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I happily present to you, day one of my Ireland/UK adventure: Dublin, the Bray, and the unintended destination of Kilcoole (pronounced kill-cool-ey).
The day started early enough; woke up at a lovely 3 a.m. (a bit earlier than what I had to get up, but I was too paranoid of sleeping through my alarm to keep on trying to get sleep) and was picked up by an Amber Car cab at 4:45 to get to the airport. Now, taxi drivers in Leeds generally come in two types: silent or cheery. This particular driver was the cheery type (or so it seemed). He started off by chatting about how it doesn't make sense to be miserable because, seeing as he was a man of numbers and calculations, it is just a waste of time. To be tired? Sure. Stressed? Of course. But being miserable is just a waste, even at 4 in the morning, a sentimentality I groggily agreed with.
At this point, he started to talk about how he somehow has a way to upset people that he drives around. He first talked about how he criticizes religious people, calling them non-religious if they do not study their books or know their own doctrine. That I can understand. It is, I suppose, better to be a good atheist with a full understanding of what you believe in than a bad Catholic who prescribes to a religion mindlessly, perhaps following the faith without ever really believing in or knowing about what the faith implies. Alright. An odd philosophical chat for 4 a.m., but still doable. But that's when I found out that this particular taxi driver was extremely homophobic.
I try to be pretty understanding when it comes to other people's views on particular, more touchy, issues. I do not, however, agree with what the driver was saying, but seeing as he was driving me to the airport, which lies a bit out of Leeds, I pretty much sat through his entire rant, lest I say something and he drop me off at the wrong stop, or take a huge detour that would have hiked up the total cost to the airport.
But I digress. The cab driver talks of how he also upsets gay people. In his view, he saw them as thieves. Not human. Not homosexual. Thieves. Unlike a heterosexual couple, who gets married, has kids, and spends money on the kids, homosexuals grow up, "groom" others to be like them (suggesting that being gay is a choice, something to train for), live lavishly without the worry of spending money on raising a kid, and when they get old, they expect money and care from someone else's kid, thus making them thieves. I did try to bring up instances of homosexuality in nature, such as rams who choose male partners over female (his counter argument was that they had too much testosterone, so they obviously just shag everything in sight). I tried to talk about heterosexual couples who married, but did not have kids. I mentioned homosexual couples who got married, but then adopted. All of these counter arguments hit deaf ears, and were quickly refuted, so by the end, I was just politely nodding my head. At one point, I even said how I can understand his view and possibly where he was coming from (not that I agree with it). He also decided to combat that and said it was not a view, but truth, because he was such a calculating man of numbers, who understands the system. By the time we pulled up to the airport, he had shifted his topic a bit to complain about money in general and the deficit in America, and he might have ranted about Obama, while also tying it all back to the problem of the gays and their thievery.
So that was my fifteen minute cab drive at 4 a.m. from Bodington Hall to the airport.
The flight to Dublin was, luckily, devoid of any twinge of homophobia. I used Ryanair, which is a popular flight service in Europe to get around for cheap (the flight cost 15 pounds. Compared to flights from ABQ to Denver, which is the same distance, for about 100 dollars, it's a real bargain). The flight itself did contain a good deal of advertisements, including on the overhead announcements, but that's probably the reason why it was so cheap. So, after 45 minutes, I was in Dubliin, and could now claim I had been to three different countries (not including my layover in Amsterdam).
After that, I caught a bus to Sandy Cove, where some dear friends, Jenny (my old boss from the Honors Program) and her partner, Zach, are living. Zach and Jenny were kind enough to let me stay with them and use their couch for the days while I was in Dublin, something that I am still very grateful for, especially after having to stay in a hostel for a few days in London.
The bus dropped me off at a lovely church (I actually almost got off on the wrong stop and fell asleep several times while on the journey from Dublin airport to Sandy Cove) where I met Zach and Jenny. After a brief hello, Zach set off to school (both he and Jenny are attending Trinity University in Dublin for their postgraduate). Jenny then proceeded to walk me to where they lived, where I set my stuff down and got settled a bit. After that, we set off. Keep in mind that, in spite of the length of this blog, it was only about 12 or 11 at this time.
Jenny took me around Sandy Cove, first. It really is a beautiful place. Situated right next to the ocean, it was barely a few minute walk to get to the edge, where you could see the waves crashing against the rocks. The sun was out, the sky was blue, and you could see the far stretch of sea and, in the distance, an Irish landmass shrouded in green. There was a tower sort of thing (the name of it escapes me. Think a castle tower or an oval guard tower), which was apparently built by the British during World War I. Several of these were built around Ireland and were equipped with cannons, as a way to defend the land from German invaders, in case they chose to attack Ireland to get to England. Inside of this tower is a small room, which, apparently, a few famous writers (including James Joyce) decided to stay for a bit. Picture it. A bunch of brooding, gray writers, set in their own seclusion and retreat from the world, boxed in a small,clammy, stone room with little light and less space. It's no surprise that, by the end of the week, they were literally to the point ofshooting at each other. Needless to say, Joyce left in a huff, never to return to Dublin. However, in spite of this, the tower is named after him.
We continued along the edge of the land and the ocean, and saw some swimmers. Yes. Swimmers. In roughly 50 degree weather. In what must have been 20 degree waters. Along the way, there was even a building in slight ruin where people go to swim in this ocean (I guess it is also a traditional thing to do on the 25th of December). Finally, we got to the Dart (the train that connects the cities near Dublin) and set off to Bray, which was a bit south from where we were.
I'm not sure how familiar people are with the Cliffs of Bray, but it is essentially a giant hike/walk on an almost mountainous area (the most mountain anyone in the UK or Ireland will probably have). It was extremely beautiful. After walking along the beach to the cliff, where Jenny and I looked at a few stones and shells and Jenny looked for beach glass, and after we passed some small amusement park rides (for the tail end of the St. Patrick's Day celebrations), we started on the hike. It was quite easy at first, but, not too far into the journey, we chose the path less traveled by and went off path into some brush that suggested a different way up. After crouching and climbing a bit of the way, we were in what can honestly be described as the Albuquerque Foothills or the base of the Sandia Mountains (Jenny claims, and I very much agree, that Ireland is basically like a greener New Mexico, to be explained some time later). We could no longer see the ocean, which had been next to us moments before. Trees were everywhere, and roots trailed the ground, making very useful natural steps, seeing as the path up had become quite steep. There still was the hint of brush, which had beautiful yellow flowers blooming and enveloping the greenish twigs, but, after a bit of traveling, I could honestly believe that we were in some mountains and were going along some trail to the peak.
By the time we broke through the trees, were were a good deal of the way up, and could see a lot of Irish countryside. It was, in all senses of the word, breath-taking. Especially considering all of the hiking we had just done. We entered into a beautiful brush clearing, where the yellow-flowered plants covered the land, sans for a small trail that we went up. When we got further on, we stopped at a log to have a quick rest and snack, and looked out at our surroundings. In front of us was a golf course (Jenny was quite tempted to yell out just before one of them teed off, but they left before we could), to the right were hills of green and horses and sheep in the distance, to the left was further trail, and behind us, up on the very top of the cliff, was a cross that a bunch of people were gathered around.
We went the other way (towards the further trail) to walk to Graystone, which was, apparently, at the end of the trail. We walked quite a bit, talking of many things, such as the evilness of the Guiness corporation, female heroines as portrayed today, and How I Met Your Mother, and, after at least 45 minutes of walking, decided we were lost. We continued along the path regardless, going through a fence and climbing a few gates, and eventually got to a road. We were in Graystone. Sure. But, what the trail guide map failed to tell us was that, although we would be in Graystone, we would not be anywhere close to a business or the city centre or a form of transportation to get back to the Dart, but were on the very outskirts on it.
So we walked. And walked. And walked. We saw a few straw thatch'd roofs and several cars passing by. By the time we did find someone to talk to to ask for directions, we have been walking quite a bit. She directed us along the way, and we followed most of her directions, stopping in a supermarket where we got water and instructions on what bus to take to get to the Dart which would take us back to Sandy Cove (we originally planned to eat in Graystone, but it was far too late by this point). After waiting for the bus, we got on. Jenny asked the bus driver to let us know when the stop to the Dart came up, so we could get off in time. And that should have been it.
Unfortunately, the bus took us a bit further than what we intended. And by a bit further, I mean we were in a completely different town by the time we asked the bus driver if the stop to the Dart was close. He had forgotten about us, but was luckily pretty nice about the situation. He tried to give us directions to walk back (and got in a slight argument with an old lady who was sitting on the bus about how close it was to walk to Graystone) and then left. From the sounds of the argument, walking back would be way too far, and our feet were aching as is. So, we went to the stop across the road and waited. And waited. And waited. We were next to two teenagers, one of them who happened to be blowing smoke our way. There were birds across the road, magpies, that were jumping through the trees and singing.
After about 45 minutes, a bus finally came up. The bus driver was the same one who had got us there in the first place, meaning that he had taken an entire circuit through the town and Kilcoole and was on the way back. Luckily this also meant that he let us on without fair, and, finally, we were able to get off at the right stop, get on the Dart, and go back to Sandy Cove, where we sat in a tea shop, had a much needed cup, and talked of things that were probably of more importance than the first four seasons of How I Met Your Mother.
Zach met up with us after a bit, and we went to a supermarket where I had to buy some shower toiletries (airport security threw out the ones I had brought) and where they got some food. After that, they cooked some very delicious tortellini, we had another cup of tea, and I went to bed on a couch that seemed to be more comfortable than my bed back at Bodington.
And that was my first day in Ireland
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