minutes was no mean feat. Although this was my first experience with Ryan Air, I had to say it was quite a positive one, and more than made up for the fiasco at the car park three hours earlier. The seats were spacious, the head rest area moulded to the shape of the head so that rest came relatively easy, and ample enough leg room.
In the blink of an eye, the flight was over and we had landed at Dublin airport. Surprisingly, the airport was huge and dwarfed the one we had left behind at Luton. From this point onwards, I was truly on holiday, and planned on putting all the previous experiences behind me. We still had no idea where we were going to be heading for once we had picked up the car. Steve had gone with the same rental company as the one we had used in Canada. They had proved to be very professional and it wasn’t long before he had the keys to a rental car in his hand. Although they were one of the more reputable companies, they also had the furthest lot from the main terminal building. Steve was sweating buckets as he hauled the suitcase along the pathway taking us away from the airport. However, it had all been worth it. The care was huge and housed ample enough space in the boot for the case and rucksacks. A nice touch was in the fact that there were some useful booklets housed inside the passenger side door well. These showed where some of the bed and breakfasts were situated, along with details of some of Ireland’s main tourist sites.
“So where do you want to go then?” I asked Steve, guessing he would not have a clue.
“Don’t know. You choose.”
“Okay,” I replied looking at the main map I had bought with me from England.
“How about heading around Dublin and heading south on the coast road to Wicklow. We want to be there tomorrow anyway for the mountains.”
“Sounds good to me. What about Dublin though?”
This did not seem a good idea. We were in a strange country and I thought it would be better to get used to the car on some quiet roads, before trying to negotiate the capital. We could always do this area on the way back to the airport. Steve was in agreement, so we trundled along the main road out of Dublin. Although they have a motorway system, it’s not quite the same as ours. A lot of the main roads are in fact dual carriageways, with only the occasional stretches where three lanes are used. The actual volume and speed of the traffic also reflects this. The overall population of Ireland is small compared to most places in England. Some of their large towns would be classed as villages over here, and their villages would not even warrant a mention on our OS maps. Steve got into his stride quickly and appeared to be handling the car very well indeed. Just as well, because we had signed up to say that we were liable for the first 750 euro’s worth of damage. Around £500 sterling. He is a very good driver though, and I knew I would not have any worries on that score. No matter what conditions he is presented with, he has always coped and adapted very well. Heck if he could drive in Florida or Toronto, I had no doubt that he would find Ireland easy to negotiate.
It was around 4pm when we left Dublin, plenty of time in which to get out of the town area, and avoid the rush hour traffic. The ring road took us around the city centre, so we didn’t even get to see any of the famous landmarks as we headed south. Due to the fact we were going to go round Ireland in a clockwise direction, it meant it would be another 11 days before this opportunity was to present itself again.
Three hours later we were in the small town of Wicklow itself, which is on the east coast, with the famous Wicklow Mountains to the west of the town. The town itself was fairly colourful, with bunting hanging across the narrow streets, adding colours and movement to the skyline. It was 5.30pm and we decided a good cause of action would be to find a bed and breakfast. There followed our first lesson. The car was left in a relatively empty open car park whilst we headed into the town itself. Size wise it was probably no bigger than a semi-rural town in Lincolnshire, and the shops appeared to sell pretty much the same as ours. Heck knows what I was expecting: leprechauns hanging from the doorways maybe? Men on stools outside doorways playing the accordion? Driving through on our initial information gathering exercise, I had seen the sign for a B & B at what appeared to be the main town centre pub. The downside was the fact there was no obvious place to park the car, which would have to be either left in the car park overnight (not something I liked the idea of), or left crammed into whatever space we could find nearby. Another unfavoured option as the streets were very narrow, and I had visions of the car being clipped if parked in a blind spot. I tentatively led the way, not actually too sure what to ask as for.
“Good evening, how can I help you's?” was the immediate greeting as we approached the counter. The young lady appeared to be in her mid 20’s and had an amenable air about her. We must have had tourist written all over us, what with Steve’s backpack and my overnight bag.
“We’ve just arrived today in Ireland, and we are looking to see if there is a room available for the night.” I offered.
“I think we do have, if you want to follow me.”
A fairly positive start to the night, or so we thought.
We followed her down some steps into an area where the accommodation was situated. There appeared to be some confusion as to what room was actually available, as the booking details didn’t actually tally with what rooms were empty. After a long period of head scratching, and input from the owner, it turned out that they only had the one room available at a cost of 80 Euros. I thought that this was a little steep, but we were still finding our feet, and would have taken it just to get through that first night. However, as soon as the door was opened, I knew I would rather sleep in the car instead. It was a smoking room. Although there was no grey swirling mist to give this away, the smell was overpowering. I could almost feel my lungs clogging up with each breath. This was certainly a timely reminder that smoking is almost classed as a past time in Ireland, and the irony was apparent. Smoking is now banned in public places in Ireland, and yet the first place we had chanced upon had not really caught up with this fact yet.
I was tasked with turning her down, as Steve was actually prepared to stay the night. He is more relaxed about money than I am, and hadn’t battered an eyelid at the thought of spending nearly £60 on a room for the night.
“I am so sorry,” I blustered. “I am allergic to cigarette smoke, and wouldn’t be able to stay here.” I expected her to then change in her approach to us, but she accepted this with an easy smile and the wave of a hand.
“Oh, no problem there.”
“Is there anywhere else you can recommend we try?”
This may have come across as a bit cheeky really, taking into account I had just turned down her offer of hospitality.
“Oh aye, loads around here. You have to aim out of town and up the hill.”
With a drink purchased out of guilt, and the directions fresh in our mind we headed off, with eyes peeled for anything that may have resembled a B &B. This is where I really do take my hat off to the Irish. Rather than put drivers in the position of squinting at houses as they hurtle past in an attempt to see any references to a B & B, all of the ones we came across had a lovely signpost by the front wall or gate, displaying the shamrock and name of the premises. I am sure this approach has led to a drastic reduction in the amount of accidents caused by drivers trying to eye up establishments instead of eyeing up the road ahead.
Another big advantage was the fact there were so many of them. After counting at least five in a short distance I began to relax in the knowledge that at least one of them was bound to have a spare room. All of the buildings looked like something out of magazine. Invariably they were white bungalows, all with beautifully kept gardens. In the space of a few minutes I had gone from thinking that I was going to have to contend with a gear stick as well as Steve, to truly believing we were going to find a bed for the night.
One was chosen at random, whereby Steve was tasked with making the enquiry. He is a really cute looking guy who could charm the birds out of a tree, and would have more luck at convincing the proprietor that we were worthy of staying at their house. His hidden charm has got us out of a few situations whilst in Canada.
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(Pages 1-23 show above.)