From London to Dublin

9/8/17

I left California just two days ago to find my way to England on my research adventure. I'm currently a few chapters away from finishing my next novel, From Night On: The Veil, which focuses on Greek and Berber mythologies, and taking this time to gather material in preparation for my next novel in the series From Night On. As I write this first entry, I'm sitting at a Cornish pub in Delabole called Bettle and Chisel, where I am going to experience my first Cornish breakfast while I'm listening to America's hits from the 90's and earlier on their jukebox.

The flight was more tolerable than I had anticipated, although the seats seemed much smaller than I was used to. They also wouldn't recline very much, so, when I tried to fall asleep, I was at an angle where my head would keep falling forward, waking me up and making sleeping in a sitting up position impossible. I tried my old method of dropping the tray in front of me and pretending I was back in high school and sleeping like I would at my desk. The area was so cramped that it was painful at first, but I managed until the person in front of me moved their seat back the meager centimeters, which were enough to pin me down like I was in the WWE. Never the less, I was too excited about this expedition and was practically dancing in my seat the entire way.

When we touched down at Heathrow, it was at 9 AM GMT on September 7, 2019, which was 1 AM my time. I had purposely stayed up the night before my flight just to make it easier to sleep along the way. I had been up from 2:30 PM Thursday and it was then 1 AM Saturday morning for me. Did that stop me? NO! Delirium setting in and my excitement rushing through my veins, I got my rental car and headed straight to the Doctor Who Shop.

I was very nervous about driving. I rented a car with a stick, which was surprisingly easy to adapt to. My own car is a stick, so you'd think it shouldn't be anything, but, with it being on my left side, my natural reflex to shift gears with my right hand had me occasionally punching the door when I slowed down or sped up.

Driving on the other side of the road after being up for a day and a half was incredibly easy in practice, but impossible in theory. If the previous sentence was confusing, it was meant to be. My body easily adjusted to the difference and took control, driving on the other side and adjusting to the difference in the lanes on the freeway, but the entire time my mind was thinking, “I don't get it. What are we doing?”

That slight learning curve still in effect, I'm still watching cars come at me as I walk along the streets and have a momentary panic attack of, “Why are you on the wrong side of the road?!?” This experience has made me very aware of one thing though: I rely so much on senses other than sight as I navigate through areas. I listen to cars passing by me more than I look for them, so, as I walked here for breakfast, hearing a car coming from behind, I expected them to pass right next to me, but they were on the other side of the road. It kind of freaked me out a little. Okay, on to other things. (I know that most Americans are fixated on the driving issue, so I wanted to offer something of my first experience with this.)

When I came in last night, Mike told me that the pub was open. It's the same place I'm sitting in right now. I thought it would be a great idea to have a pint before going to bed and it would give me a glimpse of the night life in this small town as this would be the only Saturday I'd spend here, so I had to take the opportunity.

The bar tender, Danni (short for Danielle) was sweet and, with the help of one of the patrons, filled me in on some places to visit while I'm here. An interesting thing I noticed confessed to my new friends was that I was actually feeling self conscious about my own accent. Being from Northern California, I knew that it was noticeable. Yesterday, during a lunch stop on my road trip, I walked into a Burger King, afraid of venturing too far away from the freeway and getting turned around. The young lady who watched me walk up to the counter with a look of apathy painted across her face immediately blushed and giggled when I opened my mouth to order my food. Well, I shared this with my audience, who all then said that they couldn't hear me, so I would have to speak up. My worries of how I would be perceived as an American were completely the opposite of how I have been received up to this point.

I was so taken by how friendly everyone was that my one pint before bed turned into seven before I stumbled away and locked myself in my room when I desperately needed to pee. Let me clarify: when I got back to my room, I didn't lock the door with an intention of keeping others out. No, I was so drunk that I forgot how to use a doorknob. That being said, it should go without saying that I took to the Cornish ales like a fish to water and, yes, that pun was most definitely intended. At £3 a pint I would have gladly swam in the stuff. I'm almost afraid to remember the names of the ales because I'm sure they taste nothing alike to what we might find in the US.

Without any hesitation, I will say that this breakfast was the best I've had in a very long time. I've heard horror stories of the food over here and I can clearly say that those worries should be put to rest. The waitress' eyes did go wide when I ordered the LARGE Cornish breakfast and my taste buds thanked me for the prolonged euphoric experience. I died and ate heaven. I hadn't thought that beans for breakfast would be a good idea, but mixed with the sausages, sauteed potatoes and mushrooms, and their delightful way of frying an egg, the whole plate was one big compliment. I nearly cried when it was all gone, but that was a good thing. I would have continued to eat until I burst. “Are you sure you wouldn't like one wafer thin mint?” KABOOM!

Today's adventures include visiting Tintagel Castle, and I have an accomplice in this endeavor. Danni from the pub will be joining me. In my drunken delight, I gained the courage to invite her to join me for a wander.

Tintagel is, according to lore, the site where King Arthur was magically conceived. Scarce walls and the foundations of the old buildings are all that remain, but that shouldn't take away from its awesomeness at all. The fact that so much still remains is a call to the materials used to build it. Along the coast near the site, you can easily see the stratified rocks, jutting up and out of the coastline. These rock formations can be hammered and broken off in almost perfectly designed bricks. These long, thin bricks were then stacked with some form of a mortar.

The engineering of the archways and the larger structures was fantastic, and I couldn't help noticing how similar the foundations were to viking long houses. I was thinking about it along the drive bac;, how the houses were arranged, and it seemed to be quite the small community with plenty of land to still use. At first, I considered that the land without housing was utilized for some kind of agriculture, but then I remembered that I had no idea which foods could be grown so close to the sea, salt water being a problem for most crops, but I'm not the farmer my grandfather was.

After I returned to the room and took a nap, I went back out to the pub where the bartender, Mandy, insisted on keeping me there until the turn of midnight to properly welcome in my birthday. I met a couple more locals, a couple named David and Hannah. David and I got into some great conversations around politics and he payed me the compliment of being a rare, intelligent American. This all turned into another massive night of drinking, which left me stumbling back to my room at the assistance of the kind bar keep.

So far, I would say that I would happily live here. The people are friendly, the location is great, the food is fantastic, and everything is very affordable.

9/9/19

Happy birthday to me! I drove the three hours from Delabole to Stonehenge today to visit the iconic site. While I would gladly do it again, I was a little disappointed. When you arrive, you catch a shuttle to the actual site. Along the short drive, there is a radio playing, giving you details of the site and it's history as well as prehistory. One particular aspect that was frustrating was that, when Stonehenge took off as a tourist attraction, visitors would regularly break off pieces of the stones as souvenirs. This led to barriers being put up and nobody being allowed past the mote. While I understand the need to preserve the site, I am frustrated that people would be so stupid as to damage such a site and ruin it for the rest of us.

9/10/19

I took today to make a small visit to Boscastle, a small port town dating back to god knows when. In a used book store, I found a small treasure of a book on Dartmoor folklore. It's small, and better described as a pamphlet. I'll probably read through it in less than an hour, so I'm saving it for my flight back to the states.

I went back to The Bettle and Chisel for my last night in Delabole. I really made some amazing friends there. David and Mandy are the best people I've met in a long time. Funny, witty, caring, and so incredibly strong. Although I could be wrong. They could have been celebrating the departure of some crazy Californian who they couldn't wait to get rid of (I'm only joking). In all honesty, I appreciated their company, conversation, and banter through and through.

On that same note, drinking with them is dangerous. It's too enjoyable, and the pints keep coming without notice. Imagine the tastiest drink you've ever had and remember that night when you kept drinking them because they tasted so good. Are you being struck by the feeling of being overly drunk? Good, now add in the best conversations on top of that. You'd think that I would have ended up in the hospital with alcohol poisoning, but, somehow, my constitution kept me upright long enough to make it to my room.

9/11/19

Up and out early with a slight hangover. I left Delabole at 7:30am and made my way to Fishguard in Wales where I would catch the ferry to Rosslare, Ireland. The drive was beautiful the entire distance. Rolling green fields and farmlands everywhere with old stone homes scattered from plot to plot of land. The only real glimpse of modern times came during short passings through areas, such as when I crossed The Prince of Wales Bridge, which was impressive on its own.

The ferry ride was only slightly confusing as to where I could drop off my rental car. A quick call to the company fixed that, but I'm still enchanted by the slight language barrier. Small nuances that we all take for granted that make a world of difference in common conversation. That being said, I still haven't become even remotely accustomed to the accents. I'm so used to hearing them on television, in movies, or when my friends and I imitated them out of fun that I can't believe they're real.

Similarly, I feel myself specifically focusing on my accent when I speak to anyone new. After hearing them in person and demonstrating my own practiced skill with mimicking them to the people at The Bettle and Chisel, who probably would have slapped me if I was truly horrible, I'm fairly confident that I could easily blend in and not raise any awareness to my origins if I so desired, but still, I have a fear of insulting anyone even though I personally believe that mimicry is the highest form of compliment.

Sorry about that. I got lost in a thought. Continuing along: If you're planning on taking a ferry between the two islands, my advice would be to change your currency when you can BEFORE you get on the ferry. I took it for granted and assumed that there would be an ATM waiting for me in Ireland where I could change out some dollars for some euros, but no such luck, and the buses only take euros. The closest ATM was about a mile away, up a hill, and nowhere near the bus station I needed to get to Wexford. Luckily for me, the bus driver caught me just before I started hiking, with all gear in hand, toward the nearest ATM, and allowed me to hop on without charging me. Of course, that wasn't before scolding me for not being properly prepared.

Even though I made it to Wexford, I still couldn't find an ATM to pull some cash from until I found my way into the center of town and popped into a liquor store. Local cash in hand, I was still hauling around my belongings and wanted to drop them off at the room I had booked before exploring. I called every taxi company in town and not a single one could pick me up within the following thirty minutes, so, seeing that my room was just a 23min walk away, I decided to hoof it up the hill that killed me for the night, so I didn't go back out, deciding to shower and rest for the evening.

9/12/19

As I wrote the last entry, and beginning this one, I'm sitting at a cafe in town with a wonderful view of the local architecture. My lodgers, a nice couple named Peter and Marie, have been very helpful with pointing me directly where I need to go. I found this coffee shop at their suggestion, and they are currently working on a map/itinerary of sites to see along my travels. I'm happy with one decision: to visit Galway. Despite my repeated reminders that I'm visiting the city, both Peter and Marie continued to tell me that I have to visit there as it is “true Ireland,” but Galway would have to wait. I have stops along the way.

I wandered into the Irish Heritage Historical Center in Wexford, and it was my version of an amusement park. I spent hours reading signs that explained all of the exhibits that moved from prehistoric/neolithic to the Norman occupation. Stunning recreations of what the towns and churches of the times would look like were around each corner and I quickly loaded my phone's memory with pictures and videos. In order to save them, I had to upload them to my FB account before deleting them from my phone.

As I passed through a tunnel to another exhibit, a story was written on the walls along with artwork in the old Gaelic-Celtic style. The story was of Odin and how he hanged himself in the tree, Yggdrasil, in self sacrifice to obtain the knowledge of runes. The image was fairly terrifying at first, but it held an unexpected weight for me. For anyone who has read my books and is familiar with the character Bob, AKA Mr. X-Files, the image painted on the wall before me was virtually the same image I had of the alien guardian whom I wrote about years ago.

I still have no idea of what to make of that image or it's connection. For all my memory, that was the first time I had seen it outside of a dream. The dream itself was roughly a decade ago. I know that I have a drawing of Bob from the day after I had the dream, so I'll have to find it to compare images. Of course, I took a picture of the wall painting.

After spending about four hours at the site, I returned to base to relax for a moment before going back out for dinner. Peter suggested that I go to Rob's Ranch House, so I took him up on the advice to my greater amusement. It's one thing to see how people truly are after hearing and seeing stereotypes portraying them, and it's a completely different thing to see how they stereotype you.

Rob's Ranch House is an American Western themed restaurant where the staff uniforms are tight jeans, cowboy boots, plaid shirts, and straw cowboy hats. The interior design: rustic wooden tables and booths; carved, wooden statues of “Indian Chiefs”; pictures along the walls of black and white photos of random people with handlebar mustaches, horses, old-timey American buildings from the Victorian era; the general feeling that my grandfather's barn along with bits and pieces of a Cracker Barrel thrown up in there; and the final aesthetic piece: a television continuously playing cowboy movies.

This would have been funny if I had just wandered into and found it. Hell, there's even places like this in the States that are simply there for the novelty. What made this all the extra hilarious was that, as someone visiting this foreign country, instead of suggesting a good, local, traditional restaurant, my good intentioned lodger suggested that I go to a restaurant that embodied why the United States has a heart problem.

I rarely ever eat like that, so I reasoned that it wouldn't hurt to play along. My Californian accent was a fun one to throw at the staff who were completely made shy by my opening my mouth. When I walked in, their voices carried, they smiled, and they walked around like they owned the place, like they should. They seemed a happy and lively bunch. The moment I asked for a Pepsi nearly had me on the floor. They went so hush that I had to repeatedly ask for them to speak up because I couldn't understand what they were saying. It felt like I was a celebrity and they were suddenly filled with fear that they would offend me. Truth be told, the restaurant was offensive, but in an absolutely comical and endearing way.

The few places I've eaten breakfast around the UK, and then Ireland, had me in growing concern. The bacon here is terrifying. It's delicious. Don't get me wrong, but our bacon would look at English and Irish bacon as one might look at a terminally ill friend in the ICU awaiting a heart transplant. “You don't look healthy,” American bacon would say as it sweated profusely and smoked a Camel wide cigarette. “How much longer do you have? I'm sending thoughts and prayers.”

After enjoying the delightfully awkward interaction between me and the staff and giving my arteries something to work on for the next year, I made my way down to the Sky and Ground, a local pub that Peter had recommended. He told me that it would have live music and a good pint of Guinness, so I went with the hopes of hearing some traditional Irish pub music. Unfortunately, but not too unfortunately, the band was a local funk band, so I missed out on hearing some jigs, but I did get to have my first real, authentic, straight from the Emerald Isle, pint of Guinness.

This being my first pint of real Irish Guinness, I had years of expectations built up around the experience. I expected my first sip to be accompanied with a heavenly chorus as light shown down on me and a moment of Gaelic enlightenment surged through my brain. No such luck, but it was a really good glass of Guinness with a NOTICEABLY higher alcohol content. Just a couple nights before, I was knocking back five to seven pints of the brew with David and Mandy at Bettle and Chisel. I could only handle two of the Irish Guinness.

The music wasn't enough to keep me there and the people were less chatty with me, so I took it as my cue to head on back to my room and prepare for the next day. Wexford was a nice visit, but I felt no inclination to stay. Plus, I have to admit that Wexford had something working against it: I had plans to kiss the Blarney Stone.

9/13/19

I took Peter's advice and visited Hook Head along the way. It took me out of the way by a couple hours, but I'd say it was worth it for the visit. Hook Head is home to the world's oldest operational lighthouse and associated with William Marshal, Earl of Pembroke. I tried to take a photo of the information sign that was there, but I didn't notice that the image came out blurry until many miles away. I'm in Galway now, as I write this, but let me get you caught up.

The major reason why Peter suggested that I visit the lighthouse along the way was that it would put me on a drive along the coast and off of the major freeway, giving me a good view of old Ireland. It was gorgeous, and the spattering of crumbling castles along the way filled me with awe almost by the mile. This, by far, if the best advice I can pass along should anyone decide to visit: take the back-roads and risk getting lost. You won't be disappointed.

When I finally got to Blarney Castle, I was dancing in line. Excitement was there, sure, but I had been driving for a couple hours and REALLY needed to pee. Unfortunately, I was a little rude to a couple, who had stepped aside to look at a pamphlet for a moment, and cut in front of them. I could hear them laugh a little when they saw me, after paying for admission, make a beeline for the toilets, so I think the offense was shortly lived. Once relieved and on the path, my mission came to me with a single-minded determination. I marched directly to the castle and stood in line. Nothing was going to stop me from kissing the Blarney Stone.

From the ground to the top, the average travel time is between 30 and 40 minutes. The line is there the entire way with people from all over trying to kiss the stone. Oddly enough, though, the only people I met near me in line were all from the states. I joked that this whole tradition started as a bet between locals as to what they could get tourists to believe and do.

The stairwell was almost completely vertical with a rope running down its center as a means to steady yourself. There were stunning rooms along the way to look at and the view from the castle's windows didn't disappoint. As a warning, though, and back to the stairs: If you suffer in your knees or ankles, you're in for a challenge. The stairs throughout most of it are not wide enough for a foot, so you'll be side stepping up most of it, and it's not a continuous march. You're in line the entire time, so you're locked in stop-and-go, bumper-to-bumper traffic until the top. I don't mean to discourage anyone from knocking off a bucket list item, but, if you plan on doing this and you do suffer from joint pain, make sure to come prepared and leave victorious.

For me, my handicap is heights. Even after working on solar panel installations for a couple years, I never got over my fear. In fact, after working in solar panel installation with MORONS, my fear has only increased. Looking out of the windows with iron bars keeping me securely on one side still wasn't enough to completely remove that breath taking moment of looking down. Once I was at the Stone, it was at a massive peak until I PEEKED down.

For everyone who is unfamiliar with The Blarney Stone, it's a single stone that you kiss while hanging upside down over a, I'm guessing, 100 foot drop. Sounds terrifying and explains why I was joking about how the locals were merely betting on what they could get visitors to do. Well, peeking down was probably the BEST thing I could have done. The guide who sat by the hole to help you down and up, rested his feet on a metal grate, that had been installed at some point. There was no way one could fall through, although the sight of looking at the ground, upside down, from 100 feet up was still unnerving, so, my fellow acrophobics, you'll be safe and enjoy the thrill.

Once pass the stone, the way down is a lot more relaxed. The stairs are just as steep, but there are a lot more rooms and areas to explore along your descent, so you can give your knees a rest, if you need, and enjoy some amazing history. If you look down the grates in the lavatory and claim not to have the desire to piss down it, I'll call you a liar. Staring down the lavatory drain, way down to some people walking past, was probably the only time I looked down and chuckled.

Moving along. The castle isn't the only attraction to the place. Blarney Castle is also known for the Blarney House, a later estate with just as beautifully sculpted architectures, the seemingly endless gardens, the art and sculptures scattered about, and a few choice cafes and gift shops are also worth the visit and I do plan on visiting, again. I was taking pictures almost until the moment I climbed back into my rental car. It was a wonderful adventure and it left me wondering what was coming next.

I had never stayed at a hostel before, so I decided to plan such an experience. I reserved a bed at the Kinlay House in Cork, right downtown, with the hopes of being near some restaurants and pubs. What I got was what I was familiar with as a half-way house: a temporary residence for displaced families. I felt a bit bad about staying there, worried that I had taken the place of someone who needed the bed, until my one-night-roommates came bumbling in at all hours of the night. The first couple attempted to be quiet, but were notably respectful. It was the group of, I'm guessing, German college punks that came in at around 3 AM that had me fuming.

Already four people in and trying to sleep, myself included, a group of loud and obnoxious “bros” came marching in and didn't give a damn who was sleeping. It was kind of funny, though. My bed, being tucked away in a far corner, meant that they didn't even have a chance of seeing me until I lumbered out to use the toilet, stomping, cursing, and giving them all the stink-eye. I guess I was scary enough because the entire group went quiet and whatever pack mentality they might have had agreed that either they were remorseful over their rudeness, or they looked at the wild eyed, muttering and cursing American and thought, “Sleep is good.”

9/14/19

I was up and out by around 7:30 AM. Sleeping in an open area with a bunch of strangers left little room for deep sleep. The hostel had a kitchen where it claimed to supply breakfast for the visitors, but I spent little time trying to figure out just where the breakfast was. I walked through the kitchen, opened a refrigerator, and quickly gave up trying to figure out what I could or could not eat. There were no attendants or workers there to help, but signs up everywhere instructing people to not steal food. Not knowing what food was communal, I just climbed into the car and began my drive to Galway.

The drive, again, was beautiful. More abandoned castles peppering the countryside and rolling hills resembling Sonoma county during the rainy season. The only stop I made during this short drive was to grab some food, so I arrived at my next AirBnb much earlier than expected.

The older woman who owned the home, Mena, was home, which was lucky for me since I arrived at a 9 AM and check in was at 3 PM. Mena seemed a bit on the nervous side, asking me questions she didn't have the patience to listen to the answers to. I apologized for showing up early and offered to come back later, but she obliged me and let me at least drop off my things and have a cup of coffee.

I didn't stay very long before I felt the need to get out and venture, again. I let Mena know that I was going out and found a parking garage on Google Maps where I could pull into. I had learned from a mistake in London and repeated challenges with parking that it is best to just look for a garage if you can help it. This turned out to be the only way to deal with downtown Galway. With the exception of a couple small streets that I only ever saw taxis drive through, the entire area of downtown Galway is inaccessible by car. Without knowing better until I was on foot, I had made the best decision: park at a garage and walk into the heart of Galway.

At first, I had thought that I had stumbled upon some special day. There were thousands of people walking the streets; stalls lining the walls; shops, bars, and restaurants everywhere; and street musicians and performers making the entire experience that much more magical. I had never experienced anything like it. Even walking along the piers in San Francisco, I had never seen that level of foot traffic, entertainment, or commerce. Luckily for me and the purpose behind my travels, I found a stall of particular interest.

It wasn't difficult to find St. Micheal's Church. The tall spires and crosses sticking out over the tops of the buildings made sure you could find it. I stopped in and took pictures of their stained glass windows to send back to my roommate, who had asked me to do this for him, and headed back out to find a line of merchant stalls just to the right of the entrance to the church. I casually moved along between them, glancing at their goods in hopes of letting something catch my eye, and found one stall with some silver jewelry and two books on a small, handmade shelf. The books were about ancient spiritual complexes of Ireland and something called “Sheela Na Gig.”

I asked the gentleman, who introduced himself as Jack Roberts, and he gave me a brief description of the cultural fixtures. The Sheela Na Gigs are stone carvings dating back hundreds of years to the 12 century and can be found on the old, stone churches and abandoned castles throughout Ireland, Britain, Spain, and France and I had just met the self-proclaimed leading expert. Mr. Roberts proudly displayed the books to me, pointing to the author's name and handing me his business card. At this point, I do not feel confident enough in my own understanding of these artifacts to adequately describe them or to give a decent account of their origins or their purposes, so I won't get into the details on these artifacts now. I will, however, gladly recommend the books for anyone interested in obscure Irish folk traditions and lore and offer the link to Mr. Robert's website and strongly recommend a visit.

Jack and I spoke for some time about his work and my writing. While discussing my method of wandering and observing, looking for whatever the characters might realistically encounter as mere travelers as well as what mythological components I can add from the old religions of the world, Jack became particularly excited and handed me a waxen map. “This has been my life's work,” he beamed. Unfolding the map, I found that it was an entire map of Ireland with nearly a hundred marked spots where one would find a castle or church with a Sheela Na Gig.

Of course, I purchased the map, thanking Jack for simply existing and appreciating the chance encounter, but, unfortunately, this visit to Ireland wasn't going to be long enough for me to undertake such a task as visiting all of those locations. That didn't stop me from looking into where the closest ones to me were. Not only was it a map of rare artifacts, it was also a map of castles. When I got back to my room, I shared my discovery with Mena and made my plans to go out in search of the Sheela Na Gig the next day.

9/15/19

Unfortunately and fortunately, today is a rainy day. Looking into where the Sheela Na Gigs were, I found that, if I wanted to visit them, I would have had to wander fields in the Irish rain. This was not preferable since I only had one pair of shoes and I didn't want to spend the rest of my trip squishing around in soggy skids.

Mena had another idea in mind. She hounded me for a bit about when I would be leaving for the day and then made it clear that she didn't want me to be in the house without her being present. That didn't make me feel very welcomed and she didn't tell me how long she was going to be gone for, so I returned to downtown Galway and found a coffee shop to hold up in for a few hours. Coffee shops in Ireland and the UK are not what I'm used to. They're basically restaurants, so they don't expect people to just hang out for longer than a meal, which meant that my escape from the rain was short lived as I didn't feel a desire to keep eating just to have a place to sit, but I totally made a sandwich last me long enough to get some glances from the staff.

After finishing my last bite and last sip, I finally packed up and headed back out into the rain to see what indoor shops I could peruse and prolong my time out. I will leave tomorrow for Dublin, so, I figured, I can just suck it up, stay out, and move along with less conflict than if I said anything. My shoes still got soggy and I returned rather damp and annoyed.

When I got back to my room, I changed into some dry clothes and crawled into bed with a movie to relax. One thing that Mena had told me earlier was that her grandson would be coming to stay with her for a little while. While I lied on the bed, watching my movie, I heard the slow turn of the door handle to the room and called out, “Hello,” only to hear the door slowly open, then close, and whomever it was walk back to their room.

I got up and marched to the door, sticking my head out to see a college aged man sitting in the room just next to mine. “I'm sorry,” he said. “It was a mistake.” I glared at him for a moment, said, “Don't worry about it,” and then closed and locked my door. This was unnerving to me. The direct violation to my privacy on top of the unwelcoming experience I had of “go stand in the rain while I'm not home” message I got earlier made it a little difficult for me to sleep. I messaged Mena about it over the AirBnB website, but she assured me that the young man's friend used to stay in the room I was in and that he simply thought that I was him. I didn't believe a word of it since I was certain that she had told him of the American who was staying with her.

9/16/19

I was up early and showered as I got ready to depart. I was up by 7:30 and ready to leave at 8:00, but not without Mena knocking on my door multiple times to ask when I was leaving. With the exception of having some light classical music playing as I showered and packed, I was as quiet as I could be and had already informed Mena of when I would be leaving. Regardless of the checkout time being posted as 11:00am, I was being harassed while I was already trying to leave as early and quickly as I could. She even asked me for a good review on AirBnB. That didn't happen.

Okay, visiting Cork and Galway was fun, but both places I stayed were misses that cost me some sleep and increased my anxiety. Wexford was nice, so I hoped I would find more places like Peter and Marie's and continued on my journey as hopeful as I could be. Next stop was Sean's Bar in Athlone.

Unfortunately, I forgot the bartender's name as soon as I had my pint of Guinness. He was informative and had plenty to tell. Sean's Bar, for those who have never heard of it, is the world's oldest pub (recognized by Guinness Book of World Records and identified by a proudly displayed letter upon the wall) with a portion of the original wall in a glass display. For over 1,000 years (yes, that is one thousand), a bar has continuously stood in that very location. Along the walls were artifacts and memorabilia from throughout the ages: sabers, muskets, currency, oars, etc., all showing not just the unique and amazing history of the bar, but of the town of Athlone as well. For all the firefighters, police, and first responders reading this: Sean's Bar have a display case in the bar, containing the patches give and signed by visiting emergency responders in a viewable time capsule. It was a heart warming site to see.

If I had more time, I would have stayed there for a few days. Athlone castle would be closed until the next day, when I would be in Dublin, and the town itself was a size I was used to and resting on a peaceful river with shops and restaurants mixed amongst the historical buildings. A note for my next trip, which I will be happy to share with everyone: when visiting Ireland, make base camp in Athlone. It is in the dead center of Ireland, it's a quiet and easy-going town, and it isn't more than a couple hours' drive from anywhere else in the country. It's really in the perfect location and the general vibe I got from the bar and the coffee shop I visited was of a very relaxed scene. Needless to say, I'm already planning my next trip to give Ireland a better chance with a better plan.

It was only another hour drive to my next stay in northern Dublin, so, by the time I got to the AirBnB, it was still early in the day. If I had driven nonstop from Galway to Dublin, it would have only taken me 2.5 hours. That's driving from the west coast to the east coast. The island is that small.

I was very happy to meet my new AirBnB people, Margaret and Gordon. They were talkative, welcoming, and so informative. Gordon told me to leave my rental car behind and take a bus into central Dublin. He gave me exact directions of where to go, which bus to catch, and specific shops near the bus stop to grab snacks on the way. Really, he made the exploration part so easy.

Margaret was on top of everything else: making coffee, tea, something to eat, and filling me in on the local social scene. We talked about our lives, why I was visiting Ireland, and had a generally very pleasant conversation as we got to know each other. She was the one who suggested that I visit Howth the next day when I had a full day to explore. “Gordon is from Howth,” she explained before calling out to him in the other room. “Gordon, tell Matthew how to get to Howth and what he should see.”

I only sat down for a moment in my room. I had the intention of relaxing for a couple hours before heading back out, but my legs wanted to move. Before I knew it, I was already rushing out the front door on my way to the bus stop where I found a pastry shop that Gordon had mentioned and had my first REAL eclair while I waited for the city bus.

I took the bus to the end of the line, which was smack dab in the middle of Dublin and then chose a road and kept walking straight until I saw a comic book shop, Dublin City Comics, which had an impressive collection of figures. I acknowledge that I was visiting the shop out of a need for some familiarity, but it was a very welcomed retreat from being in an unfamiliar city and recharged me perfectly for the rest of my exploring.

I then wandered straight toward Dublin Castle, which was worth the visit, but I probably won't plan on seeing it, again. I visited Christ Church Cathedral and took more photos for my roommate. I ate at a place with a sign out front, claiming to have the best fish and chips in Dublin. I had a good time and found it really easy to navigate the area before finding my way back to where I would catch the bus returning me to my room where I did some light exercises before falling right to sleep in a very comfortable bed.

9/17/19

Early to bed, early to rise. I like to take my morning like Theodore Roethke, “I wake to sleep and take my waking slow,” and Margaret and Gordon were a lot more respectful of this than the previous place. As soon as I was showered and down the stairs, they offered me some breakfast and coffee. I took the coffee and a couple pieces of toast, but told them that I wanted to leave room to get breakfast at one of the restaurants in Howth.

They were excited about this, that I was taking their advice so freely, and poured me a cup as they explained just where to park and where to walk. They left out one piece of information that was a nice surprise upon discovery. In Howth, there is a small harbor in the shape of a horseshoe that visitors can wander and climb. At the very end of either stretch, one can look northward toward a small island. I climbed the harbor wall that was a teared brick wall, where other tourists and local fishermen had perched, and took a panorama photo covering the small island and the harbor. Out of curiosity, I opened Google Maps on my phone and zoomed in on the island to find the name “Ireland's Eye.” For my last full day in my visit to the country, this was a very welcomed discovery.

I took in the view and appreciated just where I was for a few moments before turning around to find a restaurant to get some food. Howth Harbor has a long stretch of seafood restaurants and markets where one can find the freshest local seafood. I, personally, love seafood, but, if that is not your taste, the restaurants also serve a delicious, traditional Irish breakfast.

For after a hearty and tasty breakfast, it didn't take me long to find that the peninsula was also home to a leisurely hiking path along the coastal cliffs that led to a lighthouse on the southern side. It's a lot longer of a hike than the one I took to get to the Blarney Stone, but it was a lot easier on the knees, so anyone looking for a pleasant stroll with a wonderful view will not be disappointed.

I hiked all the way down to the lighthouse and then took the town streets back north toward the harbor where I started. I wanted to get a feel for the neighborhood and felt safe and at home. Joggers, bicyclists, and people walking their dogs were all polite, smiling and saying their hello's. The homes were nice with tiled roofs, well maintained gardens, ornate gates, and pools and fountains.

Every street was arranged to lead to the historical town center, where more pleasant surprises awaited. I found more beautifully constructed churches surrounded in beautiful stained glass windows, and even an early church from 1235 called St Mary's Church. It was then that I realized that it was a common practice in the country to use the old, dilapidated churches for burial grounds. The ceiling had caved in possibly centuries before and tombstones were lined up within the church's walls. Unfortunately, the church was gated off and I couldn't venture in to inspect the tombstones, but, as we say in archaeology, “The dead don't bury themselves,” so I could only assume that the graves within the walls belonged to those important and cherished members of the Howth community from long ago until recent.

Howth was definitely the place to end my exploration. It was gorgeous, friendly, had good food, and was home to a well-needed walk. Sure, I had been walking around cities upon cities for the past two weeks, but I've never been a big city person. The hike along the coast was just what I needed. When I returned back to my room, I rested for a couple hours and then walked across the street to the local pub where I enjoyed my last pint of Irish Guinness before turning in for the night. I had already been texting my friends, telling them about how I didn't want to leave.

9/18/19

I imagine this shouldn't be a very long entry. My flight out of Dublin Airport left at 10:30 and flew non-stop to Vancouver, Canada. The funny thing that happened along this part of my journey was that I got stopped twice by the TSA. It was almost like the Irish didn't want me to leave. I got stopped for my Oculus Quest headset, which they wanted to swab for possible explosives, and I was stopped near the gate by a couple agents who wanted my life's story and every detail about my journey. Luckily for me, I had just kissed the Blarney Stone five days prior, so I had the distinct pleasure of talking their ears off and getting some good jokes in along the way.

I was happy that I brought my VR headset, but this flight made me extra happy I had it because I was sitting at a window seat without a window. I fell asleep inside my own movie theater as the plane carried me on my path home. Once in Canada, I had to go through two more checkpoints to get to my joining flight back to San Francisco.

While there, I saw signs saying, “Welcome to the United States of America.” One gentleman made a comment about how it was funny because we were still in Canada. I managed to make even more people laugh with a quick response of, “That's why the sign is so polite.” The customs agent who looked like he was about to snap cracked a smile when he asked if I was bringing anything into the country and I smiled a dopey grin and said, “My new bracelet,” which I displayed to him like a moron.

It was a three hour layover in Vancouver that offered me a chance to get a Canadian doughnut and stretch a bit after the longer than life flight before getting onto another airplane. The next plane turned out to be much smaller and with less storage space on board, so I had to check my suitcase with my VR headset. It wasn't that big of a deal since the flight was only 2hrs long. I watched an in-flight movie, I still had my laptop to write a little, and I also had a couple books to keep myself busy. In reality, I was touching back down before I even knew it.

Adding my final notes of all the travel, I can clearly say that I would do it all over, again, minus Mena and the hostel in Cork. I'm actually looking into work visas and expenses involved in moving to Cornwall. I had that much of a good time and made such a connection with the people I met there. The location of Delabole is similar to my childhood homeland near Bodega Bay in California and living there would give me more freedom and opportunity to travel about Europe. Dare I say it: I fell in love with the area.

Something to Know

There is no pressure to continue reading and, if you're not inclined to indulge in political discussions or if you're the type to avoid them, you can end here and I hope you enjoyed my travel journal. If you, on the other hand, are the type to engage in political conversations like I am, I have some insights that might benefit you or even influence your decisions to travel through the UK and Ireland.

Whenever almost ANYONE heard my US accent, they wanted to know my political perspective. The US political arena is a hotbed at the moment, so you can't blame them for their curiosity. That being said, they feel much like a lot of Americans are feeling at the moment. Their perception of Brexit is aligned to how many American's feet about Trump getting elected: “The majority didn't want it to happen and didn't believe there were enough people dumb enough to vote it into existence, so they didn't vote.” British, Cornish, Irish, Scottish, and even the couple French people that I met all shared the same sentiment: Trump and Johnson are the worst things to happen to politics in our lifetimes.

It took me considerable effort in a few cases to prove to those I met that I wasn't a part of the Trump supporters. The direct explanation as to their speculation was that they see so much of the US Trump supporting nationalists on social media and perpetrating mass shootings that it appears to be a prevailing paradigm in the US.

They even looked at me in disbelief when I told them that I hated guns. “An American who hates guns? Don't you all masturbate with gun grease?” Yes, they were joking, but only partially. Nobody could understand our lack for gun control after regular incidents that demonstrated our need for stricter gun laws, if not an all out ban.

In short, the prevailing political ideals I encountered were not in favor of Trump or guns. There was no support for the mistreatment of our immigrant, illegal or not. There was no support for any of Trump's tariffs, no support for his hateful speech, but, instead, a direct push back against any racist and bigoted platform. This, to any who would travel through these countries, should be a warning: the political arena in the US is most definitely effecting how the rest of the world is perceiving us and you SHOULD take this into consideration before engaging in any conversation while abroad. If you're not going to burn them, at least leave your MAGA hats at home.