Hold Down

It had been a long journey. I could feel the ache in my body from the long hours on the plane as I made my way from LAX back up the Pacific Coast Highway toward the familiar landscapes of home. I cast my eyes out upon the water. Slowly my mind drifted back to the distant shores of Ireland. For the briefest of moments, I could feel the touch of a summer squall laden with the sand and scree of the rocky cliffs that sat along the shores of the Atlantic. I could still taste the salt of the sea which lingered heavily in the air of Bundoran, and I could still discern the sun as it dipped below the seascape and disappeared into the horizon. The California wind, heavy with the aroma of the local vineyards, whipped my hair around my face and neck as the PCH stretched and then weaved in front of me. The last vestiges of the sun were slowly sinking into the darkening sky off the western coast. It was hard to believe that only a day had passed since I had watched this same sun drop below the shoreline halfway across the globe. I had joined the surfers who had come from around the world to surf and to celebrate the life of my best friend. But it was even harder to believe that he had been gone just a year now. Lost in the surf at Mavericks just minutes from where I now made my way down the coastline. I had gotten to know some of the travelers while we surfed the cold, towering waves of Bundoran. However, a few who made the trek to Ireland for the celebration of life were my friends, my coworkers, and my fellow surfers. We had gathered from all over the world to revel in the beauty of the unfamiliar surf of an ancient Celtic coast. But now I was almost home, back to the comfort of the northern coast of California and the warmth of my cottage by the sea.

I was twelve when my parents uprooted our family from Utah and settled us in a small bungalow along the ragged cliffs of Half Moon Bay. Although the transition was difficult, taking me from the only life and friends I had ever known and throwing me into a life unrecognized, I quickly became acclimated to the serenity and solitude of life along the coast. I soon became an avid surfer. I grew up with the famed stories of the brave men who surfed, lived, and died in a legendary place called Mavericks. To us Mavericks was a place of surfing glory and of monster waves that made grown men quiver. It was a place of great power, magnificent, mind-blowing descents down walls of raging fury; a place of deadly reality. Years later, my parents long gone, I still lived in the same house in which I grew up. I had, after years of practice, of trials and tribulations, become one of the rare surfers who dared to challenge Mother Nature in her rawest of forms. The ocean had become my solace, my refuge, my purpose for living.

As the final shimmering rays of the day slipped beyond where the sky meets the earth, I turned my car down the short, narrow driveway. I pulled up to the back door and turned off my truck. I could hear Bongo heading across the yard, his joyous howling at my return a welcome sound. I eased the car door open and stepped out to greet him. “Hi ole fella.” Bongo wagged his tail as he jumped and swirled about me ramming my legs in the process and almost taking me down to the ground. I laughed, hugged him, and gave him a pat on the back. He circled around me again, first left, then right alongside my tanned and barren legs. I picked up my head and saw my neighbor Jeff making his way towards me. “Hey, Danny! I see you have returned safely. Good to see you, my friend.”

“Hi, Jeff. Good to see you too dude. I hope Bongo didn’t give you too much trouble while I was gone.”

“Oh no. He was fine.” Jeff said as he reached down and gave Bongo a pat.

“Cool, Cool. Thanks again for watching him.”

“No worries. I’ll see you in the next few days. Did you hear that Mavericks was going to be breaking this weekend?”

“Yeah, I was checking that out. I’m going to catch up on some much-needed sleep and head out in the morning.”

“Me too, so I should see you out there. But if not, be careful I heard it is going to be massive.”

“Will do.” I headed for the back door, let my happy friend in with me, plopped down on the couch, and instantaneously fell asleep.

I awoke to the stillness that only the early morning hours can provide. Still groggy from the long excursion, I grabbed my guitar and walked out onto the porch, out of the warmth of the small, well-kept room, and into the salt-laden air. The trees that towered over the house cast great shadows that seemed to permeate the yard and driveway. At this time of year, there would normally be a million and one constellations flashing in and out, shining and twinkling in the distant universe. But this night the moonshine was so bright out on the water that I could barely see any stars at all. I sat down on the step and strummed a simple chord on my guitar. I sang a soft and tender song to myself and to the approaching dawn, a song about the beauty of the earth and the vast cosmos beyond.

I had been alone most of my life. My parents had died way too young. My mentor and my best friend succumbed to the depths of the sea. It was a learned behavior I had found; being alone without being lonely. These became intrinsic words of comfort that echoed softly in my mind. And so solitude, surfing, music, and saving lives had become my reality. My survival. It had not always been this way. I was not always the loner that I had now become. I did not dislike people in general but had grown more distant as the only people who truly knew and loved me had left this earth behind. I was never the gregarious one, the life of the party, but I had the ability to make friends easily and was, until recently, a creature of society. When I was young I often wondered what the deeper purpose of my life might be. I could easily remember the day I decided to become a lifeguard, the difficult training that ensued, and the gut-wrenching moments waiting to see if I had passed my trials. Those times were etched deeply into my mind. I remember how the sun felt on my skin and how the waves sounded as they crashed along the shoreline my first day on the job. For years now I had taken care of the people of Half Moon Bay as they frolicked in the ocean: parents with their floppy hats and big wicker bags filled with sunscreen and potato chips, children with bright yellow bathing suits and blue plastic dolphins wrapped around their tiny waists, wannabe surfers who came to enjoy the smaller surf that Half-moon Bay had to offer. I could not begin to tell you how many lives I had saved, but I could easily tell you how many I had not. Collateral damage I suppose. Part of the job, but every life lost took something precious away from me, and my soul. But every life saved gave it back: the yin and yang, the good the bad, the ups and downs, the lyrics of songs and lines of tales. This was my survival.

I left solace of the porch and the chilly breeze of winter, I went into the bathroom and stared at my face in the mirror. I inspected it carefully. It was not the typical face that most people associated with surfers and lifeguards. I did not have the long, stringy blonde hair or the sea-green eyes. I did not carry inside of me that natural territorialism that some Californians carried within. I rubbed my hand across my face. My black hair needed a cut, falling darkly across my worn and weathered face. My somber and tenebrous eyes, which to others always seemed to hold something ambiguous, I had to admit, often hide my true nature. I stretched and looked around the tiny bathroom. The past faded away and the present came into focus. I needed to get a move on. With the north wind picking up the swell, it would be an awesome day out in the water. I left the confines of the bathroom, walked through the kitchen, and grabbed an apple from the nearly empty refrigerator. I made my way through the garage, snatched up my surfboard, loaded up Bongo in the truck, and headed for Pillar Point.

Mavericks. Just the name itself was steeped in mythology. Although Mavericks was home to me and the other locals, it was world-renowned for big-wave surfing. Those brave enough to risk the undertow and the enormous waves were rewarded with a feeling and a rush like few on this earth have ever been able to experience. That feeling, that rush, was a thing of imperial beauty. I pulled along the ocean, got out of my truck, and stood in astonishment. I watched the waves crest and then fall crashing like thunder back into the sea. Holy shit. These were waves not to be taken lightly. Even from the top of the cliffs, the swells eclipsed the horizon beyond. The waves seemed as if they were spawned. They appeared out of the mist like sweet fury in the shape of Neptune, god of the sea. 

As my astonishment subsided, I squeezed into my wet suit and grabbed my board from the back of the truck. I gave it a good coating of wax, gave Bongo the command to stay, and climbed carefully down the escarpment. Even with the thick, black wet suit clinging to my sinewy body the chilled water took my breath away. The liquid, thick with salt, instantly stuck to my face. I could taste the sweetness of the water as I pulled it past my lips, into my mouth, and spit it out again. I never felt more alive than when I was in the water. To me, it was what survival was all about. It is what made life worth living, the sea and the solitude.

The paddle out was grueling, to say the least. I slid across the surface of the water encountering Jeff along the way. “What’s up, man?” I had to yell over the sound of the waves that were crashing just north of us.

“Not much Danny but these beasts…too much for me today. I damn near got crushed twice already.” He grinned that crazy grin that only surfers have when they know full well that they survived another bout with the sea. I nodded.

“I’ll see you back on the Point in a bit.” Jeff gave me the thumbs up and headed towards the security of the shoreline. Now surfing Mavericks is an enormous undertaking. One had to be in constant motion. By keeping the jutting rocks of Pillar Point to my left and the tall, statuesque conservatory to my right, I could gain access to that optimum point which presented me the best chance at catching a wave that would give me the rush of a lifetime. There was no riding left. Those who had tried had not fared well and carried the scars and broken bones to prove it. And God forbid you get caught inside. I looked back towards the shore. I could barely distinguish Bongo hanging out on the tailgate of my truck. I cast one last glance in his direction and turned and paddled out into the lineup.

There were only a few surfers out as the conditions were, as Jeff had said, massive. Most of the surfers in the water I knew well. I nodded to them and made my way to the outer break. Paddling constantly to navigate the brutal undertow, I fought to stay in place and waited for the next set. In just moments the surface of the water became obscured as the waves appeared out of the distance. The ponderous walls of water marched across the ocean towards me. I caught my heart in my throat, shoved the fear back down into my belly, decided to catch the first wall of water that approached, and began to paddle. I stroked and pulled the water with all of my strength. My years of training instantly kicked in and second nature prevailed. The twenty-five-foot comber caught me up like a gigantic, icy hand. It thrust me forward with its unharnessed force and I took off. I lifted my chest from my board and felt the natural pull of gravity as it drove my surfboard away from me. I got my legs up under me and with the roar of the white water close on my heels, I began to sail down the face of the colossal wave. My plunge down the sheer face was spectacular. My board felt like charged lightning beneath me. I could feel the wave pulling me back into its embrace. I instinctively knew that I was being sucked into the depths of the curl and let go of all restraint. The barrel of the wave overtook me and I stood tall inside the mighty sea. I reached my hand out to feel the cool, raging water. I felt the rush of the tunnel that formed over my head as the salt and the spray of the water fell into my face and eyes like a heavy, God-sent mist. I could easily distinguish the feeling of triumph that soared inside my body. I pushed forward and emerged from the depths of the swell and out into the daylight. Victory...was fleeting. As I exited the tunnel I was taken by surprise by another surfer trying to make it to the outside. I immediately dug my back heel down hard and tried to avoid the impact, missed the terrified rookie by mere inches, and was crushed by the wave that had, just moments before, been my friend, my lover, my triumph.

The wave caught me and closed out on top of me. It had without warning and without hesitation become my affliction. I was cast off my board and driven full force towards the bottom of the seabed. God I don’t want to die this way. The force of the wave drove me deeper and deeper into the tumultuous chasm below. I was tossed and turned and rolled until I had no idea which way was even up. I could feel my breath leaving me and wondered where my body would eventually wash up. Death at the hands of the sea was no longer just a concept but a reality. I felt my leg being pulled and followed the tug toward my board and what I hoped would be the surface of the water. Just as I thought I could not hold my breath a second longer I saw daylight. I swam using what strength I had remaining to pop up like a buoy. I broke the surface of the water and felt the fresh air on my face but before I could barely get a breath, a second wave bore down on me. There was nothing I could do. The towering wave of white water hit me full force and drove me once again toward the floor of the ocean and what I instinctively felt would be my final resting place.

God I don’t want to die this way. The wave slammed me back into the underwater basin and I careened out of control. My body was pitched, washed, and tumbled like so many socks in a dryer. My breath was whisked away from me as I went head over heels, arms flailing, my black hair entangled in my face. As my body hurtled end over end, my mind was filled with distant memories: with shapes and people, of faces, of flavors and colors, and ultimately of the withdrawal and the transformation I had undergone in my life. My mind was emblazoned with my inability to thrive after losing not only my parents but my best friend. Had I wasted so much of my time mourning that surviving from sun up to sundown was enough? I launched myself in the direction of the surface. Was mere survival at this point enough to satisfy? I had little energy left. I was completely and utterly spent. I reached the plane of the water. I floundered. I managed to draw one quick, incomplete breath and then blanched as I was struck immediately upon reaching the surface and driven down a third time. A three-wave hold down. That was it I thought. No one, including my friend Mark, had ever survived a three-wave holddown. And there it was staring me full-on in the face. My perception of my friend and my inability to save him that day. All those years of training I could not even save my best friend. I tumble down into blackness. He had lost his life in this place and I was helpless to save him. I spent hours that day in the water trying to find him. Jeff had finally pulled me exhausted from the water. Weeping the tears of a man who had watched as his friend became a fallen soldier, I continued to scan and search the shoreline until, just before we lost the daylight, Bongo and I found Mark's lifeless core lying along the rocks. His broken and mangled body was lost and then found, among the seaweed and debris. All my training had gone for naught. I was as helpless then as I was now.

Maybe I was meant to die this way. Maybe I was meant to be lost at sea forever. In the final moments, my breath became scarce, and my body gave way to exhaustion, but my mind, my mind bore the brunt of an epiphany, a moment of clarity. No. I was not meant to die at the hands of that which I loved so much. The sea was not meant to be insolent. Parlous perhaps, but not insolent. It was not meant to be my bane. And although the water had taken those that I loved it was not meant to take me. I was determined to survive the depths of the water and from this day forward live the life that waited for me at the surface. Enough. I spoke candidly to myself. No more. The decision had been made. I forced myself to slow the panic in my head. It was imperative that I controlled my body's motions, control the panic that was running rampant in every ounce of my being. I allowed my years of underwater training to materialize, saving my remaining energy for a final chance at living. I could taste the surface. I could feel life beckoning to me. So I swam like I had never swum before. I prayed that I was fighting my way in the direction of the sun, blue sky, and the cool, fresh air of the California coast. My leg was still connected to my board. I could feel it. I went towards the pull, drifted and flailed, and crashed and fought my way toward the world above. My breath was gone. On the edge of my vision, I could see a vanishing glow, and then my mind, body, and soul faded into the gray.

Land. Hard ground. My face was touching the hard, sandy earth. I felt strong hands as they dragged my body up out of the surf; out of the wild and unforgiving sea. I could hear the shouts and sirens, the calming words of a familiar voice, and the smell of Bongo’s breath on my face. Once again my neighbor, a friend I had always taken for granted, had pulled me from the subliminal grasp of the sea. This time there would be no tears of agony. There would be no forgotten cries that echoed out across the vast and desolate water. I rolled onto my back and opened my eyes to see Jeff grinning at me with that crazy grin I had seen so often on his face. I knew full well that mere survival was no longer going to be enough to satisfy, and I smiled back at him.

Wicklow Town

I am as perplexed as I am pleased with my second visit to Wicklow Town. I have yet to find a reason for my attraction to this Irish destination which lies nestled between the Wicklow National Park and Wicklow Bay. As I had stated in an earlier comment, 'Wicklow has all the grace and

appeal of an old rusty fish hook, but possibly there-in lies its charm.' Even the High Street has little appeal. With its odd assortment of shops that in no way even cater to tourists. It is an eclectic mix of toy shops, pharmacies, perfumeries, and meat markets. The harbor is, without question, a working harbor. If you have never been in close proximity to such a place, then you can only imagine the smell of fish, the dilapidated buildings that stretch around the quay (pronounced key),

and the haunting gray of the fog as it drifts in from the ocean and blankets itself across the quay. A life upon the sea is not an easy one. In other words; it ain't pretty. And neither is the harbor. Filled with old, sea-worn fishing boats, silos, and large brownish buildings that have been battered by the inclement weather. The quay is meant for one purpose. Working. Fishing. Making a living and

providing for your family. And yet here I sit. The thing is; this town comes to life during a small festival known as Sea-fest. With the beginning of the 'Round Ireland Yacht Race, the town begins to pulse. It becomes a veritable sea of people, boats, music, and dance. With the echoes of the Wicklow Pipe and Drum Band's bagpipes ringing out across the remnants of the Black Castle, with sailing boats, large and small, circling on the emerald water in anticipation of the start of the race, with multicolored biplanes circling overhead, diving headlong towards the water, pulling up at the last second; the crowd holding its collective breath, this town comes to life. The twilight during

these days are filled with the distant strumming of music that emanates from a stage that has been erected in the parking lot of the SuperValue grocery store. Across the Lietrim River, you can hear the screams and laughter of children as they cling to the brilliant rides at the county fair; streaks of purples and blues cascading

across the skyline; orange and red flashing lights glittering in the darkening sky. This place, this town, is alive with happiness, joy, with...life. I do not know if I would recommend Wicklow as a place to visit if the Sea-fest was not in full swing. However, I do know that I will come here again and again as even a rusty old fish hook can have its own beauty and purpose.

Gleann Dá Loch

There was a discussion recently where certain areas of the United States were being compared to Glendalough. It was said that Glendalough was "much like many places you might find in the States." I would have to gently disagree. There is no place on this planet like Glendalough. It has a spirit, a serenity, and a grace all its own. It is as if the aura of the earth abides here. There is an old adage, "You get what you give" and nowhere on this earth is that more true than in The Valley of the Two Lakes. If you can, give to her your time, give to her your patience, your inner grace and she will return it to you tenfold. In just the air alone one can find a peacefulness unlike any other.
As I was perched alone atop the gentle slopes yesterday, the wind itself seemed to open up and speak to me. It paused in its battering of the hillside, but briefly. The grass, the trees, and the clouds as one, were still and unmoving.

But then, from across the valley, I heard and then felt its presence. The wind ran howling down the mountain bog. It danced along the short, wheat-like grass, bending it to its will. Picking up speed, it peeled across the mountainside and up into the giant Conifers. The trees bent and swayed in perfect synchronicity. The clouds raced across the sky. It was as if the heavens themselves opened up the wind-gates and the breeze escaped, bound for the mighty earth below. No...no I say, Glendalough is like no other. And if you are ever lucky enough to sit quietly in her embrace, remember; her generosity is unending, if you just take the time to open yourself up to her. She will never ask more of you than you are willing to give. For on the hills Glendalough it is enough to just simply...exist.

             

She is elegant, she is graceful, she is generous of spirit, and kind of heart.
                She is...Glendalough.

Lions and Tigers and...Cows?

So here you have it. After camping in my tent along a beautiful babbling brook my first night on the trail, I awoke to an equally beautiful morning. I was eager to hit the road; so I packed my gear, said goodbye to the babbling brook, and headed into Drymen to get supplies for the day. After doing so, I retraced my steps back to the brook and to the West Highland Way. I then made my way up and over a small hill and across a huge cow field, filled with mother cows and their calves. No problem. How many other hikers had ambled over the same sunny dale without incident? Plenty I assumed. 

    I continued along the Way and as I came over the ridge I saw several calves kicking up their heels and playing and, for the most part, ignoring me. I knew I needed to be cautious. This wasn't my first rodeo. Calving season was in full swing and I knew the danger quite succinctly. I waited for the little buggers to run down the hill toward their mothers. Eventually, they all did, except for one lone straggler. No worries. I shrugged my shoulders and began to walk the rest of the way up the hill when I heard ole Straggler’s mother give a fairly sizable, “Mooooooo.” Being fully aware of the issues that could arise, I headed away from the line between point “A” the calf, and point “B,” the overly protective momma cow. "Smooth move. Well done," I said to no one in particular. All was going according to plan. Avoidance at its finest; right up until Straggler decided to run right for me. And I mean right at me. So what happens you ask? Well, I'll tell you. Momma cow, at a healthy, freight train sort of trot, does the same. 

Now listen, I'm not sure if you know this, but cows are BIG, and they are scary when they come at you at the speed of a Top Gear race car. So there I am, shitting myself, as this two-ton cow barrels down on me. I hesitated for only a second. I, with lightning-like speed, and the agility of a ballerina, bailed for a small bog that happened to be in the field behind me. So there I am, ankle-deep in a cow shit bog, being stared down by one pissed-off momma cow.

I damn near pissed myself. Now while this going, on ole Straggler there had already run off to play with his buddies. Thanks a lot, dude. After one more indignant, motherly “Mooooooo” in my direction, and a steely Clint Eastwood stink eye, momma cow ambled off and left me to my own devices. Just as I thought everything was in order, here comes another mammoth-sized cow all covered in cow shit. She walks right up to the edge of the bog and stands there just staring at me out of one dirty, eyeball. To myself, I was like, "Really? Seriously?" To her, I finally said, “Shoo. Go on now.” Yeah right. She looked at me like “Hey, F-you.” In my mind I was thinking "How on God's green earth did I find myself in the middle of this cow field, in the middle of the Scottish highlands, having a pissing contest with a cow?" And she was winning. Finally, the damn thing gave me a snort and a “hmmmnnphff” and trotted off. 

By now, all I wanted was to get out of that god-forsaken field. So, off I go. I make it to the top of the rise. I can see the other side; the gate to my freedom. But, and I shit you not, in between me and that gate was the biggest bull on the aforementioned God's green earth. All I could think was “Are you shittin' me universe?” I stood there, frozen. 

I looked across the great expanse of the Scottish countryside which was littered with Mr. Bull's offspring. I looked back at the greatest bull of all time and sighed. He in turn looked up casually and gave me a look that said,

 “Human, you may pass.” And with that, he put his head down and continued to graze with his back to me. He then slowly, as in a fuckin' eternity, made his way down into the glen. Finally, it was time for me to make my great escape. Man, I hightailed it up outta there at a rate of speed that would have astounded you. And I am certain it impressed the cows.

The Guardians

To be honest, I thought my first blog on the trail would be filled with an abundance of waxing poetic about the beauty of the land. About solitude, inner peace, and the friendships I had built with the other hikers that I met along the way. That it would be filled with tales of the great expanse of wilderness, about the tough climb, and the intrinsic lessons this journey has taught me thus far. But the reality is, although those stories need to be told, this tale is about what should have been the last two exhausting miles of the trail on my first day out and the two day hikers who made it an absolute pleasure, and who managed to become my good friends along the way. And so the story goes as follows:

On Tuesday I left the small town of Milngavie (pronounced Mil-guy) which bore the concrete post marking the beginning of the West Highland Way. Before my departure, I helped capture the photographs and still frames of the other hikers posing for their cherished memories, and they for me. I immediately became aware that I would not be alone on this part of the journey. I did indeed come across many people along the Way. I also came across the same hikers again and again periodically throughout the day. It was a beautiful morning, the sun was shining, the scenery was spectacular, and the Way was an easy jaunt. At least at first.

It quickly became apparent to me that most hikers were doing, at the very least, the first 12 miles out to Drymen, and some, the more adventurous ones, beyond. After thoroughly enjoying the first 6 miles, I realized that I too could make it a bit further and headed for Drymen with the rest of the herd. About ten miles in I decided that I may have bitten off more than I could chew. I had reached my proposed campsite, and what I thought would be my accommodations for the evening, when I realized that was not going to be the case. The campsite was overgrown from disuse and apparently closed. Although my body was aching I had no choice but to move forward. Within a few minutes, I ran into

Monica and Pierre who were from France, (It was they who had taken my picture in Milngavie) sitting in a little town called Gartness which consisted of three dwellings, one which had a small refrigerator out front with a sign that read, “Honesty Box.” The fridge, with the box sitting atop it, was filled with chocolates, water, and sodas. We all took what we needed, paid the box, and sat upon a stone wall gratefully eating our treats and talking about the trail. I would run into them again later on, but again that is not the story that needs telling. Although I set off before them, they once again overtook me and were out of sight before long. (as was par for the course for most of the hikers that I had met.) Two more miles I thought as I continued to

drag myself, my pack (that now felt like it weighed 100 pounds), and my weary legs up the next gigantic mountain. Okay, so it was really just a little hill on a road, but it felt like a gigantic mountain. I again found myself alone at the back of the pack, slogging along, trying to enjoy the scenery. I was thinking to myself as I walked, how tedious the last miles had become when I heard voices that seemed to appear out of nowhere. Just moments before I had looked back and saw no one coming up the long road behind me, but there they were nonetheless. Behind me coming up the hill were two older men carrying day packs. They were smiling and laughing and speaking amicably among themselves. I stopped and waited for them to overtake me and said my perfunctory 'hello' as they pulled alongside me. I could immediately tell they were Scottish as they returned an “ello” with a smile. We made our way down the road together. I naturally assumed that after a few minutes they would pull away as most other hikers did after pleasantries were exchanged. However, this was not to be the case.

 “Are you hiking the Way then?” One of them asked me.

“Yes, yes I am. Are you?”

“Ah, no we live here. We just like ta walk ya know.” (now for the rest of this story just think of Sean Connery's thick guttural Scottish accent when you read these gentleman's lines. It will lose something in the translation if ya don't)

“What's ya name?”

“I'm Kristine.” I smiled in their direction.

I'm-a David, Kristine, this-'ere is Michael.” We all stood in the middle of the road and shook hands.

 “So how far have ya come taday, Kristine?”

“Only about 10 miles or so.”  I replied.

The three of us continued down the road chatting about this and that as we went. We paused at the top of the hill to catch our breath and enjoy the view. Michael took off his pack and began rummaging about in it. 

“Hey Kristine woulda like a beer?”

I just looked at him, "huh?”

“A beer Kristine? Woulda lika beer?” Michael repeated, digging several Budweiser out of his pack. Now, I have had many people offer me a beer in a pub in England or Ireland, but on a dirt road, out of a backpack, in the middle of nowhere Scotland? I have to say I was a tad taken aback. Pleasantly so of course. 

“Why thank you but, but, I can't take your beer.”

“Whey-not? We have plenty din't we, David?”

“Aye, aye, sure we do. How about a smoke then too, Michael?” 

Michael smiled and handed me a bottle of Budweiser, then out of his backpack he pulled this large, crumpled-up joint and placed it casually in the crook of his mouth. I just looked back at him and smiled, popped the top of my beer, and shook my head with quiet delight.

The thing is, instead of walking the last two miles of that day with my head down, chugging away, just trying to make it the last bit in sheer desperation, I found myself casually strolling along a Scottish country road, drinking a Budweiser, watching two Scots getting high, all the while giving me the grand tour. David used my name each time he addressed me. And he was, without doubt, a wealth of information. “So ya see here Kristine, this here use to be a Roman encampment here. And ya see this Kristine? This is used for triangulation. Stand here Kristine then and ya can just see Loch Lomond there. So where ya going to stay tonight, Kristine?” 

And so it went. Strolling, drinking and smoking, pointing and laughing all along the way.

After a bit, some familiar hikers caught up with us. We all strolled along down the hill heading toward Drymen until eventually the hikers went on to town and I was left wondering where I was going to be able to pitch my tent.

 “So you sleeping un ya tent are ya then, Kristine?”

Yes. I am if I can find a place to pitch it.”

“Aye, well not ta worry Kristine, Michael and I know where ya can pitch it din't we Michael?”

“Aye,” Michael replied. “Let's get down here on the Way and we'll smoke another one and I'll show ya.” We ambled off the road along the Way, across a stream, and down into a place that was protected from the wind, was right along said stream, a safe distance from the trail and the roadway, and had a rope swing tied to a giant oak tree. I un-shouldered my pack and set upon the green grass that peeled up the hill as far as the eye could see. It was perfect. Michael took out another joint and David handed me another beer.  David then proceeded to climb up onto the swing

which was hanging near the brook and launched himself off the bank. And so it went. Michael got high, I sipped my beer in what amounted to Scottish delight, and David swung to and fro on his rope swing twirling and giggling all the while. And so, somewhere near a small Scottish town, in the gentle twilight of a Celtic afternoon, one could hear our laughter echoing out across the hills and valleys.

All good things they say, have to come to an end, as did these few precious hours that David, Michael, and I spent together. Michael indicated it was time to move on. He asked if I had enough food. Although I indicated to him that I did, he nonetheless left me the meats, buttered rolls, and fresh tomatoes they had brought for themselves to munch upon along their walk.

 David left me another beer to wash it all down with. I hugged them tight before they left and thanked them for all they had done for me. It was Michael who turned back towards me with just a hint of a twinkle in his eyes and replied, “It's what we do Kristine. We all have ta look out for one another.” And with that simple statement, the guardians made their way up out of the glen, over the lush green hillside, and disappeared into the fading sunlight.

The Encounter

The Clan Campbell Castle

         Dedicated to the memory of my

         Grandfather Neil Campbell

Who knew that fate would be waiting for me on the top of a green and quiet mountain, nestled deep amongst the Scottish countryside. Certainly not I. But on this particular day, it was as if the universe had been patiently waiting for me to arrive.  I had come all the way from America to discover my family heritage. To the town in which our ancestral castle was situated, home of the Duke and Duchess of Argyll, and ancient seat of Clan Campbell. 
With a feeling in my gut that one garners from a particular feeling; as if one is not just on the earth but a part of it, I strolled out past the ancient castle, out along the small, lazy river which ran into the gleaming Loch Fyne. I was trying to find a  way to the top of a small mountain that sat beside the castle and soon discovered a route that would lead me to the top of the hummock.

The trail I found was a small, rock-strewn creek that was covered with a slick algae. I began the gentle climb, slipping and sliding my way upwards. The forest that surrounded me was dark and enigmatic. Although the trees that sat in the woods had a willowy, brown bark, they were covered in a green, silky moss that permeated the woodlands with the aroma of the earth. The ground was laden with smooth rocks and a dense, dew-covered grass. The canopy of trees was so thick in places that the intermittent Scottish sun barely reached the loam-covered earth below. Here, in the depths of the forest, I could feel a boundless history. I could easily discern the legends which penetrated my existence. I could hear the clang and charge of distant battles. I could taste the past that hung in the air. I stood mesmerized in the timbers. With a purpose born within, I began to understand my clan's claim to these rugged hills and valleys. I was immersed in the deep, guttural feeling of this place. I stood...drinking in the energy. I blinked. My mind slowly surfaced, and the past vanished. I moved forward; up and out of the heavy forest toward the pinnacle of the hill. Loch Fyne, shining in the rare sunlight, stretched out before my eyes. The town sat at the base of the hill, white and stony. I was basking in the glory of being in Scotland, of traversing the land of my ancestors when suddenly, up and over a rocky knoll, came two small boys of about 6 or 7. One of the boys was wearing a costume of sorts and behind them came a gigantic sort of man. He wore black wellies and a thick, brown coat. He had hands the size of tree trunks. The young boys ran about me. One dressed, I assumed, as a dragon, the other feinting and parring with a wooded sword. After several attempts to slay the dragon that had come charging over the hill, the two boys stopped to address me. “Ello,” the dragon boy said to me, the tall, tree trunk of a man standing near, as if on guard. “Well hello. Are you a dragon?” I asked politely.

Inveraray, Scotland

“No.” the young boy replied in a thick Scottish accent. “I'm the Loch Ness Monster and I live in that castle down there.” He pointed with his diminutive finger toward the Clan Campbell Castle. I smiled and nodded at him and his partner. About that time, I saw a large, four-wheel golf cart coming up over the dale. It stopped just a few yards from where I, the Loch Ness Monster, and his charge, stood. Out of the vehicle came a man dressed in a black blazer and slacks and a woman in a lovely, blue blouse and jeans carrying a picnic basket. For some reason, the young couple looked familiar. I began to turn their faces over in my mind. I knew that I had seen them before, I knew I recognized them. In a moment of clarity, my mind put all the pieces together. I addressed the young monster, “You live there, young sir?” I pointed down the hillside. He and his young friend nodded vigorously. Ahhhh...I smiled and nodded my head in understanding. “I see. So you and your charge here are the princes' of Argyll are you not?” The young boys grinned, nodded, and laughed. Abruptly, one gave a mighty growl, the other raised his mighty sword, and they turned and raced towards the young couple with, what I now understood to be, their Man at Arms hot on their heels.

The Watch Tower

 I moved in the direction of my backpack, the couple, and the tower that sat ever so majestically on top of the hill. I nodded as the beautiful young woman reached down and tousled the hair of a young prince. I smiled in her direction and she returned the gesture kindly. “Beautiful day is it not?” she addressed me.

“Yes ma'am, it certainly is. Still, we might get some rain...” My voice trailed off.  I looked across the sovereignty that stretched before us. The young gentleman emerged from the antiquated, stone tower. He smiled at me as he approached. I addressed him casually. “So how does one get to ride to the top of the mountain on one of those, sir?” I pointed toward the gigantic, four-wheel vehicle that they had, just moments before, arrived in. With a wink and a smile he returned, “Oh, well one has to have a special sort of pass to get a ride up in this contraption.” I smiled and laughed and the three of us exchanged some more pleasantries about the day and the beauty of the land. I eventually excused myself and wished the party a good day. The Man at Arms gave me a quiet nod of his head, the children did a final feint and parry, and the Duke and Duchess of Argyll, the head of my clan, bide me ado with a wave and a smile. I turned and walked down the grassy hillside, out of the sunlight, and into the depths of the forest, grinning I might add, from ear to ear.

The Duke and Duchess along with the Dragon and Knight that I encountered
along with the newest member of the Clan
(this is a file photo)

And that my dear friends is how fate brought me together with my heritage and even closer together with my grandfather. It was he, I am sure of it, who reached down from the heavens that day and granted me a most beloved and treasured moment that I shall cherish until the end of days, and beyond.

The Ballet

This blog entry is dedicated to two of the people I love and respect most on this earth; my sister Debbie and my Broman Gary. I love you both. Thanks for always taking such good care of me and for always keeping me entertained. (PS Don't forget Gary, it's called poetic license lol)

The journey of 1000 miles begins with....a hair-raising ride in my Broman's Exploder. It's the truth. It seems as if any time I start a long journey it begins in much the same way. I believe the last descriptive scene of a ride with him went like this: 

So for me, no trip would be complete without a ride to the airport from my bro-in-law, accompanied by my sister in the front seat gripping the “oh shit handle” and wondering if we are gonna make it out alive. My brother-in-law is the poster child for road rage driving. He has the unique ability to make one shit in one's pants whilst hysterically laughing one's ass off. The assortment of curse words, tempered with a wide variety of facial expressions and fist and/or finger waving are, in my mind…priceless.” And so it goes.

On the trip from St Augustine to Ft Lauderdale yesterday the similarities to the aforementioned car ride were apparent. But yesterday, I also became aware of the rather intricate ballet that ensues while my sister watches, and subsequently (whether he likes it or not) guides my Bro-man as he weaves his way in and out of traffic at an alarming rate of speed. Said ballet unfolds in perfect synchronicity. It is a thing of imperial beauty to watch the swan-like grace with which my sister, seemingly in slow motion, moves her extremities like wands: pointing, waving, or steering as if the Exploder will ignore my Broman's command, instead of magically reading my sister’s body language and respond in kind. One can almost taste the look of consternation on Broman's face as he brakes just seconds later than Debbie would have preferred, as she jams her foot into her imaginary brake. And one can't help but laugh when the choice words of wisdom she offers up to Broman comes out of her diminutive self in such a way that you think there is a large, tattooed sailor in the truck all of a sudden. This ballet of sorts unfolds before me, in all its glory and humor, as I watch from the back seat in terrified amusement. I would like to say I would not give up the time I get to spend with these two as they make me laugh and keep me bemused and amused on the regular. That being said, I did find that the key to a successful road trip-type journey with the family is to keep one's pillow fluffed, your head down, your opinions to yourself, and your IPod fully charged. 

And so it begins... 

 

To be Sure of It

The bus rolled slowly to a stop as I opened the door for the umpteenth time that day. The girls stood, unassuming, on the other side of the narrow, gravel road. I got up from my seat behind the worn and faded wheel and went down the three grey, metal steps and onto the roadside. The gravel crunched beneath my brown, faded work boots as I crossed the road, “you ladies trying to get the bus to Dingle Town?” “Yes sir.” Well Lassies to be sure, you be on the wrong side of the road then.” I squinted into the rare sunshine as I motioned for them to follow me. I stashed their gear in the nearly empty hold and we all climbed back into the warmth of the bus. As the young girls got themselves situated I slid back into my worn leather seat; my perch above the long and winding roads of Ireland. I closed the folding door and as I let out the brakes I heard the comforting and familiar sound of the air rushing through the lines. I checked the rearview mirror to make sure my new charges had safely settled in behind me and took my foot from the brake. The bus eased into motion.            

28 years I had been driving this bus, these meandering lanes almost to the day. And not a dawning had come and gone that I haven’t thanked the good Lord up above for my life behind this wheel. So many people have come and gone through these old, squeaky doors. So much life, and love, and laughter: faces of the earth, brown and golden. Pale. Eyes of green with black-rimmed glasses, long fuzzy scarves, toques, baseball caps, surfboards, and rucksacks, young folks and old. Travelers from the earth. 

I turned onto the asphalt roadway, gave her some gas, and picked up some speed. The bus rolled along, humming down the lanky road that came alive before me. Ahhh…a grand day to be sure of it. I took a deep breath. I had lived all my life in these hills. I had, for 50 blissful years, breathed the cool, delicate air which always seemed to be filled with the taste of green grass and the salt of the sea. To be sure of it I had grown, loved, and lost here in these highlands.

The locals were my neighbors, my friends, my family, my charges, my passengers. I loved to watch them, wrapped in their grey, woolen coats of winter or the short, cotton sleeves of an Irish summer. I loved to watch them as they hopped on and hopped off my bus with their brown, cloth grocery bags packed with the evening’s meal or backpacks filled with novels, binders, and school books. I loved to watch as the children, whom I have known for almost all of their lives, grow up and leave the comfort of this gentle place for parts unknown. I am the guardian of these times. Of the Irish folk as they intermingle with the tourists who have come to eat, sleep, and breathe Ireland. As one, they all come together sharing moments in time like vines growing and twisting up a trellis in full bloom. Life.

 My mind returned ever so gently and briefly to the task at hand. I was making good time as the bus rambled down the road heading west into the misty rain that had suddenly taken over the day, as was often the case here in Ireland. I checked the mirror once again to see the young ladies in a deep and blustery conversation. I steered the bus towards today’s final destination. My thoughts returned to the far-reaching asphalt that stretched out before me, the smell of the rich loam of the hillsides, and of the salt air that drifted in through the open window as I got closer to the ragged cliffs that sat stonily along the Irish Sea.  

 This is my life behind the wheel. I am content as I spend my time on this earth peering out the windshield as the wipers wash away the rain showers. The blades move back and forth with a rhythmic tick, tick, tick. Luck of the Irish they may say or, as I think of it, just a life filled with gifts, smiles, and long winding roads. Ahhhh….I am blessed to be sure of it. The young ladies behind me were still busy chatting with excitement as we drew closer to my concluding stop of the day and, as happenstance would have it, my hometown.  I slowly took the long remaining curve down into Dingle Town and in due course we pulled up along the quay and I gently guided the bus to a stop. I slid the door open and I, once again, eased out of my seat and hopped down to help the young maidens retrieve their gear out of the belly of the bus. “Have ya been ta Dingle before ladies? 

“No sir. This is our first time.” 

“Well to be sure of it then this is as beautiful a place as you will ever see. Now ya must take a ride out along Slea Head Drive as it is the jewel of Dingle to be sure. I was raised here ya know.” That single statement seemed to pique their interest and they stopped gathering their things and turned their full attention to me.

   Since I was in no particular hurry I sat down along the gated entrance to the harbor, lit a cig, and answered as many of their questions as I could. The part of my job I loved the most, imparting to the wandering souls the simple yet intricate details of the place I call home. I took a long drag off my cigarette and exhaled deeply. “Now if ya take this road up a block or two

and turn towards the water you can take a stroll along Dingle Bay all the way past Hussey’s Folly there and down to the lighthouse that has stood along these rocky shores since the year eighteen and fifty-five.” I took another drag on my cigarette and continued. “As you walk now young ones, keep an eye across the bay and you will see the grand and majestic Esk Tower which stands guard over the harbor and directs the fishermen to the entrance to the port and towards the safety and warmth of home. I pointed towards the bay across the colorful boats that were moored along the dock and filled with men returning from a day upon the sea.

“And see here. If you make your way past ole Murphy’s Pub there,” I pointed “just down around the corner there is a place along the lane that pipes ancient Gaelic music out into the alleyway.” The girls were drinking in the information like this was the place they had longed for all their lives. I smiled at them. I had two daughters myself about their age, both making their way in the world both feeling too confined and stagnant in this little seaside town.

 I worked many a year driving these hills and roadways to give my girls the opportunity to see the world beyond, as these two girls were doing today. Dingle was a world beyond to them but was an old comfortable hat to me. “Excuse me sir I know you have to be on your way but could you tell us where we might find a good hostel?” “Oh to be sure, now ya make your way straight up this street and you’ll find the ‘Hideout.’ Ole Micheal, he’s a fine man and will take good care of ya to be sure. And if you want to go drink up some of our national brew and listen to the best music in town you must go to the Courthouse up yonder there. That is where the locals go to be sure. Be still now, as we take our traditions very seriously and if you can be wordless, and close your eyes and pay close attention, the music will carry you back to the times of my ancestors and it will fill your head with visions of old to be sure of it.” The girls nodded their heads in quiet delight as I helped them shrug back into their rucksacks. I gave them a wink and smile which they returned wholeheartedly and as they turned to leave they smiled and waved back at me.

I watched with a slow, rising joy as they disappeared up the quiet cobblestone street past the rainbow-colored houses that were awash in the early evening mist. I turned and closed the luggage hatch, climbed back aboard my old red bus, took one last look at the fading twilight over Dingle Harbor, let out the brakes, and ushered my bus towards Tra Li.  I’d be there and back in two hours, driving my old sea blue pickup truck up and over Connor’s Pass and back to the green pastures of home. Tomorrow I would do it all over again. I was a lucky man…to be sure of it.