Despite the lack of sleep due to the Dirty Knobs concert and rising early on Friday to prepare for an interview that was delayed, I couldn’t sleep Friday night. Still, I forced myself to sleep in a bit.
I took the house plants to Mom’s, stopping briefly for a breakfast at our local A&W. I didn’t stay long at Mom’s, though — we had things to do.
Back at the house, Alex and Monkey were up. I took the opportunity to finish exporting the pictures from Alaska and get them up on the site, in case I need to show them to Jean when we meet up in a week. Then I packed.
I can pack in about 15 minutes. We’re planning to do laundry in Bushmills, so we’re not bringing much. And the forecast is for cool and rain, so no shorts (a decision I would realize was short-sighted about 16 hours later).
Then we packed up the Boys and took them out to the Springbank Pet Resort. It has chucked rain all night and hadn’t let up, the wind throwing trees about like those dancing men you see at used car lots. The ditches were flooded. Someone said it was a third of the rain we’d gotten in 2013.
It was only as we neared the Pet Resort that Hodgins realized something was up and made it painfully clear. In the car, it was a questioning alarm, but inside the building, it was a plaintive, mournful plea to not be abandoned. Banner just sat there.
In the Cat Room, things took a turn. Hodgins immediately ran for the high ground, leaping up on top of the cabinets and letting out a deep, roaring belly growl. Then he saw another cat, also on the cabinet, hissed, and walked away. He was now thoroughly Mr. Grumpypants.
Banner had to be poured from his carrier, much like Asia had. He was initially fine, but then spotted a black cat in one of the condos, hissed (which surprised me, he’s never hissed before) and slunk away. I scooped him up and plopped him in his condo, closing the door behind him.
To get Hodgins down, we needed a short ladder. He seemed to acquiesce having me at that height, but immediately put up a fight to be taken down. Three cuts on my hand later, he was in his condo.
“Sometimes they’re like that on their first visit,” I was told.
“Oh, he’s been here before. We’ve been coming here for years, we used to bring our cat Asia here.”
“This Asia?” asked the attendant. She pointed to a picture of our dearly beloved cat, gone for two years, taped to the side of one of the cabinets. “We loved having her here. I’m so sorry she’s gone.” Dust in my eye, I’m sure.
We left early for the airport. We had to get our seats fixed. Some idiot at Westjet broke the seat booking algorithm, allowing Choo Choo — still a minor — to be seated all alone, far from the rest of us. I had tried to correct this online, but every time I tried, it failed. After the third try, I decided WestJet was going to fix this for us without charging us a dime.
We parked in the Park ‘n Jet, the online pre-purchase saving a few bucks. But we ended up waiting quite a while in the spitting rain and wind for the bus to come. I was unimpressed.
I had walked into the International terminal prepared for a fight. No, we had not purchased specific seats (a nickel and dime practice I loathe), but we shouldn’t have to worry about having our party split up. But Moe, the clerk, immediately disarmed me with “oh, that’s very wrong, let’s fix that” and before long, we’d migrated 20 rows forward into the extended legroom rows, four seats in a row, split in half across an aisle.
And instead of an hour at the counter, which I was expecting, we had to move into the terminal. Which was good – we were hungry. Even though we could expect meals on the flight, none of us wanted to risk it.
We headed to Chili’s, which had been a go-to for previous cross-Atlantic flights. But we weren’t feeling it. Alex vetoed it almost as soon as we were seated, and we went off in search of other fare. It was only because the hostess (a delightfully older woman, for a change) announced that Vin Room is local (we’d forgotten about it) that we ended up there.
The flight – another 787 Dreamliner – was good, at least once Alex got some headphones. I watched Captain America: Brave New World (which is a decent film and gets too much grief), and then Ocean’s 11 (the superior remake), which I can always watch.
I barely slept. But despite my discomfort, I’m sure I slept somewhat, as suddenly we were getting “breakfast” (a pastry of some sort) and preparing for landing.
Whether Dublin Airport can’t handle Dreamliners or WestJet couldn’t get a better gate, I don’t know. But we were getting off onto the tarmac. It took nearly half an hour to find stairs. Stairs. To get off a Dreamliner. Like, c’mon, Dublin, what’re you doing? And we were as far away as you could get from the terminal. There was much walking, but after a trip that long, it’s welcome.
We actually got stamps in our passports. I can’t even remember the last time I had a stamp. (Quite possibly the visit to Florida in 2015. And if not that, it would have been Costa Rica the year before.) We collected the bags, found a taxi, and headed into Dublin, heading for Heuston Station.
Fun fact: Heuston doesn’t have left luggage. The nearest option is a hostel a couple of blocks away for €6/bag. Beggars, choosers. None of us wanted to lug those about Dublin for the four hours before our train to Cork.
We wandered east, hugging the shores of the Liffey. A Spar (convenience store, not the thing that hangs off of ship masts) caught our attention, discovering all the Irish snacks within. Reminiscent of London, but with enough local differences to matter. And that was a half hour of my life lost to endless selection and indecision.
We eventually found a pub called O’Shea’s, of the more touristy Irish pubs. (Though apparently The Brazen Head, supposedly Dublin’s oldest pub, is much more tourist.) It was acceptable, but the lamb stew I had on a ferry crossing nearly 20 years ago was much better.
It’s been 19 years since I was in Dublin, my first visit to Ireland. I remember very little of it outside of the pictures I took (and journals I wrote; one day, I will transcribe them here). This trip is centred around another one of Allen’s family reunion efforts, with a few days tacked on for the four of us to have a “last” family trip before Monkey’s off to university. Things change significantly this year, and we really have no idea what to expect.
Following lunch, we headed south, up the hill, and followed the pealing of bells into the churchyard of Saint Audoen’s, spying a guide in “full” costume (Viking or Saxon, I’m not sure which) leading his troop about. We could see ropes being pulled through an open grate up the tower. We were too tired to be any more curious.
Alex spied some tourist signs so we zigged across a bizarre intersection of roads to see where they pointed. We soon realized we were further to the west than I’d thought. And we realized that going further east wasn’t really warranted — not only are we a but tired, but we are coming back in just over a week. We started back towards Heuston, this time following the road instead of the river.
Seeing an ATM, I paused to get some Euros. Even at €6/bag, the hostel wanted cash.
A woman ahead of me was getting money. She was just finishing when a guy who had clearly been collecting bottles for money suddenly swooped around her for an attempted snatch-and-grab.
Whether due to or in spite of my exhaustion, I didn’t think, I didn’t pause, I reacted, immediately shoving my way in, pushing the would-be thief off, accidentally knocking the woman down. The asshole attempted to suggest that I hadn’t seen the whole thing unfold before my eyes, and received a very loud ”FUCK OFF!” Two blocks in either direction probably heard me.
The woman’s friend swung her hand bag, further driving off the attacker. He disappeared, and I turned to the woman. I apologized for knocking her down and helped her back to her feet. She was thankfully unharmed.
It was only then that I realized that none of my family had seen what had happened, had only seen my reaction, and I’d scared poor Choo Choo. When you’re already exhausted and underslept, this is not something you want to experience. She was concerned that there could have been a knife, something I hadn’t seen nor considered. Given that one hand had been holding a bag of bottles and the other was trying to reach for money, I think my brain said “go” before anything else. He could have still attacked me afterwards, but I think between drawing a significant amount of attention (have I mentioned that I’m loud?) and a flailing handbag, he didn’t stick around. Still, a lesson for me.
We walked back to Heuston mostly quiet, Choo Choo still unnerved by what had happened. Monkey and I headed to pick up our bags, passing by almost a dozen vendors selling cowboy hats and ponchos for one of a few concerts on tonight. Already the trains were vomiting huge Sunday night crowds for the various events.
I was thankful Alex had suggested buying tickets for the train. To be honest, I think of Ireland as quiet and quaint, which I have from my previous visit 19 years ago. Dublin is a major centre and drives a lot of Irish culture. If we hadn’t booked tickets, it would have been an awkward trip.
We got seats in Car G, the “Quieter Car”. I’ve been in Shinkansen Quiet Cars and they mean it, you can hear pins drop. Here, it’s just less boisterous than other cars, and the “do not use mobile phones” seems to be merely a suggestion.
Choo Choo slept. Monkey tried and failed to watch more of Pirates of the Caribbean before trying to sleep, herself. Alex rested a bit, including on a sleep mask. I watched the countryside and wrote. The toilet was broken and about the nastiest thing I’ve seen on a train in ages.
Ireland is every bit as I remember it: smooth undulating greenery, borders lined by trees, the odd hilltop higher than the surrounding terrain. And weirdly, far more cattle than I can recall.
The train trundled to Cork, its terminus. Intercity trains go no further. We dropped out of the car, and walked out with the throng of other people. I couldn’t see the exit to the south, so we went north, a slightly longer route. There, we found a newer staircase (within the last couple of years, the stone looks fresh) that took us ultimately back to where we needed to go, following the southern channel of the River Lee to the Premier Inn.
Choo Choo stayed in the room, preferring to sleep; Alex, Monkey, and I went to the dining room for dinner, which was surprisingly good for a lower-end hotel.
I walked around a bit after to take pictures, Alex went out geocaching. When I ran into a crowd of boisterous street kids, I opted to head back to the room than press my luck again.
