The River

The Intro

 Ever since I was 12 there has been a spot out in the boonies that I still hold near and dear to my heart and still visit regularly. Deep in the heart of North Central Florida, there is a place that we who live in the area refer to as “the three rivers.” It is a section of land that oozes Spanish moss, where the distinct odor of bass bedding in the tall grass, and the heavy taste of a hot summer breeze are simply present. There in that nugget of the backwoods, snuggled deep down in the south, lies the apex of country life that exists out upon the banks of those majestic rivers that gently weave their way through the rolling countryside. It is there that the Suwannee, Ichetucknee and Santa Fe rivers meet as if cordially shaking hands while they float lazily past one another. Although we spent some time on the other rivers it was the crystal waters of the Ichetucknee that have always held sway over me and my friends and it is there, even to this very day, that we travel from our homes across Florida to drink, laugh, love, and enjoy each others company and of course the beauty of NCF at its finest.

Now in my youth, I drank a lot of beer, tripped on a lot of acid, and smoked a shit ton of weed out on that river. My friends and I tubed,

canoed, swam, caught crawdads, grilled out, and just had an all-around wonderful time. Although the years have left us with a few grey hairs, a few extra pounds, and hopefully a bit more sense (of course that remains to be determined),

those years have also left us with a wealth of memories and stories that happened out on that river. This story is dedicated to those friends and those fantastic memories that I hold so very dear. The names have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent.

                                                    

         Francine "The Story"

Now as life would have it I still get together with several of my friends that I have known since I was 12 and spend some time down

on the river. That’s right; since I was 12. Amazing anyone would want to be friends with me for that long!

At any rate; my friend Patty’s father owns a cabin out on the river and once a year about 6 or 7 of us get together for what we refer to as “girls' weekend” to raise a little hell, do a little grilling, some tubing and some…well….drinking. Now I should probably set the stage:

The cabin is at the top of a rather large bank or, some would say, a small hill and there is a path of stepping stones that will, when you are sober, take one gently down to the dock which sits along the crystal blue river. Now this particular evening the tequila shots and beers were flowing freely and all of us had been down on the dock for quite some time and we were, as usual on the first night on the river, getting rather intoxicated.

At one point my friend, we’ll call her…Alice. Yes, so Alice decides she needs to go up to the cabin, and being the wonderful friend that I am I thought I would give her a hand as the more inebriated you are the steeper and more treacherous that damn hill seems to get. So off we go, down the dock, off into the grass, along the stepping stones, all seemingly going fairly well until my friend….ahhheemmm…I mean Alice, comes to the conclusion she no longer requires my assistance and decides that she can “make it up the hill on my own!” All at once she gathers her wits, her keen sense of direction, and herself and attempts to make the final push towards the cabin and as such she snatches herself out of my rather protective grasps, takes two maybe three rather confident yet wobbly steps in the correct direction up the hill and then without hesitation, takes four lurching steps backward down the hill where she unceremoniously lands on her ass, side and face in the mud, the muck, and the leaves.  Now trust me when I say I was, with great concern of course, laughing my freakin’ ass off as I tried to get her back upright which of course she would have none of, continuing to insist that she could do it on her own. She finally made it to her feet, covered in mud with sticks and leaves sticking haphazardly out of her hair. She proceeded to stagger up to the cabin,

in through the porch door where she was met with a chorus  of “holy shit what happened to you?” At once, not waiting for a reply, Patty takes ole Alice into the restroom to help clean her up and as I walk up and into the cabin, still chuckling to myself, I see that down the hallway some of my friends have, trying to get a look at what was occurring in the bathroom,

stacked themselves up one head on top of the other peering into the crack of the half-opened door when we hear Patty ask Alice once again what happened. Alice bellows out, in honest indignation and in her deep southern drawl, “That damn Francine pushed me down! Can you believe it?! That bitch Francine pushed me down!” In concert, all four heads that were peering through the door turned around and looked at me with expressions that read “Who the fuck is Francine?” Ummm…just for the record; I’ve known Alice since I was 15 and am currently 50. Oh…and my name is Kristine. 

At that point, the pyramid of heads and bodies collapsed into a heap of laughter that echoed through the woods and out across the river. We were literally on the floor rolling around we were laughing so hard. And thus Francine, my evil twin was born. For the rest of the time that we were there that weekend, and I am sure for the remainder of the time we get to enjoy each other’s company out at the cabin, whenever anything goes asunder we all know that it will have been ole evil Francine at work once again. Alice, I love ya girl!

The Sign

 Dedicated to the Memory of my Grandfather Neil Campbell:

I don’t really know if you believe in signs, but I do. I believe that we all have loved ones that have passed on that surround us with their love and want us to live happy, healthy, wonderful lives and I believe that these signs should be looked upon as the most treasured of gifts. 

 And so; it was a misty double rainbow that appeared over the lush green pastures and hills of Dingle that I received as a gift from my great-grandmother (times 3) as my feet touched the sandy shores and ragged cliffs of Ireland for the very first time. And was it, as some people would have it, mere coincidence that I met on a solitary mountaintop deep in the heart of the Argyll Forest, the Duke and Duchess of Argyll, the head of Clan Campbell and the apex of my journey two years ago to that vast and beautiful country? 

                                

Was it just coincidence that I found my grandfather’s name “Neil Campbell” carved into a monument in the center of the small town of Inveraray the home and seat of my family’s clan? Or was it by chance that I came across a road sign bearing my grandfather’s adopted name along a gravel trail that lies along Loch Fyne? Could it have been just dumb luck that a Scottish bagpiper, much to my surprise and delight, came piping down a small boreen in the middle of the forest where I sat upon a hill amongst the purple heather?

 All coincidence one could say, but not me. I believe that they were signs. That they were an affirmation of the pleasure my grandfather and those who came before him felt at my sojourn back to my roots. 

And thus it was on top of a bridge in St Augustine, overlooking the Tolomato River, where I once again received a sign. One that would give me the courage that I needed to move forward with a dream. And thus the story goes as follows: Since my return from Ireland I told myself that I would settle down in St Augustine. You know, get a job, go back to school, put away my foolish yearnings to return to Ireland and just live a normal life. And although I have done that I still found my mind wandering time and time again back to my wild ideas of crossing Ireland and Scotland on foot. 

 On this particular day, I was taking a walk through town, out along the salt marshes, and up and over the Vilano Beach Bridge. And, as I often did, I found myself thinking very deeply as I walked about the possibilities of making a journey across Scotland. Across the lands of my ancestors, through the Argyll Forest, along the craggy shores of Loch Lomond, and deep into the history of my family. As I chugged along that day, making my way up the steep bridge, head down into the wind, not paying attention to anything except my feet, my mind telling myself to forget those foolish dreams but thinking of hiking through the hills of Scotland none the less, I looked up and there, just a few feet in front of me, was a man that so closely resembled my grandfather that it stopped me dead in my tracks. 

 As I stood there mouth agape, the gentleman pulled alongside me, looked straight into my eyes, held them briefly in his steely gaze, and then, as if in grand approval, gave me a wink and a nod. And it was there in the wake of his passage that I could have sworn I heard the words ‘follow your heart’ swirling somewhere on the salty breeze. It seemed as if time itself had stopped and I stood…motionless. Then, as if breaking myself free from the chains of indecision, I turned to watch as he disappeared over the horizon and out of sight. 

I'm not sure how long I stood there in quiet contemplation of what I had just experienced but eventually, I turned and walked in silence down the other side of the bridge; peering occasionally back over my shoulder and finally making my way down onto the shell rock beach, out along the water, and onto the boulders that jutted out into the jetty. I seated myself upon the rocks and looked out across the sea towards Scotland and beyond. It was there that I came to the realization that once again I had received a gift beyond measure. One that would solidify my desire to return to Scotland and Ireland and one that made me realize that I could do it, that I would do it, and that living a dream is a grand and wonderful thing and not foolish…at all.

   The Clan Campbell Castle In Inveraray, Scotland

Glendalough: The Myth, the Mist and the Midges

Now, there have been times on my journey across Ireland in which I made some seemingly wise decisions. Some even bordering on brilliant. And there have been other times when I, after the fact, said to myself: 'Self, what the hell were you thinking?' Now, as it happens, the time I spent in the Glendalough Valley was an experience that was as wonderful as it was god-awful. Let me elaborate upon that last statement.

        I arrived in the Glendalough Valley in the owner of Captain Halpin’s Bunkhouse somewhat beat up old van accompanied by my friends Anna, Eike, and Myles, all of whom were staying at the hostel in Wicklow and who also happened to be my roommates.

At the end of the day, everyone had plans to head back to the hostel, well, except for me. The day before I had come up with the bright idea to take all my gear with me and spend the night alone in the hills of Glendalough. At the time I am sure I was thinking to myself, 'This is going to be awesome!' Hindsight they say, is 20-20.  

       As the day drew to a close, I certainly had some reservations as I watched all my new friends drive away in Ian’s van back to the comfort and confines of the hostel.  Had I known then what I know now, my ass would have loaded up in that van so quick it would have made your head spin. But no, I had to be the great adventurer. Taming the wilds of Ireland alone. Forging ahead into the distant horizon. Going where no man has gone…well, you get my drift. 

          My first order of business was to find a place to pitch my tent as camping in the valley itself was not allowed. I had to find a site that wasn’t a three-day hike out of the glen and was in a place where I felt comfortable and safe. To circumvent all of these issues I did what any mountain woman would do. I left the wilds of the valley via the park entrance, walked across the road, up the hillside, and found a place to pitch my tent behind a tree just outside the park boundaries. “Ha-ha,” I said to myself. I am a damn genius. From my perch behind the small solitary tree, I could look down not only on the parking lot of the park and the visitors center but the local hotel as well. Now this is what I call wilderness camping at its finest!  

        So, with that, I pitched my tent on the hillside being harassed in part by the few midges that had decided to join me. No biggie I thought 'I can handle a few pesky bugs.' However, by the time I had my tent erected, which takes all of about 5 minutes, I was beginning to regret my decision to stay behind. The longer I was out there the more midges joined the party until I unceremoniously left my tent behind, walked briskly back down the hill into the park, and finished my day with another short hike because at that point constant motion was essential to my survival. 

        Now, those of you who have read my blogs before must be thinking, she has dealt with this before, why on earth did she not bring some repellent? Well, that is a great question. And the answer is: NOTHING repels midges. There isn't anything thing that exists on God’s green earth that can combat those little flying Piranha teeth. What does work? Keep moving. Hey, no problem, at least for a few more hours. But eventually, I would have to go back to my tent. And when I did, it was war. And guess who was on the losing end...again. Sitting peacefully on the side of the hill watching the sun go down over the majestic Glendalough Valley was out.

However, lying in my tent with the door zipped up tight was in. 

         One must understand that midges are so small and so crafty that they can somehow, someway, get in through the screen door of any tent. I don’t care how expensive and bad-ass you think your tent may be. Therefore, I could not even leave the tent flap open to gaze outside into the valley below me. By seven o'clock that evening with four hours of daylight to go and another five until sun up, I laid on my back in my tent watching the million or so midges that had now found me and were trying, and often succeeding, to enter my humble domain. I had not brought my laptop, no book, no motor car, not a single luxury (sung to the theme of Gilligan’s Island) and I had only a partial charge on my iPod. It was, to say the least, going to be a very, very, long night. 

          Now, I did have three other sources of entertainment. One was listening to the midges bounce off the tent as they tried to get to me through the tent, the door, and any other crack or crevasse that they could find. The second was to go spastic on occasion. Like a cross between the karate kid kicking someone’s ass and a Ginsu knife on the Home Shopping Network: all going off inside my tent at once. This all to kill the little bastards that kept making a great impression of Houdini and appearing out of thin air, again, and again, and again inside my tent. Then of course there was my third and most successful form of entertainment: snacking. I spent the evening lying on my front, back, stomach, or side, shoveling whatever I could find into my mouth, watching and listening intently to the midges like they were on late-night television, and flying into an occasional fit. I swear I laughed at myself a lot that night at how ridiculous this all must have looked to the universe.
         The next morning I awoke, after maybe two hours of sleep, to the sound of a gentle rain falling on my temporary home. I thought to myself “Well at least there won’t be any midges to contend with.” Unfortunately, that was not to be the case. As I unzipped the door to my tent I realized that what I thought was rain pelting my sleeping quarters was actually….yup, you guessed it, four trillion midges. I took a deep breath of exasperation, ate 250 midges in doing so, and immediately re-zipped the tent door and thought…fuck. I considered my options. Grabbing my gear, leaving the tent behind, and high-tailing it out of there, was on the top of the list. Couldn’t do it. That is in essence littering. So there was no way I could do that. Throughout my camping experiences in Ireland, I have done pretty much everything in that tent, sleeping, writing, brushing my teeth, getting dressed, all while lying flat on my back. 

         That morning I must have looked like the three stooges all wrapped into one as I, laughing at myself once again, dressed from head to toe including my boots (no easy task I’m tellin ’ya), packed all my gear, including all the wrappers and garbage from my marathon eating session, and made my great escape. I, at a frantic pace, opened the door, shot out of the tent like a cannonball, rolled nimbly to my feet (just like GI Joe), and pulling my rucksack haphazardly behind me, un-staked my tent, grabbed it by one corner, and literally fled down the side of the mountain with its white and blue exterior flapping in the wake of my speedy descent. I was followed by a veritable sea of midges. All, in my mind’s eye, wearing tiny little napkins tucked in their tiny little shirts, holding knives and forks in their tiny little wings, and making nummy-nummy-nummy noises. It took me the entire hillside and then some, to outrun the little buggers. By the time I ran through the park entrance past the parking lot and reached the picnic tables at the visitor’s center, I had outrun their entire ravenous army. No small feat for a woman with my short legs and stature. Victory was at long last...mine. If you can call it that. 

        I found out after the fact that all my friends had gone back to the hostel, enjoyed nice warm showers, drank ice cold beers, had themselves a little music session right there at the hostel, and afterward got a great night's sleep in a nice comfy bunk. Ouch. 

However, I must say that the reward for my stalwartness was that at 5 o'clock in the morning, which is when my “great escape” occurred, there was no one at the park, anywhere around on the trails, or in the valley itself. I literally had the entire place, miles, and miles of wilderness, in all its wide wonder, all to myself. I did not lay eyes on another human being for 6 or 7 hours and it was a true gift to be able to wander the hills and valleys of Glendalough in such solitude. It was a treasure to behold. Now as stories go this is a pretty good one. I will have to say unequivocally that the trials and tribulations I had to endure were worth the experience, the solitude and the sheer joy that I garnered from that part of my incredible journey across an amazing country known to those who love her as...“The Bog.”

The Old Boathouse

                                                    

    Have you ever had one of those days where you know, without a doubt, that you will never have an experience like the one you just had ever again? It is like you know inside of yourself that those moments in time were special. Unique to that place, and space, and time. And as you are living it, you know it. 

     That was the feeling I had as I approached the old boat house, that stood on the edge of the rocks which stretched as far as the eye could see, along Wicklow Bay. The owner of the hostel in which I was staying had told me that it was “National Heritage Day” in Ireland. He told me that there would be traditional Irish music at “The Old Boat House” that evening and urged me to go. I immediately thought to myself "How cool." A bunch of pub musicians getting together at a local bar in celebration of their heritage. I could not have been more wrong about that assumption or pleased that I was. First and foremost the “boathouse” was just that; an old lifeboat house which, since the year eighteen and sixty-six, sat at the back of Leitrim Place and had, over the years, seen a lifetime of men sail out to brave the sea; to make a living for their families, to rescue those in need, or return a lost soul to a family that waited ever vigilant upon the shoreline. 

     Time seemed to stand still as I stepped up to the old wooden door, worn and tattered from the constant battering of the wind and the rain which howled past and seemed to beat ever gently upon it; as if waiting for someone to answer. I turned the handle, stepped across the threshold, and found myself instantaneously engulfed in the warm glow of the inner circle of the community of Wicklow. The room was filled with people. Not musicians from the local pubs, but young girls who sat twirling their fingers in their hair. It was filled with young boys laughing and dragging the toes of their sneakers across the faded wooden floor, as they impatiently waited for the next song to begin. There were young men who sat bemused. There were old men beyond 80 years and then some, that held within their wrinkled faces; strong eyes of crystal blue, quick smiles, and the knowledge of the ages.

     There were women who wore cotton dresses, who sat with their hands folder in their laps while chatting with their daughters; all of whom were seemingly waiting for the town elder to begin the next song. 

      I tried as hard as I could to be unobtrusive and quietly made my way the few steps to the back of the room. I nodded at two of my roommates from the hostel who were sitting in folding metal chairs, each looking rather unsure of themselves. I smiled and eased myself down into a chair next to them as a hush fell over the room. The boys straightened in their seats, and the girls tucked their fiddles under their chins. A chair scrapped across the floor, and the rest of the players, young and old, plucked and strummed in preparation. And then, simultaneously, without so much as a cue, the music began. Simply at first. Then then with the vigor of those comfortable in their surroundings and a certainty of their own skill.

      The room was filled not just with the sound of traditional music, but with a depth of purpose that I can only describe as a legacy defined. It was as if hundreds of years of tradition, of heritage, of pride, was at that moment being passed down from one generation to the next. I could literally taste the past in the notes that drifted across the room and fell upon my grateful soul. As the music played I closed my eyes, opened my heart, and felt an unimaginable sense of peace and belonging well up inside of me. This was it. This was why I  had come to Ireland. To live and to experience this very moment in time. And as the night progressed I began to realize that this wasn't just about “traditional music” but about tradition. There was to follow: readings of Gaelic legend, traditional Irish dancing, and of course wine and song. I found myself wrapped in the warmth and deep-seated love of these people and the beauty of their Gaelic culture.  

      The singers came one by one to welcome me and my friends. One of the elders began to open up bottles of wine, passing them about with little plastic glasses which were of course accompanied by smiles, music, and the hushed sound of children giggling. The women tried to teach me some Gaelic words, the men an Irish jig, and the children an ancient Irish song.  It was as if these people did not want their heritage to just be a thing of the past, but were breathing life into it right then and there in that little boat house. They were ensuring its survival as they gently and patiently handed down music, stories, and dance that had existed for centuries, to the children who sat within. The children who would in time, pass what they had learned down to their children and to their children’s children. 

      It was a simply beautiful evening that I was blessed to share with those people...my people. I was treated as if, and I certainly felt as if, I belonged there. They did not approach me as an outsider but accepted me as one who loved the land, the legacy, and the tradition of Ireland as much as they did. They shared with me, in the glow of the evening, something special. Something…magical. I will never forget the stories that were told, the music that was played, and the love and laughter that were given to me so freely in the old boathouse that still sits quietly on the quay in an extraordinary place called Wicklow Town which lies nestled beside the echoes of a deep blue Irish Sea.

From the Sea to the Summit

Once again time and travel have graced me with gifts beyond measure; great friends, spectacular beauty, and oddly enough, a lesson in patience. If I had to pick my most memorable journey of the past week I would certainly have to say that the climb to the top of Croagh Patrick was the ultimate in personal growth and life’s lessons learned. It pushed me past what I thought I could endure both mentally and physically and in some weird way gave me strength in return. Patience is a virtue they say and one that has not always graced my illustrious personality. But I will have to say that thus far there isn't anything in this life that has taught me the art of patience as well or as thoroughly as a single, solitary, majestic mountain known as Cruach Phádraig. 
And, thus the story goes as follows: 

It was an unusually clear blue morning as I made my way towards the path that would take me to the rocky peak and as I gazed upon the mountain from below I could discern the slow progression of time etched upon its face which the mountainside seemed to patiently endure. I was intimidated to say the least. But soon my thoughts turned to my approach, to the task of reaching the pinnacle of the stately mountain, and subsequently, to the arduous journey back from its peak. I was in awe. 

I do not believe that I have ever known the true meaning of the word patience until the day I climbed that mighty mountain. Nor had the term “one step at a time” been more real, more…apparent, or more important than during my time on that mountain. There were at times brief respites where I looked forward towards my goal or back to whence I had come, but only for the briefest of moments and I found it was during those times that I would miss a step...falter. Wavering for that one split second in time instantaneously brought my focus back to the task at hand, that next step, and nothing else. I found that when I began to reach that state of mind where I garnered such complete focus wrapped tightly in a ragged determination to reach the top, I became a different person within myself. I could feel my whole being thrive on that mountain and in that circumstance. It was in that existence that I became deeply interwoven with that place. And as such, after my fear of heights had been conquered, when I finally reached the summit and looked across the vast horizon it felt as if, since the beginning of all time, Ireland herself had been patiently waiting for my arrival. After the exuberance and exhilaration began to gently subside and I turned and looked at the daunting task of returning to the fields and valleys below, I,  for the first, time understood completely what that journey, that climb, that struggle to reach the summit had taught me. I knew without question that I had been given a gift. A gift that had sat silently waiting for me to appear. The gift of a deep and true understanding of the nature of patience. And as I took my first step towards my descent, I knew I had been changed forever…

Doolin: Now Doolin has always held a special place in my heart. I fell in love with its rustic charm and small-town feel last year as my daughter Kristy and I took a walk out to the ocean down the Aille River. We only had a few hours to enjoy the village but I swore right then and there I would return. This time I was able to truly enjoy the flavor of Doolin as well as make some lasting memories with two amazing friends. 

Maclean: Mac thanks for the memories. Your crystal blue eyes, warm heart, and brilliant smile will, without a doubt, be etched upon my mind forever. May peace and happiness follow you wherever you go from here my friend.

Pierrick: I absolutely, positively, adored my friend Pierrick. The day I arrived in Doolin I was sitting at an old wooden table in the hostel enjoying the warmth that emanated from the fireplace when I walked Pierrick. I smiled at him and said hello and he responded in kind and thus, in the simplest of ways, we began what would become a grand friendship. Pierrick did not go out that particular evening as he had decided to hike to the Cliffs of Moher the next day and I, after having one too many Guinness’ at the pub that evening, opted to take the bus. We did however run into each other on the Cliffs as I was heading down the trail and he was heading back, so although we didn't get to wander the cliffs together we were able to sit next to each other on the bus on the trip back to Doolin. Back at the hostel, I got a quick nap and Pierrick had something to eat. Afterward, we sat in the hostel next to the fireplace and shared some beer that I had bought at the store the day before. I had only three so we each had one and then we retrieved some glasses from the pantry and split the last one while we sat outside on the stone wall and watched the Aille River float lazily by. It was a beautiful evening filled with the joy of being in Ireland so along with our beer Pierrick and I shared an abundance of pleasant conversation. We talked about our lives, our families, and about living life to its fullest. It wasn't long before Pierrick and I decided to take a stroll up the hill, a rugged 90-second walk, to Fitz Place to get a cold, fresh beer. Eventually, we found ourselves immersed in the music, the atmosphere, and the growing bond of friendship. I found Pierrick to be such a gentle soul. He had the heart of a poet and the mind of one not yet jaded by the cruelty that life can often hold. I found it incredibly refreshing that he was so taken by the simplest of things. He would look at me randomly throughout the evening and say “This is it Kristine!! There is nothing else but this moment!!” And he would smile and say this is so “grand” or “lovely" or “cool” and we drank our beer and toasted the night, the music, and the warmth that surrounded us. We avowed to be content; being completely and utterly engrossed in those moments. 

It was a grand and lovely time and one which I have to say was one of the best nights of my trip. Without question, I will remember it with great affinity and fondness. Unfortunately, as has happened so often during my sojourn, morning came and it was time for me to once again say goodbye to a friend that I had made such a special connection with. So Pierrick and I ate breakfast and then together we walked down to the bus station where we eventually hopped on the bus to Ennis where we would part ways; he would make his way to Waterford and I would make my way back to Lahinch. Upon our arrival, we gathered our gear and gave each other a hug filled with warmth and friendship and I watched with a growing sadness as he climbed aboard his bus and waited for it to depart. As I stood upon the cold, damp, sidewalk I had to fight back the tears that I knew would eventually come. Pierrick’s bus finally backed slowly away from the curb. I could see Pierrick as he looked at me through the glass. His face disappeared only to reappear as his bus rolled across the asphalt coming back into view as it passed between two buses. I caught a glimpse of him so I waved and smiled, as did he, until once again the buses blocked our view. I waited to see if I could see him once again as his bus cleared the final obstacle and pulled out of the station…I could. He turned and looked over his shoulder as he waved a final farewell, as did I.  The lump in my throat gave way as his bus disappeared into the street and this time there was no stopping the tears. It was as if the universe was waiting because at that very moment, the rain began to fall gently on my shoulders and the tears that had been on the brink finally fell from my eyes and quietly rolled down my cheeks. I stood silently, helplessly by as I watched yet another friend make their journey homeward.

Rainbows: Now it has been said that being in the right place at the right time is essential to great photography and I believe that to be true. Now the other way to go about that is to almost be at the right place at the right time and force the universe to comply. Such was the case with me, my beer, and my rainbow. Having given in to the inclement weather and having lazed around all day at the hostel I finally decided to take a stroll in the misty conditions along the beach taking some pictures as I went and cursing the camera when the batteries gave out. I strolled amiably along the beach back to town where I bought some batteries and some bread because the two often go hand in hand, made my way back to my room, and then reached the incredibly difficult decision that it was time for a beer. For whatever reason I changed the batteries in my camera, (I normally would not have even carried it with me as the store was right there on the corner) tossed it without thought into my front pocket, and walked across the street. I took my time as I was in no particular hurry and carefully chose the cheapest beer in the store (Carling Black Label). I exchanged pleasantries with the store clerk and leisurely made my way out of the store. As I began to step into the rain-soaked street, I looked over my left shoulder for traffic and there it was; the biggest, most brilliant rainbow I had ever seen.  I stopped dead in my tracks. And then my mind was like "Hey you dumb ass get a picture… quick!!"  The thing was it was a dozen blocks up the street to get a decent view and/or picture before it disappeared and who knew how long that would be. I would have to get a move on. I tucked my beer, which was in a brown paper sack, haphazardly under my arm, and literally sprinted up the street. I am sure the locals were like “Look at that crazy tourist.” No matter. As I splashed through the puddles with reckless abandon, I reached the top of the lane. I fumbled for my camera with one hand as my beer began to rip through the now-wet paper sack. I made it to the top of that hill in what felt like seconds flat, threw my beer unceremoniously to the ground, and got the shot. I must have looked half-crazed standing there with what I am sure amounted to a stupid grin of triumph on my face. Up to that point that had been the most laid-back day. I mean I had just been on the top of a mountain. Patience was my middle name, right? So much for being “laid back.” That was two minutes of sheer chaos and insanity followed by me laughing at myself for the next several hours. That rainbow must have stood in silent awe of my determination, quick feet, and triumphant grin. I am certain it watched in quiet amusement as I gathered up my beer, that had tumbled out of the sack, as I placed all but one of them as neatly as I could back into what remained of said sack, and casually sat down an old stone wall and popped the top on the remaining pint. The rainbow was still shining in the fading twilight as the rain started to fall again so I hopped down off the wall and began to walk casually back down the hill that I had just moments earlier traversed at the speed of light. I took one last glance back over my shoulder just in time to see that giant, amazing, rainbow, that had only moments before stretched down from the heavens, be swallowed up by the approaching storm. I turned and made my way slowly back down the street with the mist gently falling over me…and my sack of beer. Kristine one; Universe…zero.

Side note: I just want to give a heads-up to my friends from Lahinch. Lahinch was the perfect place to just hang out and relax and I want to thank Peter and Pat who ran the hostel for making me feel so at home. And I want to give a “surfs up dude” to my friend Colm who I came in on the bus with the first time I was there and who joined Nora and Martin and me to make my last night in Lahinch a grand, grand time. You guys really made a lasting impression on me and I hope that you find that killer surf you were looking for. 

Thus Far Chapter 3 Beyond Killarney

To be quite honest with you I barely know where to begin. Last week seems like forever ago. And I have been to so many places, experienced so many things, and met so many people since my last blog that it has all become one fantastic always interesting, and often heartfelt blur.  But let's see if I can pick up where I left off.

Leaving Killarney was certainly difficult. As I recall; there was a gentle mist falling across the village my last evening there so I pulled up the hood of my jacket, hunched my shoulders against the cold, and strolled around town one last time. Eventually, I made my way down into the forest that sits quietly next to the town. I walked along the river listening to the sound of the water as it gently flowed across the rocks as I am sure it has done since who knows when. I wandered down the path and soon found myself slowly making my way out into an immense, green, open pasture where the full glory of Magillycuddy’s Reeks looked down over the valley, across the glen, and seemingly, down to where I stood. 

I have to admit I definitely got emotional as I stood there looking across the prairie and up into the face of that distant purple mountain. I could feel the tears well up in my eyes and a lump grow uncontrollably in my throat. Those mountains had looked down over me during some of the most grueling moments in my life. It now sat stonily, watching over me, as if to say; finally, you are a part of this place, a part of this planet, and now a part of you will forever remain in Ireland. Moving forward was hard, looking back a must, as so many memories were made underneath that still mountain.

Anascaul: I decide to actually move from one place to the other the way normal people do…I caught the bus. I left Killarney for a town called Anascaul just northeast of my next favorite town and future destination, Dingle. I stopped in Anascal for one reason and one reason only; the strand at Inch. I had wanted to see the beach at Inch for years and I was certainly not disappointed. I stashed my gear at the “Randy Leprechaun,” who by the way was one shady character, (more on that later), and headed the 5 miles over the mountain pass (yes another freakin’ mountain), and down into Inch. I will have to say the view from the top of the pass was spectacular, the beach was amazing, and the water was cold as shit. 
   

Item number 3 was crossed off the old bucket list. Now, on my way back over the pass and back to the “Shady Leprechaun” as it came to be called, a little old lady named Mary stopped and offered me a lift back to town. Once again I found myself in a car literally rocketing down a small, narrow, gravel lane. I tried to make pleasant conversation with Mary, which was difficult to do whilst shitting one’s self. Mary, I found out, and from what I could understand through my terror-stricken brain, was on her way to church and was I’m guessing from my years of experience and quick wit, running late. As I left the confines of the car, she told me she would pray for me and I do believe she actually smiled as she spun the tires, spitting rocks and gravel back at me as she left me standing on the side of the road with crap in my pants. Swear to goodness, true story; including the crap.

Now the hostel I was staying at in Anascal had a very odd feel to it. When I awoke the next morning I met the only three other house guests in the hostel that night which happened to be three girls from Missouri; must be my week for Missourians, as two of my friends from Killarney were from there. Anyway, as we spoke, we all began to share our thoughts about this fine establishment. We were all equally creeped out by the front desk dude and when they offered to let us stay again that night but for free, get one night for ten bucks get the next night free, we all looked at each other wondering what the deal was and all of us trying not to bolt for the door right then and there. It wasn't long before my new friends had packed and were off with me hot on their trail. I opted to stand at the bus station in the pouring rain for an hour rather than stay one more second at the “Shady Leprechaun.” It’s pretty bad when you can’t even give away a free night's stay. Now that I think back on it; I remember wondering to myself while I was showering; why there were like twenty bottles of shampoo left behind on the shelf in the bathroom? Hmmmm…

Dingle: Dingle is just one of those places that has that something…special.  “Onomatopoeia.” A friend recently told me is a term that talent scouts use to denote “that something special.” Well to me…that is Dingle. Dingle represents friends to be made, music to be enjoyed, and a beauty to be seen that is unrivaled. It is a place where you can hear the sound of a child calling out across the quay, her falling footstep echoing across the pier as she runs down the dock aside her father’s ship, he, who had just returned from a day upon the sea. It is a place where music, hard work, laughter, and Guinness all hold equal importance. There is a place in Dingle, right off the quay, along the narrow main road lined with colorful houses and shops, which pipes traditional Irish music out into the street. If you stand there, as I did, listening to the sweet lilting sound of ancient music, your nostrils filled with the smell of fish and the ever-present aroma of the sea, stand there…you will not just see, but you will feel the majestic beauty of those things which have stood for centuries there; Hussie’s Follie, the Esk Tower and O'Connor’s Pass, and who keep watch over the harbor, its people, its heart. So, if you stand there…as I have, then you too will feel the aura known as Dingle. Simple things are often at the heart of life and it is those simple things, those times which often occur spontaneously which make life wonderful and interesting and beautiful. Dingle is simple in its own existence and breathes life into those who are fortunate enough to take the time to find it.

Now, I was fortunate enough to find a hostel that spoke quietly to me, as Dingle often does. In actuality, I was planning on camping at another hostel on the edge of town but had decided just to check the rates in town and thus I came across what I would have to say was a hostel and proprietor that was quintessentially…Dingle. As I walked through the door I was greeted by my soon-to-be friend Chuck who was straight out of the 60’s. He wore round John Lennon glasses and a Jazz-type cap which he wore backward and his grey, semi-long hair, was tucked haphazardly behind his ears. 

  

After a quick smile and hello Chuck gave me the rates (outside of my budget) and then helped me ring the other hostel, yes they could accommodate my tent, and sent me off with directions down an old Irish boreen which would provide me with a nice scenic walk and get me there lickety-split. We parted ways, him smiling and laughing as he folded clean sheets for the beds and towels for the guests. I didn't even make it 4 blocks before I turned around. I rang the bell, asked if he missed me yet and we shared a good laugh as he ushered me back into the warmth of what would become my home for the next four days. I don’t want to say that Chuck gave me preferential treatment but, he did.  He gave me a private room for two nights for the price of a dorm room, let me put my hand-washed clothes in the dryer, gave me my last night’s stay for a “tener,” let me drink the house milk out of the fridge, and kept me company on the porch, where he drank red wine and I cheap beer from the grocery store. Chuck was a wealth of information, a constant source of entertainment, and became my good friend. I guess for whatever reason I have a tendency to have that type of effect on people; I bring out the best in them and they, me. I’m not sure why. Onomatopoeia perhaps…

        Cloghane, Castlegregory and Camp…and Lions and Tigers and Bears, Oh My…

 Eventually, I had to leave the home, friends, and comfort that I had found in Dingle, and in particular at the Hide-out Hostel, and make my way towards Cloghane. I had two choices. Catch the bus EAST to Tra-Li and then transfer to a bus going WEST to my next destination. Or hitchhike over O'Connor’s Pass and be there in 30 minutes. Guess which one I chose and do not doubt for one second that 30 minutes turned into…well you’ll see. Off I went again to the edge of town where I was promptly picked up by Michael a really wonderful guy who admitted he hadn't picked up a hitchhiker in over fifteen years. There goes that damn Onomatopoeia again. Michael was on his way back to work from a holiday with his family and was just the coolest dude. Not only did he stop at the top of the pass to let me take pictures, offering to take mine with Dingle Bay shining in the background, but he also went out of his way, like in the opposite direction, to take me down into Cloghane right to the front door of the hostel. Thanks, Michael, you are the salt of the earth, my friend. I had, at the last moment, decided to go to a town called Cloghane instead of my original destination of Castlegregory. In hindsight, it was a stupid decision the first of many on this particular journey nestled in with several good ones but those don’t really count at the time you’re making the stupid ones, now do they? First of all my trip thus far had been about hiking Kerry Way and part of Dingle Way which I did and was, in part, still doing. But once back in Killarney, my trip became more about pub crawling than mountain climbing, or mountain scurrying as I liked to call it. To gain some type of focus I decided in Killarney to make the next part of this journey all about finding surfing in Ireland. So off I went, half-cocked and raring for the adventure that would come with my search for surf and/or surfers. 

Although I went to Inch, a beach renowned for its small but consistent surf, there was none that day. However, I did happen to catch a few pictures of a couple of surfers tucked neatly away in a hidden cove along Slea Head but my search began in earnest in Cloghane. I picked Cloghane as it was smack–dab in the middle of Brandon Bay and there was supposed to be surf in Brandon Bay. Well, no such luck; wrong part of the bay. I decided to leave Cloghane, sigh…but as good luck would have it the dude at the hostel was really cool, made a few phone calls, pointed me in the correct direction, gave me a lift back to the main road, and wished me happy trails. Okay, now all I had to do was hitchhike over to Castlegregory right? Good luck with that the universe said. I shall cram this into the proverbial nutshell just to save time (and because I promised myself I would not go over 4 pages per Blog). I ended up walking the ten miles into Castlegregory where I found the hostel which, and you have to love this about these little towns, was also the pub and general store. The room and the people were awesome but that was it. There was no TV, internet, stove or microwave. No sweat. All I needed was a bed anyway. So, at one point I talked to a couple of surfers who were staying there…ah ha!!! A clue!! Where there are surfers and boards there are usually waves; me and my sharp wit at work once again. After getting some info from the surfers I met some really, really wonderful folks at the pub who wanted to take me home with them right then and there to the Caravan park that a guy named Brian owned and where my temporary new best buddy, Judy lived. Since I had booked into the hostel already, I told them I would come down tomorrow and they could put me up and we would continue drinking of their national brew, Guinness. Never make plans while you are drinking Guinness in Ireland as the details can often get lost amongst the laughter and Slainte! I never did get to hook back up with them, too bad, cause Brian was as manly an Irishman as I had met to that point.  Anyway, I digress. The surfers had told me to go out to Maharees and if I was lucky there would be surf. Off the next morning, I went hiking the 8 miles out to Mahrees and back, and….no surf; flat as a pancake. Okay, no problem. I went back to the hostel, collected my things, and again (this is getting to be a habit) marched out to the edge of town to hitch into Camp and possibly find some surf along the beach there. I actually found Brian’s Caravan Park, which he had told me to look for during the prior evening's shenanigans and had asked me to come for a visit. Well, timing they say is everything as Brian had just left for the Pub 10 minutes before I arrived. Probably thought that I was going to be a no-show; boy did he underestimate me! So I thought I might catch Judy but didn't know what time she got off of work. I hung around a bit, talked to some of the local trailer park dwellers, always interesting, and finally made the decision to pitch my tent along the beach and wait for morning to try to get into Tra-Li where I had decided I would purchase a bus pass to get to my next few destinations. Well, I had a wonderful spot picked out nestled deep in the dunes of the beach under a solitary tree where I settled into my 3 x 6, quaint, and completely free accommodations and promptly fell asleep. 

Now here is where I want to remind you of several things. A) Remember the part in my last blog about the flying teeth? Yeah well, midges like to vacation at the beach as well. Who knew?? And B) Remember back at the beginning of this a dude named Michael picked me up on his way to Tra-Li? Coulda been there two days ago…but noooo….I had to go to these other places to explore and experience “Ireland.” Silly me.  Remember a while back in another Blog I ended up hitchhiking all over hell's half acre to wind up going to Killarney in the end? Yeah well, that’s what this whole experience was; a comedy of errors that took me…the long way round. But I have to admit it wouldn't be called an adventure if everything happened all neat and tidy now would it?? At any rate, I walked the three miles into Camp from my digs at the beach where I hoped to find the bus to Tra-Li. Just missed it. Damn the luck. Next bus, three hours away, shit. I did what I do best. I made a sign, threw out my thumb, and hoped for the best…come on Onomatopoeia (be a great name for a racehorse). So what happened you ask?? Well…I shit-you-not. A little old lady named…wait for it…Mary, swear to goodness, pulled up, on her way to….wait for it…church, and ushered me into the car. I have to tell you in all honesty; this was not the second time, but the third time since I began hitchhiking across Ireland that an older woman named Mary while on her way to church picked me up and gave me a ride, each in turn telling me that they would pray for me as they drove away. The first I didn't end up writing about. The second time, back a few paragraphs, certainly made me think, but the third time??!! I was blown away. As fate would have it when I was a young child around eight or nine my grandmother gave me a ceramic bust of the Virgin Mary that I still have to this day. So for me “Mary” has always been a symbol of comfort and solace. For over forty years I have kept that statue with me and for the last 20 years, it has been placed beside a picture of my children as a guardian so to speak. I always felt as long as she was there they would have someone to watch over them. So make what you will of this story my friends, as for me, I believe God was watching over my dumb-ass, and from here on out I think I’ll listen to what he is telling me…and just take the bus.