Part Five of Our Treacherous Ireland Holiday
After many requests for the next Ireland installment, and Tom responding that he would write again after Sox Fest, I found it necessary to hijack his blog and tell my part of the story – as I was the driver on this adventure – and would be for the entire trip.
Two hours into the trip, Tom lost the lens of his glasses, and then sat on them, mangling them into some sort of infinity symbol, putting me in the driver’s seat, infinitely. Having driven in Ireland before, I had no problem driving, until I realized the island was covered in snow and ice. “It’s treacherous” and “the roads aren’t gritted” became two of the phrases I dreaded most. I was so tired of hearing it, especially when it wasn’t bad driving at all…until we left Bushmills.
Having spearheaded this adventure, I planned all the routes, and I have no one to thank (or blame), only myself. According to googlemaps.com, the drive from Bushmills to Westport is 4 hours and 23 minutes. Add Irish drivers inexperienced in manuevering through a half inch of snow, and it doubles.
We left Bushmill’s about 1pm, meaning we should arrive in Westport by 6pm. As we started, still awestruck from Giant’s Causeway and full of adrenaline from crossing the Carrick-a-Rede, we were stoked to get to our next destination. The afterglow wore off during rush hour traffic in Sligo. Really, Ireland? Rush hour traffic in Sligo. As we left Sligo, I could tell I would participating in one of the sports I hate most: Driving in Ireland at Night.
Let me backtrack here and state that in my younger days, I was pretty fearless, but time and wisdom and some bizarre sense of responsibility have kicked in – especially since I have four new people in my life. I didn’t care about driving safely in any previous trip, but I wasn’t carting around someone’s dad. If my friends were silly enough to get in a car with me behind the wheel, what with my proclivity for speeding tickets and reckless driving, then that’s their fault. Now I’ve got to get someone’s dad back safe and sound, and I’m driving on a sheet of black ice. To quote Depeche Mode, “I don’t mean to start any blasphemous rumors/but I think that God’s got a sick sense of humor/and when I die, I expect to find him laughing.
There are a million stars in the night sky in Ireland, probably because its so far north, but also because it’s so bleeping dark. After Sligo, the sun started to set, and I started to sweat. I wish I could blame it on booze, but the night before was our night in, and I didn’t even finish my glass of wine at dinner. This was fear – fear because I’m driving on a two lane highway and I have no idea what’s around me. I could be driving next to a lake, a wall, a grizzly bear, anything, and I would have no idea. Rumor has it that part of being a good driver is seeing everything around you and there was, with my better than perfect vision, blind as a bat.
Ireland for all of its natural wonder and beauty, prefers to leave their natural wonders unmarred – i.e. no guardrails. If there is a guardrail, it tends to be made out of plywood sticks and chicken wire, so as not to spoil the view. It might as well be made out of spun sugar, for all the good any of them would do. If the car is going over, some little garden stick isn’t going to stop it. This is why driving in Ireland at night could be considered an extreme sport – I don’t know what’s next to me, and if it’s something wet, I can’t see the end of the road. If I catch a patch of ice, we’re so flipping dead, literally.
So bring on Sligo and the night, and the crazy Irish drivers that drive toward you with their brights on, blinding you for about 30 seconds, forcing you to pray there isn’t a sharp curve in the road because road planners in Ireland always choose the curved road over the straight.
Despite the “treacherous” conditions, the other drivers on the road passed me – ME! The girl whose license once looked like swiss cheese from the multiple staple holes from all of the speeding tickets. Apparently, it’s not treacherous at night, because it seemed like the entire country passed me on those backroads.
Just when I thought I could take no more, just when I swear I’d never be able to unclench my hands from the steering wheel, just when I was going to pull over and refuse to drive another kilometer, we saw the lights for Westport. I knew it was coming, as I was eagerly counting down every last kilometer, with a silent cheer. I almost wept at the first streetlight, until I saw the patches of black ice dotting the road, and then I just gritted my teeth, swore like I was crossing a rope bridge, and drove right into town, getting there at 8pm, over two hours later than planned.
We quickly found the B&B booked for the night, parked and brought in our bags. It was a cute townhouse, as Sadie put it “right in the center.” The Boulevard looks upon the river, which has a series of stone bridges crossing them. We dropped our bags, ditched the idea of a shower (even though it was probably desperately needed) and headed back out for some much needed food and relaxation. Our landlady for the night sent us off to a pub that she thought would still be serving food – it was a Tuesday in winter and they eat early. We struck out at several pubs and opted for Mango – no not the character from SNL – a restaurant. Ok, so it was a nicer restaurant than we’d intended, but we threw out the other phrase we kept repeating during the trip, “Hey, its our honeymoon.” After some wine, and crab claws, the memories of the harrowing drive started to fade, much like the agony of childbirth, and it didn’t seem so bad. Two hours later at Matt Molloy’s pub, after a few snakebites, it dimmed considerably. Three hours later, when I was holding Matt’s Grammy in my hand – he’s a member of The Chieftans – I was feeling much much better.
A Face from the Crowd 