Day 7 • Sept. 5

We may have fallen fast asleep on the ferry, but not for long did we slumber.  The night, or early morn, was a whole lotta cold out there on the Irish Sea, mate.  And all of this cold was funneled into a draft that emerged in very close proximity to my seat.  The cold woke us up no later than 6:00 a.m.  I got up to thaw out and smoke a ciggie.  I ventured into a lounged that resembled a beer hall.  Inside there remained a few stout Irishmen and women still slaking their unquenchable thirsts.  Most of those in the hall, however, were asleep at the tables; some still clutching the handles of their beer mugs.

I returned to my seat and attempted to get some more sleep.  Mostly I just froze.  At 7:30 a.m. we pulled into port.

From 7:30 a.m. to past 9:30 a.m., Sharon and I sat in the ferry terminal doing little other than missing the only two buses into town.  I, for one, was disoriented and waiting for my bearings to return.  Based on the write-up in the guidebook, I thought Sandycove was our best bet for finding a nice place to stay.  I occasionally confused Sandycove, however, with Sandymount.  My second mistake was I thought we were in Dun Loaghaire, when actually we were in the Port of Dublin.  Sandycove is next to Dun Loaghaire but 15 miles from the Port of Dublin.

We had no Irish money and at that point didn’t know British money was acceptable currency in Ireland.  Sharon made a few inquiries of a guard or whatever he was.  That didn’t accomplish much as far a getting us anywhere but did lead to getting our passports stamped.  I asked a taxi driver a few vague questions, but still we sat dazed and confused (for so long it’s hard to believe it’s true) in a ferry terminal with Irish stamps in our passports.  By this point, even the coffee shop had closed.  We spoke to another guard.  He told us there wouldn’t be another bus until that evening.  So we started walking and flagged down the first taxi we saw.  To Sandycove, we instructed, and step on it.

In light of my belief that we were in Dun Loaghaire, the ride to Sandycove seemed to be exceptionally long.  I suspected that perhaps the taxi driver was taking the long way at our expense, although he seemed to be an awfully decent chap.  Anyway he took us to a bed and breakfast he recommended that turned out to be splendid, although as weary as we were at the time, we’d have settled for a closet.

After some discussion with the proprietor of the B&B, Mrs. Helen Callanan, a most Irish lady if ever there was, it started to dawn on me that we’d come into a different port than the one I thought we did.  Our taxi driver was on the up and up after all.  Mrs. Callanan directed us to a nearby mall, where we might find coffee, because our room would not be ready for a couple of hours.  On that note, we ventured into the town of Dun Loaghaire.

First, we exchanged $180 for how ever many Irish Punt(s) that bought.  Then we got some coffee in that mall, and a most surprising mall it was what with all it Americaness right there in the middle of Dun Loaghaire.  After coffee and soup, we made our way back toward the B&B and then cut down toward Dublin Bay.  Near the bay, we followed a sign directing us toward the Joyce Museum.  The walk to the Joyce Martello Tower took us through a bay front park; past some fancy, expensive restaurants; and finally to a bathing area, which featured a secluded section tucked away from view where several elderly men, some naked, dove from overhanging rocks into the icy waters.  (I wonder where the lady’s secluded swimming area was?  Probably on the other side of the promontory.)

We hung out near the Joyce Martello Tower Museum for awhile debating whether to go in and check out the place.  We never did, and of course, I regretted not doing so almost then and there and for a long time to come.  We trekked back to the B&B, where the topic of discussion was what to do next.  What we did next was take a short nap that turned into a 3½ hour snoozathon—hey, we had it coming.

Waking up at 5:30 p.m. didn’t leave us with many options other than to find a place to eat and then a place to drink.  To that end we set out on foot.  We walked up an down the main street in search of an Irish meal.  Only problem was, the Irish wanted too much for their meals.  So we ate at a shish kabob joint.  Then we bought a few Heinekens and Budweisers to take away, which we drank three of in the park area along Dublin Bay.  As we sat on a park bench drinking our beers, dusk fell and the Irish chill set in and a good many Irish dogs trotted by our little feet.  That could only mean it was time to find us a pub.  So we did.

Snug and warm in a pub, we downed a few pints and wrote out a few postcards, most notably one to Reliance.  It was while in this pub, more specifically in the men’s room, that an Irish fellow accosted me while I was relieving myself. 

            He said, “Fitzgerald!”

            I replied, “No, Marc Evans.  And you?”

            “Oh, you’re American, hey?” he shot back.  “You look just like Fitzgerald from Dublin.”

So if you ever pass me on the road or catch me with your wife, don’t jump to conclusions.  It just might be that Fitzgerald bloke from Dublin.

Back at the B&B, we hung out in the dining room nursing a few more bottles of beer and watching the telly (British news about the Persian Gulf crisis, which is what they called the Kuwaiti mess before it became a war).  We were accompanied by Coco (a/k/a Kocomo), Mrs. Callanan’s 12+ year-old Siamese cat, who took quite a fancy to Sharon and me.  Finally, we went to bed, perhaps more tipsy than on any other night of the trip.  But hey, this is Ireland, mate.  And maybe it wasn’t even me downing all those brews, could have been that Fitzgerald.

Note:

• Reflections on the Irish weather: Sunny one minute, then drizzling the next.