Back in Perth on September 6th, I was set to arrive relaxed some time a day or two later, then get some well-earned rest, albeit in a hotel bed, and meet the new arrivals on the 9th. Clearly neither brain nor watch had recovered from three time differences as I travelled about the US and UK. The night of the 7th I checked my phone and watch as I sloped off to bed around midnight, and realised I’d fallen a day behind.
The 7th, as it turned out, was the 8th, and of course shortly after midnight had become the 9th. Watch and phone had lulled me into a false sense of being able to watch a movie, have a couple of beers, sleep in and slope off. Not for me. I should normally, at that point, have been at the hotel, tucked up in bed. My charges had already left the US hours ago and were due to meet me at Glasgow Airport, from 7am that very day. In a mild panic I managed 3 hours’ sleep, was up with the larks (or would have been if the larks themselves weren’t still tucked up in their own beds) to drive to Glasgow.
The meetings, greetings and transfer(ing)s went remarkably well, considering some of the passengers had actually had more sleep than me. Pouring them into taxis, on to the hotel, I settled them in, oriented them to the ‘what, where and when’ in Edinburgh. A tram back to the airport and drive back to Perth, train back to Edinburgh, I felt like a character from Trains, Planes and Automobiles without the Hollywood salary. The tour was underway.
As tours go, this was to be a fairly relaxed one. Perhaps because it was to be my last of the season. Perhaps because I found the group gelled quickly and had a sense of humour. Perhaps because at the end of the tour I would be flying to London to meet Becky after a busy fortnight apart, Scott after rather longer. Whatever the reason it genuinely felt like I was a fellow traveller amongst this group from as far apart as Michigan, Massachussets, Texas, Kentucky and New York City. Not a one from Pennsylvania.
Edinburgh, St Andrews, Stirling, Glasgow, Inveraray passed in the blink of an ‘aye!’ And then we were Dublin-bound, half way through the 12 day circuit of Scottish and Irish highlights. Little new from past tours, some familiar faces on hotel front desks and one or two in the driving seat of the tour bus. St Andrews, admitting a new round of freshers, many from the USA, gave me my first ‘We Are…!’ In response to Becky’s fleece I was wearing to keep out the east coast cool. For those not inducted into what seems to be the world’s biggest higher education cult, a little explanation is maybe needed here. It’s all about branding. The sight of any kind of ‘merch’ sporting Penn State University’s logo – the ‘Nittany Hamster’ – sorry, Nittany Lion – draws out members of this cult in a Masons-like verbal handshake: “We are…!”, and “Penn State” comes the response. The University of the West Of Scotland (UWoS), whose ancestral college I once worked for, has no such greeting. I can imagine “You was…!” meeting a response of “Aye Right!”, or even “It wisnae me!”. Maybe Cambridge could come up with something suitable: “U Came…” but I feel it would more likely become veni, vidi, vici (I came, I saw, I conquered) to imply Julius Caesar’s place with an honorary doctorate until sued for imperialistic tendencies or fraudulent claims. Come to think of it…
So, back to the tour in hand, or ‘in the air’ as I write this. Frantic packing and repacking ensued the night before, trying everything short of alchemy to squeeze a 50 (or 70) pound luggage allowance into the 44lbs allowance for the Dublin flight. It all turned out fruitless as the lovely Aer Lingus airline staff turned a blind eye to the group’s overpacking and purchases. God bless Glasgow. Only a few hours later we were in Dublin’s fair city, where the girls are so pretty, and Molly Malone’s ti##ies have been restored to their dark beauty after decades of hopeful bras-rubbing and neglect. Let loose in the city for a few hours and then we were off to the Merry Ploughboys Pub in Rathfarnham.
A few took the opportunity for a lesson in pouring the Black Stuff at the Guinness Storehouse, the majority were content to wander and get their bearings, and a few (myself included) made use of the washing machine usefully offered at the Stay City hotel. A mid-tour laundry is always a blessing, helping us either to travel light or arrive home fragrant, according to priorities. It’s always worth planning ahead on the clothing front and in this case (pun intended) I knew I was extending my personal round trip to include London rather than going straight home. For some travellers it’s ok to be ‘aromatic’, for others letting the staff do the ‘heavy lifting’ permits clothes to be worn twice or more.
I’ve discovered that airing clothes ‘half worn’ extends their useful life on the road too. But there’s always an element of risk, and I’m quite risk-averse when it comes to being judged by others, so I still tend to take at least a ‘plus one’ of everything, which adds up in terms of a luggage allowance. This is made worse if there’s any hint of a need to ‘dress up’, and in the fact that an extra pair of size 11 shoes can necessitate a bigger suitcase, along with the temptation that entails of adding further items ‘just to make up space’. So launder I did, and of course lightened the load to the tune of a couple of detergent capsules. A victory of forward planning.
Mercifully we’d missed President Trump as he visited Ireland to sell golf and talk tarrifs, but Ireland’s president was also still at the tiller of the European Union and Dublin was both busier and less open than I was used to. Traffic was a nightmare as the summer was drawing to a close, and road restorations all seemed to have started at once. On a city sightseeing tour it seemed to take forever to work our way from hotel to Phoenix Park, whose name has less to do with the fiery bird than a 17th Century aristocrat’s inability or unwillingness to properly pronounce its true Gaelic name – Fionn Uisce, meaning ‘clear water’. Passing the US ambassador’s and Irish President’s residences (neighbours that they are in the park), there was no sign of the post-Trumpian chaos that follows wherever hios miss-steps fall. Even the deer had gone into hiding.
Off to the less green parts of the city, the traffic holdups gave us plenty of time to pick up on the history of the city with two names: Town of the Hurdled Ford, Baile Atha Cliath, and of course Dublin, or Dubh Linn – Black Pool. Then the EPIC (‘Every Person Is Connected’) Museum, tracing the tails, roots and epic routes of Irish migrants across the Atlantic to a New World of their own, and then back on the road to Glendalough (Valley of the Two Loughs/lakes/lochs) to look further back to the 7th Century. Breathtaking natural landscapes of the Wicklow National Park, along with12th Century churches and round towers gave the trip, or at least the destination, a spiritual or other-worldly quality.
Meanwhile, back at the ‘ranch’, Jackson was rearranging the fridge magnets to make space to mark my own latest travels, I guess. Or he was bored. He was evidently missing me, or so Becky insisted, as he was spending a lot more up-close-and-personal cuddle time with her. That didn’t stop him making himself comfortable at every opportunity when Becky was away or at work – he is a labrador after all. Like the rest of the pack he was also showing signs of worrying about his big brother, Mars, who had to take a visit to the vet after starting to whimper and whine almost incessantly. Turned out the poor guy had a cardiac issue going on, so needed monitoring and medication for a while. It has to be said that, after the bill arrived, both Becky and I could also have done with some cardiac meds. But, as with any family member – as all four dogs are – you can’t put a price on healthcare. We leave that to the doctors and their accountants.
On from Dublin to Galway for the craic, the food and perhaps a little more Guinness. I stress a little, for reasons that will become clear. Galway is the city of the 14 tribes, a dozen of whom have Norman heritage, merchants brought in by Henry II to control the unruly Celts, alongside a further two tribes of Celtic origin. One of these tribal families, the Lynches, seems to have ruled more significantly than the rest from their ‘castle’ in the centre (now an Allied Irish Bank). It’s said that one Lynch patriarch was even responsible for executing his own son for murder, a hanging not entirely sanctioned by the city’s other leaders and lawmakers, thus coining the term ‘lynching’. It’s also where you can go for reliably great food, especially seafood from Galway Bay.
So, having sampled some excellent oysters and a superb steak washed down with a pint of the black stuff at Keogh’s in Galway’s west end, I headed back to the hotel to prepare for the next day. Taking a wrong turn I took a shortcut across a busy road in the dark, tripped balletically on the central reservation and left less of an impression on the road than it did on me. I arrived bloodied and torn at the hotel, took a shower, and patched myself up as best I could with the help of the hotel first aid box. So much for advising people to be careful crossing the street. But then, at least I can say I left a little piece of me in Galway.
The next day a visit to the Cliffs of Moher for spectacular views and wildlife turned into a cliffs of less excursion and more wet and windy than wild life, thanks to the weather, lots of it, taking control. The 2500km Wild Atlantic Way was living up to its name, at least in County Clare. We passed through Lisdoonvarna (you have to look up Christy Moore’s song of the same name to understand the place) and its Matchmaker Bar and hotel, deep in the midst (and mist) of the annual Matchmaker music and partner-finding festival. Think Tinder but old-style, with people visiting this tiny town from all corners of the globe.
At the Cliffs, I thought I was bonding and sharing stories with my driver, Maurice – a gentle man with a less gentle past. We took our coffees to the table, and he looked a little bemused when I asked him to pass a knife and I proceeded to divide the blueberry muffin between us and offer him half. Consuming my half, as he ate ‘his’, I reached into my pocket for my glasses and found the muffin I’d just bought, hunkered down in the security of my coat. I’d generously offered him half of his own mid morning snack and wolfed it down as he looked on with a look somewhere between bemused and alarm. And yes, before you judge me too harshly, I did bring out my own and gave him the ‘big half’ as we shared the moment with more than a smile.
These moments are precious. With fellow travellers, clients and colleagues. Realisation that we’re human, bound to make mistakes, and that somehow brings us together. With humour and humanity. On this tour, for example, I’ve met firefighters, war veterans, a social worker, a doctor, a line man (for the state not just the county), a nurse, entrepreneurs, managers, team leaders, the list goes on. What can’t you learn from these encounters? There are dog lovers, too, and inevitably that becomes a point of commonality, and it’s this sort of common ground that can form the foundation for conversation, appreciation and respect. From our drivers this season I’ve learned more about the island of Ireland, and the North-South relations than ever before, and it goes far beyond simplistic assumptions that a united Ireland is achievable within even a generation or two. I’ve learned what it was like living either side of the border, and what it’s like now, what serving in the Irish military was like, and it’s not for me to say or share. Yet a deeper understanding of the lived realities of anywhere I visit helps me set what I do know, and share, into a deeper and broader context.
Travelling with such diverse groups of individuals, couples, families, also provides a deeper and broader context for my own future experiences, visiting and working with Americans of every hue. It’s remarkable. And I believe it’s an essential grounding force for everything that’s to come. Reflecting on the close of a season’s travel, I realise that some of the things I do best are to connect, take time to understand people, to make everyone on a tour feel both noticed and in some way special. I also realise that perhaps this is why I do what I do, why I have always chosen particular paths. Maybe a hang-up of sorts. It’s that very personal need to be noticed, not in a gregarious, centre-of-attention kind of way, but individually to mean something, to matter and to show that others matter too. I may not always have succeeded but it’s gratifying to know that there have been many times I have.
International-Eyes.org 