Trying to find normal in Belfast = Difficult

My first night in Belfast was hardly a day in Belfast. I arrived in the city just after dark, incredibly worn out after an incredibly long drive from Donnegal (including stops at the cliffs at Slieve League and a minor detour in Coleraine). I had to do some wandering after I found the hostel to find an ATM so I could pay them in pounds (of which I only had £10 left over from London/Luton). I found out quickly that the neighborhood I was in was a really cool one. I was right in the middle of the Queens University of Belfast so there were lots of little pubs, student centers, bars and large important looking collegiate buildings that were lit beautifully in the dark. I stopped briefly at a bar called the Globe for some dinner and then headed back to my hostel to write and go to bed early.

My second night in Belfast was after going to Scotland and picking up Brian and promised to be more exciting. Only. It wasn’t. Brian and I got to Ireland at about 1:30 PM. Naturally, his first priority was to have a Guinness (his first in Ireland). We walked around for about 2 hours before we ended up just coming back to the Globe to grab a snack (not really finding anything else that looked inviting or that offered snacky bar food). After this, we went back to the hostel, showered and changed and then plotted our big night out on the town. We left again, this time looking for a pre-dinner drink which we grabbed at a nice pub down the street called Auntie Annie’s that appeared to be having a rather large birthday party. They also boasted to have a full menu, but weren’t serving for whatever reason (it was only 9 PM). So we walked. And walked. We walked all the way downtown and back, twice. Literally. We couldn’t find a damn pub that just served quick food. By about 11:30, we were STARVING, thirsty and sick and tired of walking past closed restaurants, bars with no food and cocaine boasting night club after night club.

At this point, I’m getting REALLY cranky and I’m thinking Brian is rethinking coming on this trip with me. Finally, we found a fast food baked potato shop and walked in to order some baked potatoes which actually turned out to be some of the best hunger curing food ever. I got a giant spud with cheese and bacon (bacon cures all grumpiness). After this we headed back to Auntie Annie’s since that seemed to be a normal place and it was hopping. After closing time tho, at about 2:30, we headed back home and not out to the 4 or 5 “unce-unce” clubs we passed on the way home.

So by night #3 in Belfast, we were determined to find something more like what we wanted – a more traditional pub, more like what I was used to in Galway. A place where we could sit down at the bar or in a snug and have a Guinness with other normal people. At the suggestion of our wonderful Paddywagon tour guide, we headed to the Crown Liquor Saloon which is this REALLY amazing old bar closer to downtown with incredible architecture and the look and feel of an old saloon or soda pop shop. Very cool. Next door was Robinson’s which was a really cool pub with a great crowd, live music and a beautiful little courtyard outside. Finally. Brian and I finally felt at home and we instantly made friends with some Aussie kids at the bar (If there are Aussies in a bar, I will find you, and we will be friends – it’s just how life works). Belfast passes my Ireland test, though barely, and we catch a cab home late night and rest up for our early drive to Dublin in the morning.

Northern Ireland in a Day - Paddywagon Style

As a part of staying at Paddy’s Palace Hostel in Belfast, if you stay for two nights you get the option of going on a free Paddywagon tour up to the Giant’s Causeway, the Carrick Rope Bridge and Derry. Naturally, as a lover of free things, I was on board.

In addition to a day being driven around, I was really looking forward to a history lesson. When I first mentioned going to Northern Ireland to the boys back at the house, Mr. G shivered a bit and said something to the extent of “oh, well I’m not coming with you anymore then.” Turns out there is still quite a bit of animosity between the North and the South and him stepping out into Belfast with his thick Galway accent might cause trouble. I was instantly intrigued, as I love drama, and wanted to know everything I could about why everyone is fighting (and naturally, the Libra in me, try and fix it myself).

Our first trip was to Carrick A Rede, a supposedly “scary” rope bridge that links the mainland with a small tidal island used for fishing. I had heard from 3 different people that it was a must see stop and not for those with a fear of heights. I’m not sure what kind of drugs those three people were on, but this bridge was completely retarded. It’s not high off the ground, it’s not even really a rope bridge, it’s not the original, there is no pool of sharks with laser beams waiting to chomp your left foot off if you fall off the bridge and the island is about the size of a basketball court. Seriously? Seriously. B Lee and I were not impressed in the slightest and we cringed when we arrived at the bridge knowing that we had just paid €8 to hike 10 minutes uphill. The only thing of value that came of the side trip was an INCREDIBLY embarrassing picture of me jumping on the bridge resembling one of those troll dolls with bright pink hair we used to collect when we were teenagers. Hopefully Brian deleted it off his camera before Emily had a chance to take it and e-mail it to all of my potential future boyfriends.

Anyway. After the bridge we drove for another 20 or so minutes to the Giant’s Causeway which is a sort of geological wonder of the world where these large black stones formed in perfect pentagons. B Lee was hell bent on getting his picture taken in the exact place where Led Zeppelin took their album cover picture. Brian wanted to ask nearby women and children to take off their clothes so we could replicate it exactly, but I told him that I’m not friends with pedophiles and since he values my friendship so much (and my ability to drive him to Dublin) he didn’t. It was pretty windy and the causeway was one of those things that is only cool for about 20 minutes – especially since I left my camera in Scotland (good move, Hesser) – so we went in the little touristy restaurant and got a bowl of stew and a beer.

Now is where my interest peaked. The drive from Giant’s Causeway to Derry/Londonderry was about an hour and we got a thorough history lesson from our tour guide who had a really dry sense of humor that no one else on the bus seemed to get aside from Brian and myself. We heard about how recently the last bombing was in Belfast (2002) and the significance of the paintings on the sidewalks (if the town you’re driving through has it’s sidewalks painted red and blue, it means they are supporters of being a part of the UK and not the Republic of Ireland and if the sidewalks are painted Orange and Green it means the town supports the Republic). We heard all about Bloody Sunday which I will not recount because you are perfectly capable of clicking the link and reading the Wikipedia article yourself.

Originally, the town we were in was called Derry, but when England took control, they renamed it Londonderry. All over Derry, you see signs that say Londonderry and the “London” has either been painted over, scratched off or vandalized in some other way. There are remnants everywhere of conflict. There are some old derelict buildings, but mostly it’s graffiti. Graffiti everywhere supporting either side of the cause. We came to an area known as Bogside which is where a bunch of artists painted murals on walls of some of the horrific scenes of Bloody Sunday and just the conflict in general – including the sign that says “Now Entering Free Derry.”

Rather than go shopping or go to a museum (the two suggestions of our tour guide while we were in Derry after our little history lesson walking tour) we decided that our time was better spend in a pub watching the Ireland v. Wales 6 Nations Rugby match and drinking a pint. So that’s exactly what we did. Brian had his traditional Guinness and Jameson shot (I told him he doesn’t have to do a shot EVERY time he orders a beer, but it’s B Lee and he insisted that it’s necessary) and I had a cider. I felt bad for a small moment that we weren’t doing something more traditionally touristy, but then I quickly reminded myself that the reason I came to Ireland in the first place was to soak up the culture, this part of the culture, not to spend day after day in museum or on cheesy (I mean, incredibly entertaining and informative) bus tours.

So I finished my cider, and ordered another.

Scotland. Or Anywhere. It doesn't really matter.

Almost a year ago exactly, I was standing in a pub in Wrigleyville, Chicago spending the week of St. Paddy’s Day with Brian, Tom, Dave and Greg. Naturally, as happens when you are traveling, we began discussing our next trip. That conversation morphed into a discussion about where we would spend St. Paddy’s Day next year. Naturally, the idea of spending the day in Ireland was thrown out and with raised eyebrows we discussed how possible that actually was.

“We’re doing it. That’s it. No matter what, we’re going to Ireland next year,” Brian says, suddenly. And I agree. Who knew it would actually happen.

After I decided to retire at the end of 2009, it was pretty easy to decide where I would call home first. Ireland was an easy choice. The visa requirements for Ireland are much easier than for other countries in Europe. I had been to the island before, knew I loved it and knew I needed to live there for a bit to see if it was just a dream I’ve built up over the past couple of years, or whether this really was a place I could call forever home.

Though three of the five ditched (thanks guys), Brian came through (surprise, surprise) and I was also able to convince one of my besties from college, Emily, to come along as well as Diana of www.dtravelsround.com. Emily and Diana were meeting us in Dublin a couple of days later, but Brian decided to fly in a bit early into Glasgow, Scotland so we could visit our beloved roadtrip friend, Mark, who lives in Glasgow and who you might remember from the epic journey Brian, Dan, Mark and I took from LA to Canada in a weekend.

I flew from Belfast to Prestwick and took the train up to Glasgow to meet with Brian, who was flying in from Los Angeles, and whom I hadn’t seen in almost 6 months – which in my books is a hell of a long time for one of your best friends. The poor kid was quite a wreck when I met him. He hadn’t slept at all on the flight over and looked like he might die. We grabbed some beers and grub at a restaurant downtown while we waited for Mark to get off work.

The rest of our trip was pretty much amazing. We saw a little of Glasgow on the day of our arrival and then Mark drove us to Edinburgh the following day. We spent the whole afternoon talking, walking and taking in the beautiful city.

We had an absolutely incredible dinner at one of Mark’s friend’s restaurants in Glasgow with Mark and his girlfriend Nicola (who is absolutely amazing). Mark’s friend and his dad (who is an Italian immigrant) have an amazing Italian restaurant in Glasgow and they gave us the royal treatment. We had so much food, we were bursting and the conversation was so entertaining as we heard stories of Mark when he was growing up and got loads of stories about living in Italy.

This trip was less about seeing Scotland as it was about being with friends and it was a perfect change of scenery for me as I haven’t seen a familiar face in a long time. Though this trip could have taken place anywhere in the world and it wouldn’t have changed much, spending time with these cool cats was something I was really looking forward to. I still think back to the time when I met Dan and Mark, at a bar in Santa Monica via Couchsurfing and how, even though I’ve only spent two short weekends with Mark in my whole life, I still feel like he is a really close friend. It’s crazy how this twisted little world works. But I love it.

Thanks for an amazing time, Mark. Love you to bits.

A Drive up the West Coast of Ireland - Day 4

 

After much convincing from our hostel mom in Donegal, Marde and I reluctantly agreed that driving all the way up to Donegal and not seeing the “largest sea cliffs in Europe” when we were so close would be a mistake.  So, we did.

We left Donegal early while the sun was still low to the ground.  We headed West towards Teelin and arrived at what we thought was the highest place we could go about an hour later.  We got out of the car and started hiking.  We hiked along the dramatic cliffs with mountain sheep and piles of peat.  The views were gorgeous, first back to Donegal and then out to the West into the expanse that is the Atlantic Ocean.  After about an hour’s hike, we come upon a car park (dammit, guess we could have driven) where one other person was parked and we were thrown upon what we had trekked so long to see. 

The cliffs at Slieve League are large; 2000 feet to be exact and are quite an impressive sight.  We decided to come, mostly because people say that these cliffs are more impressive than the Cliffs of Moher and I was VERY impressed by the Cliffs of Moher.  These cliffs are pretty cool, but different in every way.  The view from the top is spectacular, and I definitely enjoyed not paying for parking or any sort of entry fees.  I also enjoyed that we were pretty much the only people here, but other than that, they were just more cliffs.

After we had our moment of solitude at the cliffs and made the hike back down the road to our car (seemed to be one of those uphill both ways kind of hikes – vom).  We got back on the road, drove through Letterkinny, Derry (or Londonderry, depending on what side you’re on) and onwards to Coleraine to drop off Marde who was ending her journey with me here.

After a warm “see-you-later,” I got back on the road by myself this time and began the quick hour drive down to Belfast.  I didn’t hit much traffic, but also exited on the wrong exit and found myself driving around in circles before I found my hostel.  Once I did find it though, I parked my car on a side street (for free!), had a quick bite in my hostel lounge and did a bit of writing.  The next two weeks was bound to be a complete whirlwind as I was off to Scotland the following morning to pick up Brian and hang out with our long lost friend, Mark, for a couple of days before flying back to Ireland to pick up Emily and Diana in Dublin and beginning a pretty intense two weeks of traveling through Ireland, Germany, Portugal and Spain.  I didn’t feel bad at all as I stayed in and did absolutely nothing and was quite relieved to hear that the boys in my 4 bed shared dorm were all out for the evening.

A Drive up the West Coast of Ireland - Day 3

Another day of driving.  It’s starting to sound incredibly redundant.  And now the scenery is somewhat redundant as well.  It’s another day of green sloping hills.  Another day of driving along the coast on the wrong side of the road, in a car I generally disagree with, on roads that are way too narrow.  County Mayo was… well… not as exciting as mayo should be. At the end of the day, the roads start to straighten out a bit and I experience the 5^th gear for the first time on this trip.  I won’t bore you with the rest of the details because, well, I honestly don’t remember them.

We have lunch at a really cute little café in Dromore West.  The place was incredibly charming and we dined with a police man, a priest and a woman who may or may not have been alive.  After a couple of hours, we arrived in Donegal.

The most exciting part of the day was when we pulled into Donegal into a hostel parking lot and I make the HUGE mistake of parking facing down a hill towards a 2 foot stone curb and the road below.  In order to back the car out of this space (after 3 or 4 failed attemps) I had to maneuver some sort of emergency break jump into reverse which was, for all intensive purposes, a complete mess.  However, after the e-break back up dance, I finally get the car in the right direction (not without having a minor heart attack first) and we end up at the most amazing hostel I have experienced yet.  It was basically a HUGE old manor home that had been converted into a hostel run by the cutest and nicest little family. 

The hostel dad built us a nice fire when we arrived and we cooked some dinner before heading to bed early, after having a LONG chat about Ireland, the Irish language and our lives with the hostel mom.  I ran into a friend from Inishmore (small freaking world) and we chat about what we’ve been up to since that fateful night at the American Bar a couple of weeks prior. 

Marde and I walk into town to check out Donegal but are rather unimpressed.  We walk to the Donegal Castle which looks nice, but was closed (at 3 PM?!).  We asked around for a pub showing the Liverpool Game (of which there was only one) and after that tried to find a place to sit down and connect to the wifi and have a pint (no such luck).  I go to bed early, as we have a decently long day of driving ahead of us (even on American standards, a full 8 hours likely) especially since hostel mom convinced us to take a rather large detour to the cliffs at Slieve League. 

A Drive up the West Coast of Ireland - Day 2

A fantastic night’s sleep and Marde and I were ready to head out for another long day of driving.  We left Clifden around 11 AM after a large breakfast.  The day’s drive started much less eventful than the previous and I felt I had possible overcome the hump of comfortableness of driving this stupid car.  My starts were not exactly smooth, but at least they were happening at all.

We headed North, destination Westport, and drove out of County Galway and into the unknown.  We headed through Cleggan and then to Rinvyle Point.  We had seen a nice drive in the area on one of the tourist brochures we picked up in the hostel but somehow missed the sign pointing us in the right direction.  The roads started to get narrower, then they were unpaved.  Suddenly, we were on a one way farm dirt road passing tractors, acres of livestock and about a dozen or so people who followed the car with their knowing gaze, “another lost tourist.” We were completely lost.  For about an hour we drove around every road, sidestreet, paved or unpaved.  We were determined that we were going the right way, but that the roads were just this small.  We were wrong.  Eventually, we turned back around and headed where we came from.  We saw a decent sized passenger van (which NEVER would have been able to fit down most of the streets we were driving on) so we decided it was probably headed in the general direction of a town.  Fortunately, we were right and we ended up right where we had started.

Getting lost was actually pretty high on my list of priorities for this trip, so I wasn’t exactly bothered with the little sidetrip.  We head out of the area and on through Letterfrack and back past the Kylemore Abbey.  If you had told me the day before that the amount of sheep we saw on the side of the road was small, I would have laughed.  Today.  I understand.  There were sheep EVERYWHERE.  On the road, on the mountain, on the guardrail, on other cars.  It was madness. 

We stopped in Leenaun on the Killary Fjord for lunch at a lovely little pub which served four things: chowder, ham toasties, Guinness and Bulmers.  My kind of place.  The Killary Fjord was beautiful and we meandered around the area through the Dhulough Pass and North towards Westport.  The scenery was again, beautiful, with waterfalls, lakes, trickling streams and snow-capped mountains. 

Because we felt like getting lost again, we turned down a street near Old Head promising a castle (or so a sign seemed to say). But we found out quickly that the little symbol that looks like a castle is actually supposed to be a SAND castle and thus pointed us in the direction of the beach – which was nice – but not what we were looking for.  Finally we pulled into Westport and checked into our amazing hostel in an old mill building.  Our room was a stone lined (and freezing cold) dorm room with SO much character.  We grabbed some food from the Tesco for dinner and then went trad session hopping.  The trad sessions here were fantastic, and we stumbled in a bar with an adorable kid playing the fiddle (extremely well).  We stayed out pretty late as the music was going for hours and I’m typically pretty bad at saying no to another cider. 

A Drive up the West Coast of Ireland - Day 1

After my driving fiasco on the first morning of my drive, I really thought I was in for it.  Marde and I drove up and out of town a bit and then did some practicing.  I pulled into an old parking lot and practiced starting and stopping, then we found a nice hill where I could practice the same again.  From a driving perspective, the rest of the trip went on without a hitch.  I still had the occasional stall, but it was less panicked.  I got through several towns without losing any hair and I managed to pull into Belfast on the 3^rd day in rush hour traffic without killing anyone or causing any major traffic jams.

Thankfully, this allowed us to really spend some time marveling at the amazing scenery that is Western Ireland. 

After we left Galway, we headed west along the coast.  The weather was beautiful and the scenery even more amazing.  We drove past hundreds of houses all lined up nice and neat on the hillside and passed miles and miles of green luscious sloping hills.  We drove up through a cute town called Oughterard and then onwards towards Clifden.  We knew we were “close” to Kylemore and thought it would be nice to take a detour off to see the Kylemore Abbey.  Turns out we weren’t as close as we thought and when I saw a sign saying to turn right for the Kylemore Abbey, we embarked on an hour long detour in a redundant loop we would pass again the next day.

On the way to the Abbey, we passed through miles and miles of untouched farmland.  The scenery was beautiful and exactly what I pictured rural Ireland to feel like (only not as green – the one downside to the amazingly perfect weather I’ve had since I’ve been here).  The roads were terrible – incredibly narrow and littered with potholes.  We had to stop about every 50 yards or so to let sheep cross the road – many of which were apparently not aware that cars can kill them as they leaped gracefully in my direct path.  After about 45 minutes of this weaving and stopping, we rounded the corner at the Abbey. 

The Kylemore Abbey was absolutely spectacular.  It’s a large Abbey that sits on this little lake with a rather large mountain behind it.  The building was originally called Kylemore Castle and was a private residence before being handed over to some Benedictan nuns who fled Belgium during World War I. It has since been turned into an all-girl's boarding school run by the nuns, but Marde informed me that they will be shutting the school down at the end of this term.  Not sure what will happen to the site after that.

After we had our fix at the Abbey, we turned right back around where we had come from and down towards Roundstone which we were told was a place we HAD to stop at.  Unfortunately, I found it completely unremarkable so we breezed through, through Ballyconnelly and finally up to our destination for Day 1, Clifden. 

Clifden is a modest town with not a lot seemingly going on.  The hostel we were staying at was nice, cheap and has hot showers, so I was happy.  After a cleanup and a walk around town, we settled at a pub called EJ King’s and watched a great American cover band before retiring relatively early.

I am a terrible driver

I’ve been told that you can’t see the “real” Ireland without leaving the comfort of public transportation and the big cities and really get out and drive in the countryside.  Fortunately, I had the opportunity to do just that as I needed to rent a car to go pick up Brian, Emily and Diana in Dublin on the 16^th anyway. I had tried with no success to ask around friends to “borrow” a car for the week, but most people in Galway, come to find, don’t have cars – or at least the ones I was asking didn’t.

So I dragged Mr. G up to Budget with me to pick up my new little friend and start the journey cross country.  Now, those of you who follow me regularly have already heard my horror stories of driving a car with a manual transmission.  Last time I drove a stick, it was Dan’s lovely Wanda and it was on the open roads of the northern Midwest of America on some LOVELY wide interstates with relatively no traffic. When I picked up the car with Mr. G, I knew it wasn’t going to be a pretty event, but I was confident that I could figure it out and that at this point, the only thing that will improve my driving is practice.  We made it back to the house with relatively no incident (only a couple of stalls, but nothing major and not in any major area, considering it was 6 o’clock rush hour traffic when I picked the thing up, I was pretty impressed). 

I was accompanied on my drive by the lovely Marde, a couchsurfer from Melbourne I picked up who was looking for a ride out of Galway and a much welcomed companion.  Marde met me at the house before noon on Saturday and we casually packed the car up with all of our gear and got ready to get out of town.  Marde didn’t know how to drive a stick, so it looked like I really was going to have to make this work, but at this point I was pretty confident everything would be ok.  So we pull down the hill in Salthill down towards the main ocean road and I start some idle chatter about how great the trip is going to be.  We arrive at the bottom of the hill to take a right turn (our left turn, since I’m driving on the left side of the road… so I have to cross traffic). 

Stall.

Ok.  Calm down, Hesser.  You can do it.

Stall. Stall. Stall. Stall. Stall. 

by Jim LinwoodUhh…. Wtf do I do now? I’m blocking both lanes of traffic.  People are honking.  Pedestrians on the strand are staring and laughing.  I am stuck.  I keep starting the car up, shoving it in first gear, moving about 4 feet and stalling again.  Again.  And Again.  At this point I am having a full on panic attack.  I have no effing idea how I’m going to keep going. 

A knock on the window and I jump 100 feet.  A man opens the door, asks Marde to step out and he gets in the passenger seat.  Blah blah blah… I don’t know what he’s saying, I can’t even see straight.

“I’m a driving instructor.” Wait what? My ears perk up.  “Do you know how to do this?” he asks me calmly.  Yes, yes, I do. I realize I haven’t said anything, I’m just thinking to myself.  “Yes, I can. I’m just panicking,” I sputter out, “I can’t concentrate.”

For the next 5 minutes, the man sits there by Robert Couse-Bakerand talks to me.  Not about what I’m doing wrong.  Not about how terrible I’m driving.  He talks to me about America and his first time to visit.  He turns on the AC full blast . He tells me about his son who is doing a year study abroad in Boston.  He chats me up about the upcoming journey and takes my map to show me some castles I must see along the way.  All the while, we’re sitting blocking half of the left lane of traffic, but not so much that people can’t pass me.  Suddenly, I’m not shaking as much.  My face gets some color back and my arms feel a little less like Jell-O. 

“Well, best of luck to you, Abbey.  This is sure to be an epic journey for you! Are you alright now?” Strangely enough, I was. He got out of the car and let Marde back in.  He walked to the back of my car and stopped traffic behind me.  I let out the parking break.  Foot on the clutch and the break.  Slowly release and give it some gas and… well looky there.  I got the damn thing to go all by myself after all.

See you later Mr. Good Samaritan Driving Instructor Man.  You saved many lives today.