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UK 2010

Tuesday, April 20th

Sometimes dreams are extinguished by mean parents or corporations or governments or terrible dudes.  In my case, my dream of traveling to Italy’s Amalfi Coast was suffocated by a volcano so lame, it can only be compared to a geek that was the only person in his high school to play the triangle and when he tried out for his school band that desperately needed a triangle player, he still managed to get cut.

The ash cloud created by the eruption of the Icelandic volcano known as Eyjafjallajökull cancelled my fight to Italy and forced me to pursue other vacation possibilities.  Dear Iceland – We look to you for strong men champions, Björk albums and a place to visit after we’ve visited every other country in Europe.  We do not look to you to dirty the air like some huge Pig-Pen from the Peanuts.

Since I was already in London on a four-month comedy sojourn, I decided to rent a car and visit the Lake District in northern England, Wales and the lovely English city of Bath.

After picking up a small black Vauxhall auto from Hertz So Good, I drove north like a vagrant towards the Lake District.  Five and a half hours later, I was embedded deeply into the gorgeous landscape, complete with mountains and valleys and rivers.  The whole place was the perfect backdrop for a commercial about soap or bacon.

I pulled into my bed and breakfast called Greenbank Farm which was a fully operational sheep farm and boy did it smell like one if the wind hit you right.  It sat right at the base of a small mountain and spanned 3000 acres into neighboring valleys.  As I parked,  I was greeted by a pack of playful dogs.  As I exchanged niceties with them, I looked over at the barn.  Next to the barn and about 20 feet from my car I saw something I usually don’t see right outside the place I’m going to sleep for the night.  The thing I speak of was a dead fox.

Being the “go with the flow” kind of guy that I am, I shrugged my shoulders and walked into the B&B where the congenial Beverly showed me to my room.  I cleaned my body, got dressed and stepped outside where I spoke briefly with Peter, Beverly’s husband and head farmer.  It quickly became clear to me that Peter was a member of the Nice Tribe like his wife.

I brought his attention to the dead fox and he said, “Oh yes, the fox.  I shot it.  We’ve actually killed 23 in the past 3 days.”  He continued to tell me that they kill a lot of his sheep and the reason there were so many foxes in the area is because people in suburban areas of Liverpool and Manchester will capture them and release them in the Lake District.

As I stood there, I suddenly realized how long it had been since someone told me a problem they were having that I struggled to relate to as I did at that moment.  This inability to relate only intensified as he discussed the solution (shooting the foxes).  I would have gone about this problem a different way.  I would have collected all the foxes, taped my headshot to each of their faces and let them run wild through London in hopes that this promotional tactic might finally get me some acting work in the UK.

Another thing I noticed was that one of the dogs peed on my car tire.  The weird thing is that every time I came out to my car to get something or go somewhere, there would be more pee on another tire (or the same tire).  I’m not sure why this happened.  I know that dogs mark their territory with their urine which leads me to believe that were planning on stealing my car at some point.  “Good luck” I thought, “Without opposable thumbs, you won’t be able to operate the manual shift or steering wheel, much less open the doors, you terds.”  As much as this futility amused me, it would have been best if they stopped whizzing on my wheels.

I walked up the road to the White Lion Pub where I had an average meal that I tried to resolve with a Snickers candy bar.  After eating and researching possible mountain hikes, I walked home, scribbled these words while listening to “Dinner Jazz with Helen Mayhew” on jazz fm, read Gulliver’s Travels and moved towards sleep.

Wednesday, April 21st

I awoke in the normal fashion and descended into the dining room where I enjoyed an effective English breakfast and some chat with four people that were doing the coast-to-coast walk.  In case you didn’t capture the essence of this path’s agenda by the name, it involves a walk from one coast to another.  The walk can be done in about a week which is amazing to think about – to be able to walk from one side of your country to the other in a week.  To do this in the US, I would have to be really angry or chased by a horny alien (the outer space kind).

I finished my meal, bought a map and compass at the local store and made my way to the base of England’s highest peak, “Scafell Pike” in Seathwaite.  The weather was beautiful: light wind, temperature in the mid to upper 40’s, clear skies.  This was good because if there is any atmospheric foolishness around, Scafell Pike can quickly become more nasty than an older teen aged sister that just had her last tube of Clearsil thrown out of the house into a foot of snow by her younger brother (this actually happened years ago – my brother Sean and Michelle were fighting one evening so he performed this dark task as my sister looked on in horror and screamed, “NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!”).

And with a height of 978 meters, I was guaranteed a climb that would add to my already alarmingly high levels of guyhood.  But guyhood is like a date with a decadent lady – there’s always room for more.

On my way up, I met two nice gents named Steve and Paul.  In their 40’s, they had been friends since they were born and originally hailed from Brighton.  They also shared the same career of being software consultants and still made time to make trips together.  Now this may sound like an idyllic recipe for gay happiness (especially since Brighton is the gay capital of the UK…party!) but this was not the case for these two lady-pleasers.

As we climbed, they asked me several questions about comedy and I answered them.  Once on the top, a stunning 360-degree view of the Lake District and ocean was quickly delivered to us like a pizza.  And we ate it down, along with our lunches.

On our descent, we discussed language subtleties, politics, travel, ways for independent UK contractors to legally avoid paying too much in taxes and quality science fiction matters.

And if this isn’t exciting enough, the scenery everywhere secured a front row seat in the brilliant theater show that is my memory.  We then made it back, said our goodbyes and I hit a pub for a meal and a beer.  Still hungry, I hit the White Lion again where I ordered another beer, a bowl of baked beans and a Snickers bar.  These combined contents in my possession made me the oddest person I know.

Finally satiated, I went back home, parked my car, looked at the dead fox that was still lying in the driveway, lost myself with more Dinner Jazz with Helen and prepared for slumber.

Thursday, April 22nd

Idiots take all shapes and sizes.  Last night’s model took the form of a guy that decided to noisily open his door to go to the common bathroom once every 45 minutes starting at 2:45 AM.  Thank you for such a hiccup oriented sleep, Mr. Bad News Bladder.

Somewhat awake, I made quick work of another greasy English breakfast, settled the bill with Beverly, bought a map for my hike, illegally parked in a hotel parking lot in Glenridding and walked over to the base of the mountain.

Today’s task was England’s second highest peak (950 mannish meters) known as Helvellyn.  The weather conditions closely resembled yesterday which if you recall, set off the lovely alert in a liberal fashion.  Due to the combination of clear skies and height, I was once again furnished with essential views.

This was a great hike for one reason: Striding Edge.  It is clearly not an edge meant for striding.  Imagine one of the most dangerous, hairiest mountain passes in Lord of the Rings and Striding Edge was it.  The pass itself was no more than a couple meters and was extremely jagged and uneven and required the use of both hands in many spots.  On either side of this pass was a fairly sheer drop of 200 meters.

I was feeling a massively validated sense of toughness when first crossing Striding Edge until I chatted with a dude on the way across that said to me, “I didn’t think I’d still be hiking up this mountain at 75!”  I rationalized this by convincing myself that this old man was simply some X-Men guy that had the genetic-mutated ability to climb up a mountain while looking old.

I passed by this gent and then made a very steep ascent that required lots of skilled grabbing.  I was now on the summit, feeling like an established hero…until I saw an overly happy black Labrador retriever that just cruised up the same path I did.  Nonetheless, I absorbed the glory that can only be found at the top of a mountain and made my way down and back to my car.

I then drove three hours south and into northern Wales to my next location: the lovely seaside town of Conwy.  I met one of the owners, Elaine, of the Town House Guest House, settled in quickly and left in search of a meal whose greatness could equal the day I just experienced.  On Elaine’s recommendation, a fine and fancy Welsh bistro met my challenge.

After this, I grabbed a nice pint of superb local ale and let my pen do its freestyle dance on a paper dance floor.  As I did so, a woman began to sneeze so many times it became weird.  My thought on this: if you sneeze more than 4 times and you feel more coming on, you need to go outside or to a bathroom or into a forest and figure that s*#t out.  Like my father before me, I’m a man that detests lots of sneezing.  If you want to be entertained in a manner that could only be paralleled by watching a tough female cop and Luther Vandross compete against each other in a crash up derby, hang around my father when someone falls into an eternal sneezing fit.

Friday, April 23rd

After about 9 hours of noteworthy sleep, I went downstairs to eat breakfast in the dining room where I had the pleasure of meeting Elaine’s husband Alan who looked a great deal like Sean Connery.  Once he discovered I was a comedian, this affable chap turned into a joke machine just as Elaine predicted he would.  The two of them were such amazing hosts that I found it challenging to focus on me expertly prepared English breakfast.  It’s as if the government ran some secret experiment to genetically design the best B&B hosts imaginable.  And let me tell you, this would be the best use of taxpayer money since creating the fire department.

I said my jazzy byes to Elaine and Alan and headed south to Pen-y-Pass where I would begin my hike up Wales highest peak, Mount Snowdon which measures 1085 meters at its highest.  My “Walking In Britain” book warned me of the difficulty of this climb but I had no idea just how bananas this hike was about to get.

After the usual and mild ascent, I came to a climb so steep that I may have well been upside down and dancing on ceiling.  It was at this point that I was legitimately rock-climbing (like a brutal hero, of course).  The other great element I should mention to this climb and the two previous was that I did it all with running sneakers and jeans.  It was wonderful to cruise by these fancy mountain hikers, dressed like a 1970’s undercover cop.

I then came to the top of what I can only describe as the most Lord of the Rings (I, II and III), Mount Doom Transylvania-styled knife ridge that ran 250 meters and was literally like scurrying along the top of a frighteningly steep roof with a drop on either side that was beyond civilian logic.  It required the use of both hands and believe this fella, if I could have rented more hands at the shop at the base of the mountain, I would have.

I eventually came off this ridge into a pass and back up into another ridge less horrifying and up onto another summit where I ate part of my lunch.  From here, I dipped down slightly and made a relatively easy climb to the top of Snowdon where I found the final piece of my manhood.  I digested more award-winning views and descended down the summit and came back up another ridge to another peak and then slowly back to my auto.

I did not intend to do this but each of the three hikes I did in the past three days got progressively more difficult like some well-designed Sega Genesis video game about a stud’s life.  And all of this hiking would represent the second to last level where the stud must climb three mountains in order to make it to the final and most challenging level where he must try to make it to second base with his prom date (my fantasies are extraordinarily humble).

I then drove my car south again to the charming town of Dolgellau where I checked into the Staylittle Farm B&B.  After an acceptable self-cleaning procedure, I walked into the center of town and over to the Stag Inn for food and beer.  I promptly ordered a heaping pile of mess that included chicken, vegetables, stuffing and gravy that all sat in a bowl of bread and was diligently guarded on all sides by legion of French fries.  This was all consumed outside in the back of the pub, next to a cage filled with rabbits and guinea pigs which I found creatively weird and inviting.  I have no idea why a cage of such animals was kept behind a pub but I’m at ease with this mystery.

I then headed over to a pub and while I ordered a beer, a woman, who I can only assume must be the majority of this pub’s profit source, looked at the cover of my Gulliver’s Travels book and upon seeing a picture of two buckle-styled black shoes, exclaimed, “I love these shoes!  You goin’ dancin’ tonight?!  Hey, look John!  He’s goin’ dancin’ tonight!”

Now I must admit that I’ve been drunk before but I never looked at a drawing and assumed that the contents of that drawing dictated a future reality.  I grabbed my beer and made the expert decision to drink outside and write about today’s events.  I then walked home and befriended slumber.

Saturday, April 24th

Once awake, I ate yet another sturdy English breakfast brought into the world by the friendly and gentle owner of Staylittle Farm B&B, Dawn.  Afterwards, I paid the bill, left Dolgellau and headed south to a town just three miles east of St. Davids known as Solva.  I checked into the Royal George (which was simply three rooms above a pub) and despite the fact that the room was a little tired and that there was random box spring mattress standing up the tall way in the hallway (for no apparent reason) right outside of my door, I enjoyed a solid ocean view from my bedroom window.

I then did a short walk out by the shoreline and up some hill/cliff where again, inspirational views were to be had by my eyes.  I returned to room, washed up and relaxed like a well-mannered chap.  It was at that point that a large family checked into the other two rooms and I discovered that the entire floor I was staying on was like one big trampoline.  Every time these kids jumped around, I could feel my room shake as well.  Be that as it may, it did not stop me from the final stages of my afternoon relaxation.  I then left the Royal George and drove to St. Davids where I walked around a bit, ate a delightful pork and apple affair and drove back to my B&B in Solva.

To get to my room, I had to walk through what was now a very busy pub.  Great, I thought, I’m staying in a Welsh frat house.  Once in my room, I got into bed and encountered a mattress so old that it poked me all over my body, making me feel like I was being passed along the top of a crowd with their hands.  This, however, did not stop me from approaching a sleepy state with the help of “Predator” on television.

Sunday, April 25th

This morning I got out of bed and opened my door.  Although the box spring was now gone from the hallway, it was replaced by a sleeping dog.  Perhaps this was Royal George?  Perhaps he was the esteemed creature that gave this elite establishment its name?  Or maybe it was some crappy wizard that was drunk at the pub a couple nights ago and accidentally put a spell on himself, turned himself into a box spring and then in attempts to reverse the spell, turned himself into a dog.  I gave this issue not another thought and instead walked downstairs with Royal George who decided to follow me down.  As I ate my breakfast, Royal George (who I now found out was actually named Manni) slept at my feet.

After paying the bill, I got in the car and drove back in to England and into the small city of Bath.  I checked into Holly Villa Guesthouse and soon realized I was in an infinitely nicer place than the last night although part of me missed having a random dog in the hallway, right outside my door.

My room at the Holly Villa was immaculate with a brand new bathroom attached to the room or “en suite” as we like to say in the travel industry.  As decadent as the room was, I chose to leave it and explore Bath.  And let me tell you, Bath is a stunning city.  Beautiful.  I want my children to be as gorgeous as Bath.  Its Roman origins are detectable in almost every point of its center that has escaped an ugly, modern facelift that plagues so many other places in the world that once were charming and unique.

I walked around aimlessly like a jazzy, welcome aroma emanating from the most celebrated bakery.  This aroma (me) wandered up to the park near the Royal Crescent and through the Botanical Gardens that gifted this aroma with so many soul-pleasing aromas of its own.  There were more colors to be found here than a gay pride parade or in a pack of Lifesavers.  It seemed everything was in bloom.

I finished here and worked my way back into town and decided to watch “The Ghost” with Pierce Brosnan and Ewan McGregor in a small little theater.  This is a good film people.  Check it out.  Hungry from all of my entertainment, both natural and cinematic, I ate an effective meal at a Thai restaurant.

After my meal, I found a neat pub with a diverse beer selection and a very loungey feel to it by the name of the Westgate.  My other purpose of coming here was to take down a dessert for I had decided earlier that this must be so and let me tell you something about myself: when I decide that I want some sort of special food experience, nothing will avert me.  If I had the same passion and determination with my career or the romantic elements of my life, I would be a Mormon with 20 beautiful wives living in a huge teepee made of solid, 5000-carat gold due to my successful career in talking.

When I looked on their menu and saw they were selling a brownie with vanilla ice cream (one of my favorites), I noticed myself becoming slightly thrilled.  So while I waited for my treat, I drank a beer and read Gulliver’s Travels on a couch in the pub like a cultured goon.  When my dessert arrived, I was sadly let down.  The brownie was a little small and dry and there was literally a golf ball-sized scoop of ice cream.  Lame.

I carried on with my beer and reading and walked back to my B&B and slept.

Monday, April 26th

Today’s English breakfast was very nice and included a well-engineered bowl of fresh fruit salad.  This, of course, pleased me.

And with that pleasure, I walked back in to the city center to inhale its beauty once more.  During my walk, I stopped into a craft shop and bought some bracelets for my little lady nieces as I would be seeing them in a month’s time at the airport.

Feeling at peace with my Bath sojourn, I boarded my Vauxhall and drove back to London and dropped off the car.  That night, I and/or Barry Tattle enjoyed the feel of a new, tight, black velvet suit for the third time since its glorious purchase in Camden a couple weeks previously and made it so at a show at the Blue Posts in London.

Weepingly, we have come to the end of this tale but in a few weeks time, I will sprinkle a tale concerning a Swedish journey into your life.

I am,

Chris

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Ireland 2008

Wednesday, August 13th

When someone wins $25,000, they are expected to attend a friend’s wedding in Ireland.  The following excuse doesn’t hold much water:

“I’m a starving artist.  I can’t afford to fly over to Ireland.  Believe me, if I could starve my way over there, I would do it in a second.”

So, due to my well known earnings, there was no way for me to turn down my former college roommate Dara’s wedding invitation.  Of course, there was also the fact that it would be a wild honor to take part in my good buddy’s wedding.

In the morning, I called my doctor’s office.  I had been feeling sluggish the past few weeks and after three blood tests, he had some news to share with me.  It turns out I have Mono also known as “Kissing Disease”.  Sadly, some rudimentary math made it clear to me that I did not contract this sleepy disorder from any brutal make-out sessions (unless the incubation period for Mono is one year).  I don’t know how I got it but I’m sure it was in the lamest fashion possible.  When I wasn’t looking, some ant with Mono probably spit into my cereal.

Dr. Burns informed me that I could still leave on my trip, but I would not be allowed to drink or stay up late…and no horseplay!  That’s correct.  He actually wielded the serious medical term “horseplay” in our conversation.  Well thank goodness I was never really one to play with horses in the first place.  Their large size and terrible manners make them lousy playmates in the sandbox.  I think the only thing I was allowed to do was to sit under a tree and be sad.

After this unsavory news, I picked up a check from my good chap Thomas in Dorchester and headed over to The Other Side Café in Boston to make lunch with a fella known as Dave Walsh.  He was back from LA to successfully propose to his lady Colleen.  With well-built sandwiches in front of us, we discussed the industry of professional laugh-making among other lighter matters.  To ensure proper digestion, we embarked on a chat-stroll through the Back Bay.  I bid farewell to this freshly engaged guy and he bid farewell to a historically single guy.

Once home, I gathered my things and publicly transported myself to the airport.  I walked on to the plane and took my seat next to a lovely young woman whose name escapes me.  She had just finished her PhD in a biology-related field and was on her way to England to complete a five-year research project.  The purpose of this project would be to see how global climate change would affect plants.  I told her that global climate change would indeed affect plants and that she should save herself an expensive airfare and five years of her life and just stay home.  She did not comply so we were forced to exchange in more lovely conversation (lovely young woman = lovely conversation).

Thursday, August 14th

Curse this flight for leaving Boston so early in the previous evening.  Due to the flight’s relatively short duration, I was now at Shannon Airport at 5:20 AM.  To be in a town with little activity in an airport on the decline at 5:20 AM in the morning is to bury your head in the sand in the Beach of Lost Hope.

All I could do was to stumble around these Halls of Boredom in a chocolaty daze until it was time to pick up my golf cart-sized rental car.  These cars keep getting smaller every time I rent one.  My Toyota Yaris was little more than two mopeds welded together, side by side.

The next part I love – a guy that drives automatic in America that has had no sleep now gets into a manual shift auto that requires left-handed shifting and drives on the left side of the road praying that his fatigued mind doesn’t lead him back to the right side of the road where oncoming bad times await him.

Fortunately, I made it to my B&B (bed and breakfast) in O’Briensbridge, a small village outside of Limerick on the Shannon River.  This location was just 3-4 miles upriver from where the reception and ceremony would be in Castleconnell.  The name of my B&B was the Scapaflow House and it was run by the friendliest of ladies named Antoinette.  Even though I was massively early, she still took me in, cooked an Irish breakfast and let me have a room.

Are you familiar with an Irish breakfast, friend?  It contains a fried tomato, sausage, Irish bacon, eggs, brown bread and blood pudding.  Although blood pudding does indeed contain animal blood as a main ingredient, it is tasty.  Most B&B’s include this breakfast in their rates so I do feel compelled to tackle these deadly meals that even in a small fractional dose could give a Blue Whale a fatal heart attack.

After this diabolical feeding, I went upstairs and napped for a few hours.  As a precaution, I set an alarm so I didn’t sleep too far into the future…so far that I awoke to a world where the President was a bug…a lady bug!

I pulled myself out of such a deep sleep that it felt as though I was that very same lady bug president trying to pull herself out of a bed of flypaper.  But if I was truly this lady bug president, I would make a new decree that from this point forward, all female lady bugs will still call themselves lady bugs while male lady bugs will call themselves fella bugs.

I walked down to the Shannon River and decided to walk along a path on the river’s edge.  On my journey, I ran into this Turkish guy that was fishing with a rod so ridiculously long it looked like he stole a flag pole and attached a reel to it.  I don’t know if he was expecting to catch a saber tooth tiger or the entire year of 1989 in there but he seemed to have been over-equipped for this fishin’ mission.  Fishin’ mission!

Later on, I drove to Dara’s family house in Castleconnell for a grand dinner.  This beautiful old house built in the 1700’s was situated right on the Shannon River and would also be the site for Saturday’s reception.

One of the first lads I ran into was another Boston College alum known to the world as Mark Francetic.  Along with his charmworthy wife, we soon found ourselves dangerously involved in a discussion about George Michael.  Mark told me about the concert of said performer that he recently attended and how he saw Andre Agassi and Steffi Graf.  I don’t know if it’s a prerequisite for tennis hall of famers to attend George Michael concerts.  Either way, it’s pretty weird.  Whipping caution into the wind with great force, I confessed my like of George Michael.  For Mark, he has a lovely wife to guard his image.  For a single, heterosexual male like myself, I must exist precariously and far out on the limb of this Wham Rap tree.

Along with his fiancée Christine, Dara appeared finally at the house, as he was delayed by an afternoon pub experience.  It was great to see the guy and even better to enjoy my introduction he gave to his other friends and family members.

“You see this guy!  He just won 25 grand by dancing in his underwear!!”

I looked around the party and it was loaded with people that were loaded and it made me laugh that among a crowd of people where 25 grand is what they would spend for fancy pants, they still were amazed at my absurd accomplishment.

Also floating around the dinner party was Chris.  Chris is a good friend of Dara’s from San Francisco and dynamically appears in my 2004 San Francisco journal.  We reviewed the more noteworthy contents of our lives over the past four years and joined the rest of the group on a walk to Guerin’s pub.  Here I bathed in fine conversation, traditional music and against my doctor’s orders, one pint of precise Guinness.

I did, however, abide my doctor’s advice of getting to bed somewhat early so I left the pub by 11:00 PM and restored myself with sleep.  Good night, children.

Friday, August 15th

At the breakfast table, I was joined by another guest, an Irishman in his fifties named PJ.  PJ spent at least one night a week at the Scapaflow House since his job of providing farming supplies brought him to the area frequently.  After witnessing PJ’s breakfast strategy, I never wanted to eat again.  He would put two runny eggs on to a plate and mix that in with some yogurt.  His final step would be to unload almost a full jar of jelly into this wicked stew and stir it around quickly.  Stranger than being the type of person that would consciously decide to eat such a mess was the way he may have stumbled upon this recipe.

I imagine he created it but who, in any sort of a trustworthy mental state, would think, “These eggs are wonderful but they’re lacking something.  Yogurt!  That’s it!  Oh, that is pristine.  But another ingredient that will complete this experience lurks in the shadows.  What is it, I wonder?  Of course!  An entire jar of jelly will surely take this dish to where it needs to be.”?  Watching PJ’s frighteningly foul routine scared the urine out of my body.

After my bitter sweet breakfast, I drove to the Shannon airport.  It seems that in my sleepless stupor of the previous day, I left my credit card at the Hertz Rental desk when I was picking up my whisper of an automobile.  I collected my crucial piece of plastic and as I drove away, I realized that if the higher-ups at Hertz had any brains, they would immediately call up John Mellencamp and ask his permission to use his classic hit in a commercial and change the title to “Hertz…So Good!!”  I envision people in the commercial who speak terrible English with huge smiles on their faces, pumping their fists, singing, “Hertz…so good!!!”  As an aside, I love that John Cougar Mellencamp removed the “Cougar” from his name at the point in his life when he started to look like one.  With that long hair and tough skin, he might attract some frisky drunk college boys in a dark bar.

The weather yesterday was decent and actually involved sun.  Today was filled with far more clouds and rain.  In terms of the weather, I was warned that Ireland’s current summer had been brutal.  Roads were constantly flooding and crops were being destroyed due to heavy rainfall.  I therefore decided early on to be a guy whose travel desires would not be deterred by rain.

It was this personal declaration that led my Toyota Matchbox Car and I north along the Shannon to the nice little town of Killaloe.  I walked around, looked at an old church and headed north further along the Shannon as it became Lough Derg.

At one point, I noticed a small sign on the side of the road that read “Nun’s Island”.  Perhaps an unexplored island full of wild, native nuns?  I had to investigate.  I drove over half a mile on a very narrow road that ended at the shore of Lough Derg.  About 100 yards away I could see a small island with some sort of old ruin in the center.  Tied up to a dock on my shore were two faded yellow paddle boats.  Written in black marker on the boats was a note that directed interested parties to call a phone number should they want to use the boats.  I didn’t have a cell phone and I was a far away from a public phone.

I looked out towards the island and I could not see any nuns but who knows?  Maybe they were hiding, waiting.  I looked at the paddle boats and then around me and I saw no one.  Who would know or care if I took one of the boats across?  In terms of the importance of this potential scientific, cultural and religious discovery, my mild and temporary boat theft would matter little.

All of the sudden, several cars started to appear within minutes of each other.  And these cars had people in them!  And these people got out of their cars and started walking around.  The odd thing was that they didn’t seem to be connected to each other.  It was as if all these touristy peeps just popped up out of nowhere to spoil my wonder.

Bummed out, I took one last look at the magical Nun’s Island and saw some sort of landing on Nun’s Island that would allow for adventurers to secure their floating vessel to.  This meant that pioneers and adventurers probably had already reached Nun’s Island.  This lukewarm consolation provided me with a tad of relief and allowed me to leave the site a little easier.

I traveled north again, finally making it to the top of the Lough and drove south all the way back to O’Briensbridge.  I cleaned up and met the rest of the gang at the Limerick Country Club for dinner.  Our next stop was Guerin’s for more pub-related activity.

At the pub, I began speaking with Mark.  Since he was one of two best men, he had to put his speech together for tomorrow night’s reception.  He asked me to review the work he had already done on the speech.  Mark shared some funny Dara moments and touched upon the existence of Dara’s long hair when we were all at college.

When I met Dara, I too had long hair and was gearing up for a semester in Galway, Ireland in a few months.  Dara was pleased to hear this and urged me to keep my long hair for my trip.  He fortified his advice with tales of traveling to many Irish villages with his drinking buddy.  He claimed that many lasses in these small villages found Dara’s overabundant hair inventory to be very attractive while his short-haired friend was dismissed like some leper dipped in skunk juice.  Sadly, I did not heed the counsel from the Celtic Fonzie and cut my hair so I was never able to determine the validity of his strategy.

I gave Mark a hefty thumbs up for his speech preparation and said goodnight to him.  All that remained for me this day was a short drive back to my B&B and hopefully a journey laced in sleep.  Good night tenderonies.

Saturday, August 16th

Last night’s sleep took a long time for it to be true.  It was also peppered with the sounds of what felt like dozens of idiotic dogs barking.  I will do my best to refrain from rambling on about my genuine and acute disgust for barking dogs but know this – we must elect a President of the Universe to wipe out this all too common of an issue.

After a breakfast that included a wonderful meal, an Irish couple defecating on George Bush and one more final round of witnessing PJ’s abysmal slop, I walked north along the Shannon.  The weather gave me clouds and more light rain.  The walk gave me an up-close look at the Shannon River’s hydroelectric dam.  Approaching this large structure through the woods gave me the feeling of being a spy that needed to blow up the dam because it was now under control of some evil dude nation.  Not finding any explosive devices on me or the ability to recollect such an agenda, I enjoyed the view and walked home.

Once back, I took gold in the event of napping.  When I came back to life, I readied myself for Dara and Christine’s wedding.  I put on my suit and walked out the door.  Right when I reached the end of the driveway, I heard Antoinette open the door.

“Chris, come here.  Let me take a look at you.”

I laughed at this request and had no choice but to walk back for her enjoyment.  I even added a graceful spin to my presentation for her supplementary amusement.  Antoinette smiled and exuded a sense of pride that is often detected in a mother seeing her son off to his first prom.

Miraculously, the rain stopped for the ceremony and the cocktail function afterwards.  A spot of sun even willed its way into our celebration from time to time.  The ceremony took place at the local church in Castleconnell.  For music, we all got to listen to one of Ireland’s most prominent harpists, Janet Harbison.  During the course of the ceremony, she had the stunning and welcomed audacity to play “The Rose” by Bette Midler.  With a single song, Janet ensured all of God’s angels were present in this highest of romantic rituals.

After we all filed out of the church, we walked the quarter mile or so to Dara’s family’s house for the reception.  After cocktail hour and pictures, we made our way into a large tent for food, drink and whatever other merriment was to be found.  It seemed like once the last person entered the tent, a steady rain began to fall.

With hurt feelings, I looked around at people enjoying a fresh keg of Guinness.  To restore my good nature, I allowed myself one pint and later on, a cigar.  I don’t know if my American naughty license is valid in Ireland but I’m sure acting like it is.

After savoring fine food, music, Mark Francetic’s fine speech, conversation, and the most involved and elaborate outhouse I’ve ever seen, I decided to head home as my Mono was calling.  It was a great night that deserved a great sleep.  Until tomorrow, mysterious peeps.

Sunday, August 17th

After eating, I settled the bill with Antoinette.  My plan was to now drive three hours east to Bray, a coastal town that was just south of Dublin.  My purpose was to visit a friend of mine I had not seen 12 years.  Chris Kane is a gent that, even though we went to Boston College together, I did not meet until we were both studying in Galway in 1995.

Before I left my B&B, I brought my map out so Antoinette’s husband John could take a look at my potential route.  As this happened, I realized a funny thing.  It’s interesting how comfortable many people feel drawing on your map as they give directions.  John started to fire away his thoughts, “Well, you want to take the N7 to Kildare…” and as he did, he carpet-bombed my poor little map with all kinds of lines, circles and X’s that gave my once pristine document the look of a four-year old’s treasure map.

I didn’t care that much, especially because I got this map from Hertz…So Good! but what if I really didn’t want him drawing on my map?  What if I was going to add this map to the “maps I’ve gotten from car rental companies” quilt I was assembling back home?  Where would I be then?  I never understood why people assume it’s okay to start scribbling like someone in mid-seizure on your map.  John’s intentions were pure and for the best so I was not even the least bit annoyed but I feel the occurrence of this event obligates me to reflect on this remarkable phenomenon with you.

Once in Bray, I drove along a beach front road with all kinds of shops restaurants, some fast food spots and amusement-based joints.  At the end of this road was my hotel for the night, the Crofton Bray Head Inn and Bray Head itself (a very large hill).  The road was busy and cars fought to find parking.  The Bray Head Inn capitalized on this congestion by charging non-guests to park in their lot.  The gatekeeper guarding this precious resource was an old man in a bright neon green vest that ominously waved all passing traffic into the lot.  Although I didn’t know it at the time, this ancient creature with his rhythmic, comatose, beckoning wave perfectly foreshadowed my time at the Bray Head Inn.

I pulled up and told him I was a guest.  A small trace of disappointment flashed on his face as he realized no toll would be collected from me.  A slightly awkward silence followed as he tried to compute my immediate parking destiny.  Finally, his human circuitry reactivated and he was able to supply me with instruction on where to place my Barbie Doll car.  I thanked him for his help and he ambled back to his parking post.

I walked inside to a very large, dark and musty lobby.  I could tell that this 130-year old building was originally well-built and boasted of fine craftsmanship but years of neglect, tasteless modifications and poor management left a very creepy and eerie feel to the place.  The odor throughout the building smelled like the locker room of Team Puberty.  To be more precise, if Team Puberty had a really big game, went back into their locker room, left all their dirty laundry everywhere, and then had someone professionally seal of the room, and then opened it up 40 years later, that’s what the Crofton Bray Head Inn smelled like.

I approached the front desk and noticed that A) no one was there and B) there seemed to be no way to get behind the desk (the desk area was in a little cubby that was surrounded by a counter, two walls and a stair railing).  Finally, a young German man walked over to the desk and with excitement, I watched and wondered how the hell he was going to get behind the desk.  He headed for the side where the stair railing was, grabbed the upper handrail and flung his body through a small opening created my two removed posts like the Duke Boys whipping themselves through the windows of the General Lee.

He popped up from behind the desk and asked, “Do you have a reservation?”

I laughed to myself thinking I wouldn’t need one since I felt to be the only guest stupid enough to risk their life in this massive old structure.  I was asked to pay right there (also weird) so I gave him my card.

He grabbed my card and stared at it as if he were a gay man that only played checkers and had just been handed a deck of playing cards with naked ladies on them.

“Ohh…you pay with card?  I have never done this before.  I’m not sure what to do.  Let’s see here…”

I bit my tongue and avoided saying anything that would make him feel worse than the situation already had done on its own.  Besides, I was still so impressed that he was even able to get behind the desk.  That step alone probably took weeks of training.

He eventually pulled out some sort of card machine and figured out what to do.  I then ask him how I could make a phone call.

“Do you have phones in the bedrooms?” I asked.

“Uh, I am not very sure…”

“Well, do you have a pay phone somewhere in the lobby?”

“Uh, I am not very sure…”

He finally told me of a phone he knew of down the road and showed me to my room.  We walked up a large staircase that lead not just to another floor but more odor.  We then walked down a hallway, bumping into old furniture since no lights were on, traveled up a somewhat scary elevator, down another hallway and finally into my room.

My room was a tad creepy but not too bad.  The bathroom was actually presentable and what really amazed me about it was the haunted soap.  On the bath tub and sink was your average small, thin hotel soap but it was unwrapped and standing upright on its very thin edge.  I didn’t tell the Bray Head Inn this but I would have paid double for my room had I known this haunted soap awaited me.

I unpacked a few things, didn’t see any phone in my quarters so I headed outside to call my friend Chris on a pay phone.  I called up the fella and he told me he’d be down in 10 minutes.  While I waited, I walked the strip looking for a simple little convenience store and with much frustration, found nothing.

I eventually went up to an ice cream stand and the woman working there told me there was something of a convenience store a couple blocks away called “The Ideal Store”.   What an obscene misnomer that turned out to be.  The Ideal Store was literally a small, hot closet with nothing but chocolate milk, soda, packaged ham, heartache and a huge step-like display of candy bars that was as big as and resembled a section of bleachers from a stadium.  What the heck do people in this beachside Bray community eat?!  Sand?  Hopes of a someday supermarket?

I walked back to the hotel and waited for Chris in the lobby.  As I walked in, I looked to my left and saw a pay phone, almost visible from the front desk.  Should I have gotten upset with the German hombre for not knowing of this phone when I asked for it earlier?  No.  With all the lights constantly off in the building, he probably had no idea it was there.

Chris eventually appeared and I told him I had not seen him in what felt like a lad’s age.  Along with his dog, we decided to walk up Bray Head.  This turned out to be a dodgy experience since all the rain placed a waterfall on the path we were climbing up.  Undaunted, our journey and our conversation pressed on.  This journey, by the way, installed some attractive ocean views for us.

When we reached bottom, we walked along the beach and Chris told me a story of how he was walking his dog along the same beach several months ago, early in the morning, when a pack of young terds started throwing rocks at him.  Amazing, I thought.  Some people’s desire to harm others is so primitive and innate that they will see someone they don’t even know and think, “I have to hurt a complete stranger who’s out walking his dog” and then literally grab the first object they find nearby and start hurling it at you.

I then showed Chris the inside of the Bray Head Inn.  He actually heard rumors of the hotel’s grotesqueness and advised me to cancel my reservation when I told him where I was staying the day before.  I told him I needed this experience to evolve as a man in the world.  He was laughing his guy-arse off as he walked through this creepy experiment.  He also was so moved by the haunted soap he took pictures of it.

We then got in his car and went back to his place so I could say hello to his wife Jen and their new baby boy Milo.  After some effective chatting, Jen dropped the two of us off at a restaurant where Chris and I ate and discussed hilarious stories not fit for public consumption.  Jen picked us up later and dropped me off at my hotel.  Jen, who grew up in Bray, looked in through the windows at the breakfast area.  She commented on how that room used to double as a nightclub back in the nineties.  She always marveled at how she used to see people throw up all over the place and then the next day see people eating their breakfast in the same room.

I laughed but now the reality of me having to sleep in this place started to set in.

“I sure hope this place isn’t haunted.  I don’t feel like dealing with that tonight.”

They told me to call them if I got scared and then laughed as they drove off.  Tender.

I headed back to my room and watched “Brokedown Palace” with Clair Danes and Bill Pullman, a movie so potent and moving you can buy it on Amazon for 1 cent (the last I checked).  Good nocturnal tidings.

Monday, August 18th

Risking such things I hold dear to me like my life, my reputation, my ability to trust food ever again, I elected to eat a full Irish breakfast at the Crofton “There’s a Strong Possibility You’ll Die in Your Sleep” Bray Head Inn.  As I waited, I was nearly blinded by the light that came from my life flashing in front of me.  As I wondered if I would at least make it to the parking lot before the morning food buried me in death, I drank the smallest glass of orange juice I’ve ever faced.  It was literally a shot or the same volume you would use if it was mouthwash or if you were preparing a bath for a flea.  The food came and I ate it like a lad with nothing to lose.

I went back to my room and my vitals seemed okay.  I grabbed all of my belongings and while I walked down the long dark hallways, “Hotel California” started playing in my head.  This melodious mental incident was uninvited and freaked me out.  As I made my way through the maze of hallways and doors and stairways and stench, I began to pick up the pace.  I couldn’t help but wonder if I would be trapped in this haunted time bomb of a hotel, a time bomb whose fuse was lit 130 years ago and would burn for eternity.  Once outside, I breathed in a mixture of air, freedom and relief.

I then drove through the Wicklow Mountains to a well-known monastery named Glendalough.  I wandered through old ruins and cemeteries.  I then decided to do a 5-kilometer hike that took me up alongside a series of mountain river waterfalls.  Due to the excessive rain, the falls were wild and uncouth like their artificial relatives that reside in water parks.

I continued my soggy, rain-ridden journey through a forest where I was greeted by two deer.  One stopped and kept checking me out.  Dirty deer!  In addition to my creature-universal charm, I think it was due to the fact my pants were exactly the same color as their coat.  After carefully studying the deer’s body language, I was able to come up with this translation, “Is that my good friend Slim the Deer?  Why is he wearing a black jacket and holding an umbrella?  Why is he standing upright on two legs?  Why do my droppings look like Coco Puffs?”

This pensive deer eventually moved on and I entered thick, dark woods and climbed up a small, steep path that had been turned into a stream.  At the top, everything opened up and I was gifted with supersonically good views of Glendalough’s Upper Lake.  I walked along a cliff, passed by a well-behaved group of horned goats (rams maybe?) and descended to my point of origin.

Back in the car, I drove south to my next stop, Kilmore Quay, and checked into my B&B.  Kilmore Quay is a very small, peaceful fishing village in County Wexford and provided more of the quiet nourishment that my American soul desired.  A more tangible nourishment was soon found at the great restaurant of Silver Foxes.  During my wonderful meal, a strange bug dropped out of nowhere onto the window sill next to me.  Stranger was that it looked like there as another bug attached to the back of it.

Grossed out by this potential scene of bug sex, I smashed this bug entity.  Grosser still than this insect porno was this white fluid that exploded from the bug/bugs.  I then ripped off a small piece of my napkin and placed it over the bug(s) like people do in movies (with other humans, typically).  I didn’t do this so much out of respect for the dead as I did for the hope I could put this vile and bizarre event out of my head and get on with my meal.

I then pursued a therapeutic stroll around the small village and went back to slumber.  Tomorrow, we chat again.

Tuesday, August 19th 

Once awake, I grabbed another enemy of the heart breakfast.  After settling the bill and packing my car, I made a brief stop at a small toy store to buy a desperately generic GI Joe type of action figure for my buddy Matt.  Matt is a crazy big fella that builds and adores toys.  Before I left, he requested not only a toy from Ireland but a rock.  The second ingredient of his request would be achieved shortly after I placed my figure in my car and drove west along the sea towards Hook Peninsula.  Matt’s mystical rock was discovered in a small beach in the little village of Cullenstown, I believe.  You have no idea the great joy it gives me to have a friend that asks me to procure a toy and rock for him before a journey.  Only a brilliant mind is capable of such requests or a cave baby.

As I drove out onto Hook Peninsula, I made a stop at Tintern Abbey.  This abbey was built by Cistercian monks about 1000 years ago.  The highlight of this magnificent slice of history was an entertainingly awful educational video in one the abbey towers.  The funny thing about the video’s location was that it was in a room that was hard to find and vaguely described to me by a woman in the reception area:

“Somewhere in the tower, you’ll see a door that looks to be locked but isn’t.  Just open this door and you’ll see another set of stairs that leads to another closed door.  Open that and enter the room.”

She didn’t tell me what was in this room or give me any reason to seek it out.  Usually, museums are very clear on all of the areas visitors can go and why.  Maybe Tintern Abbey simply wanted to reward visitors worthy enough to find the quasi-hidden chamber with pure delight.  Or maybe Tintern was under some legal obligation to show this terrible video but was ashamed of it so they crappily hid the video hoping visitors wouldn’t find it but could claim it was on display if the video’s producer asked of its whereabouts.

What was in this room was further proof that the best comedy is born from people that don’t mean to create comedy.  I found the door she spoke of and walked up the stairs to the other room.  I spotted a television monitor with a green button.  As my hand approached this correctly colored button, I looked around.  The room was empty.  The moment was right.

I pressed the button and was given perfection.  On the screen was a dorky-looking bookworm of a guy who pretended to be researching something at his desk.  He obviously spent some time laying out some important looking books although I was so distracted by the most ridiculous and fake monocle he wore that my mind registered little else.  With the acting talent of a pile of sticks, he displayed a sense of surprise once he saw me and greeted me with an accent that was either English or an Irish guy pretending to be English.

Like so many things in life, the greatness of this video was achieved by the little things.  A perfect example was the detectable and subdued excitement he gave off throughout the whole video.  The thought of portraying a historian on camera was making him giddy and it was making me psyched.  Another was his falling out of character by pulling out the monocle, talking for a while, a cut and then back to him talking with the monocle in place.  And speaking of cuts, they were terrible.  They would fade out awkwardly and come back to an unnatural reentry into the topic at hand.  Since this was a one-camera shoot with no other content between cuts, you technically didn’t need any cuts.  Clearly, they were only there because he either rambled on a sleep-producing tangent or forgot what he was talking about.  Either way, I thanked God for their presence.

And what did he talk about?  I have no idea.  Not just because the content was staler than death itself but because I was too busy treasuring the man’s aura and the poor quality of the project as a whole.  He could have been divulging the secrets of women, speed and burritos and I would have never known.

I left the abbey a stronger man and decided I was ready for Europe’s (and probably the world’s) oldest lighthouse that resided at the tip of Hook Peninsula.  Once there, I climbed along the rocky shore.  I came across several “blow holes” that were preceded by warning signs.  Although a term that sounds like unsavory slang for a certain human place, the signs referred to these often grass-obscured holes that ranged in width from 3 to 6 feet.  Most of them were about 25 feet deep and had ocean water on their bottoms during high tide.

At the bottom of one of the blow holes, I spotted a beer keg, clearly the result of some young toughs and a drinking session.

“Hey Jimmy, I’m done with my keg.  Watch me chuck it into this stupid blow hole!”

A crash is heard.

“BLOW YOU, HOLE!!”

I drove on past Duncannon and to the ferry of Ballyhack.  In terms of driving, I couldn’t help but think how Irish roads provided its drivers with so many near collisions.  The roads are tight and wild.  Little room exists for errors in this arena.  My small bit of comfort was remembering I have an airbag although I would hate to use my airbag since it probably hurts.  I bet it feels like the winning blow of the most severe pillow fight imaginable…like if someone taped a pillow to a Louisville Slugger and just let it rip into your face.

An eight-minute ferry ride took me to County Waterford where I drove west to the seaside town of Dungarven.  A large, 198-year old brick structure known as the Cairbre House would be my sleep camp for the night.

I was greeted by a friendly o’fella named Brian that showed me my room and made me some tea.  As I sipped and savored, he marked out on a map and gave me an overview of practically every restaurant in the large town.  He then left the room and returned with a menu for every restaurant he just described.  Not only was it a large number of menus but the menus were real menus you would get at the restaurant, not just a paper handout.  Did he go to each of these restaurants and casually steal each menu?  Was menu collecting a hobby for Brian?  A disorder?  It was a marvelously strange and welcome experience.

I settled on the Mill Restaurant and was body slammed by an absurdly elite meal consisting of pork, squash, potatoes, fries and a dessert that could destroy the band.  It would not be an overstatement to say that deep, forgotten places of me were awakened by this meal.

With a stomach that was packed and stacked with delight, I noodled around Dungarven’s streets in efforts to take in the lovely town.  I drove home then to the Cairbre House (which, by the way, is Gaelic for Care Bear House) and watched an interesting program on the Discovery Channel about a Scottish guy that was attempting to break the overall time record of riding a bike around the world.  I thoroughly enjoyed this program and I invite you to do the same.  Good night.

Wednesday, August 20th

Let me tell you, this morning’s breakfast can only be compared to a first date that exceeded all expectations. Lips kissed when it was thought that only hands would be held.  Shared dreams of future romance were expressed when only conversations of laundry were expected.

The meal was constructed of salmon that was smoked locally, free range eggs, fresh Irish brown bread, and vegetables and herbs that joined in from Brian’s Care Bear garden, literally a dude’s length away.

I thanked Brian for his hospitality and journeyed southwest along the coast into Helvic Head and on to Ardmore along roads that Americans would classify as footpaths.  Once in Ardmore, I went for a beautiful scenic cliff walk that took me along the coast of the town.  This walk took me past Declan’s Well and when I finished the hike, I drove over to Declan’s Church.  Not only was this the site of old church ruins, a great stone tower and a cemetery, it was also the site of my lunch.  Well done.

I then decided it was time to head north to my next destination of Clonmel.  In addition to being a beautiful town of 16,000 peeps along the lovely River Suir, it is also the home of Bulmer’s Cider, a sweet cider beer (they also make Strongbow Cider).  I remain more or less unaffected by this fact but I mention it for all you alcoholic diabetics.

I checked in with Rita at the Hillcourt House and made awesome with a cup of tea in the family’s living room.  As I wildly dipped my biscuits in my tea, I looked at several graduation photos that hung on the wall.  From the looks of the pictures, some of the children seemed to be graduating multiple times.  I’m not sure if this was due to the pursuit of graduate degrees or if there was perhaps some graduation recall that required the student to repeat the process since the first graduation was defective in some way.  Everyone in the photos seemed pleased so I assume the reason was the former.

I unpacked, showered, dressed and walked into Clonmel center.  A satisfactory meal was dealt with at Tierney’s, one pint of Guinness was liquidated at Mulcahy’s and a walk home executed by Christofella.  Good night time, soldiers of the Sleep Army.

Thursday, August 21st

I ate breakfast, squared the bill away with Rita and motored my way to Shannon Airport.  I pulled into the Hertz Rental Return area and was annoyed when a Hertz employee said I damaged the front left tire of my little hushmobile.  He pointed out a tiny bulge on the sidewall of the tire that measured less than a quarter inch wide by two inches.  It was literally the size and look of a forehead vein…people will notice it but you’re not getting turned down to semi formals because of it.

For this tiny business, he charged me 85 Euros or roughly $127.  I made my distaste known to this Hertz minion and how ridiculous it was to charge someone that much for what was essentially a vulcanized bagel.

“Well, I could have charged you 400 Euros ($600 bucks).”

He really said that.  What a dumb thing to say.

And you also could have eloped with a dead cow but you didn’t because that has nothing to do with the true value of the tire.

Well, I left Hertz with a mild yet manageable case of agitation.  But by the time I was on the plane, the symptoms passed.  Other than the guy next to me spilling a beer all over the place, the flight was peaceful and successful.

Once home, I stood in the sun and passionately asked why it saw fit to desert me in the past week.  There was no answer.

I retraced the steps of public transportation I made eight days ago and returned to the comforts of 83 Willow Street.  And with this fellas and felletes, I bid you the most tender and hairy-chested goodnights I can possibly muster.