Monday I bussed from Dublin to Lisdoonvarna. Tuesday was the first day "earning my keep." That consisted of maybe a half hour of work because all the matchmaking is done more or less on the weekends. Boats of tourists, middle aged divorcees, and Sinead O'Connor will all be around here looking for mates, looking for love, passion, sex (stay turned for: Used Condom Count Competition), someone to grow older and older with at least until you split and re-attend the Matchmaking Festival in a future year. I can only hope that after a long weekend of cleaning rooms, Sinead will tell me, "Kyle, nothing compares to you."
Me and Diana left about noonish. We left by foot, planning to walk the 10k (6 miles) to the cliffs from Lisdoonvarna. The streets were narrow as shit. There is maybe enough room for a bus and a car to pass each other, but not enough room for a couple of tourists who may be trying to simply get to one of the most breathtaking pieces of scenery in the world--and an ATM. Diana needed cash, and Lisdoonvarna has no bank, no ATM, and neither does Doolin. Doolin has nothing.
While cautiously walking the needle-narrow roads, we thought we'd stop and eat in Doolin. On our way we had experienced busses and trucks racing only inches past us, disapproving cows,
thorny bushes, and doom. You could see the doom building in the distance. We were walking straight into the wind, straight toward the doom. And the doom did descend on us, and we did get drenched. More than once. Then it got colder. The wind stiffened. Then the sun would come out. And the process would start over again.
We had been walking about an hour and a half and came to a sign that said Doolin 2km ----->. Awesome, a chance for lunch. We deserved lunch, a hot lunch, a hot coffee or ten. We had walked almost 2km and came to a new sign that said Doolin 2km ----->. Ah, Doolin, an Irish town on the move, always 2km away, always just out of reach, just out of sight.
After what seemed like days and days of trekking and avoiding busses and getting soaked and drying out and shivering and cramping, we saw Doolin rise from the mist. It had four restaurants. One was closed. One didn't open until the evening. One was only serving a shady looking buffet. So to the cafe we went. We ate, dried off a bit, had some hot drinks.
Now. Now to the cliffs. We had to backtrack the 4km and head another 5km to the cliffs. Another hour spent walking into the doom with at least another hour to come. There was our fate hovering toward us. We knew it was coming. Another downpour of ice-cold needles blowing into our eyes. One needle, two needles, ten, twenty, countless needles. But before the doom could really crank up, we passed a van and a lady about to get in. She asked us if we wanted a ride, and, yes, yes, we wanted a ride.
It was easy to see that, no, the sign that said 10km to the Cliffs of Moher was full of shit--10km my ass. If you take nothing away from this blog, take this: Irish road signs were made and hung after a few pints.
As for the cliffs themselves, what could I type? I was nearly as speechless as I was in New Zealand. It all seemed unreal. Like these cliffs do not exist. That the experience that I am experiencing is not really being experienced. At any moment I expected a viking ship to come around the cliffs and the director to yell cut and the green screen to drop and the makeup lady to come over and powder my nose, preparing me for my next take.
No comments:
Post a Comment