Sunday, March 4th, the alarm went off at 7:45 a.m. as the rain beat against the window. Patrick and I grabbed our cameras, donned some sweaters, ate a couple chocolate muffins, and tip-toed around rain drops until we reached the steps of the hotel down the street.
A red 14-passenger van parks alongside the street and a diminutive, mustachioed man walks up to me and asks if I'm going on a tour of Glendalough. After confirming that “Merchen” was indeed on his list, Patrick and I find dry solitude from the rain in the oversized minivan. Joining Patrick and me are a couple from Italy, a pair of girls from France, three people I never got a chance to speak with, and four other Americans. As we pulled onto O’Connell Street, our tour guide gave us a brief history of downtown Dublin, teaching us about the 1916 Easter Rebellion and sharing with us a brief history of the Catholic-Protestant conflict.
The four Americans joining us turn out to be quite the cast. The two seated next to me are Jim from Seattle and Deb from New York City. They are “exhibit artists” for zoos and are currently recreating an elephant habitat in the Dublin Zoo for an incoming herd of African Elephants. Very nice people. To the left of Patrick sat Ray, Deb's father, and his best friend Sam, both from New York. Retired utility men from NYC, sporting FDNY caps, they cracked me up the entire trip. I was just waiting for Ray to bust out a “fuggedahboutit” at any moment.
“Hey, this is nice, I mean, uh, it’s rainin’, you know, and uh, I can’t see out the window, but hey, no, very nice, let’s go on a tour.”
"I'm sorry Dad, my fault."
"No, no don't worry about it, I'm having a lovely time, only thing I would change is maybe, you know, everything."
So our first stop along the countryside is a graveyard. Creepy. The rain is still falling and there's an “Irish Mist” or more appropriately, “An Irish Wall of Solid Fog”. The tour guide tells us that from where we are standing, there's a lovely view of the Irish Sea and Dublin Bay...on a clear day.
Back in the red wagon, we continue driving up a muddy road.
“Where yous guys from?” asks Ray the New Yorker (OK, he didn't really say "yous guys" but he still could have been a Soprano).
Patrick told them he is German and I said I was also from the States. South Dakota, actually.
"Well, I know where Germany is, but I've never heard of South Dakota, ha ha."
You got me, Ray.
After driving up a winding, muddy road, being able to see about four feet in front of us, we're told we're just downhill from a beautiful lake with waterfalls. Refusing not to see all of the available Irish Landscape, Patrick and I, along with two girls from France, make up a crew and hike up the hill to see this lake. The rest of our group opt to stay in the bus. The rain is absolutely hammering Patrick and me. Patrick has an umbrella that gets blown inside out every now and then, and I can't really see anything because the rain is hitting me in the face! Honestly, I loved it. I thought, I AM IN IRELAND! After getting a few shots of the lake in a rainstorm, Patrick and I head back, soaked, and get our complimentary cup of coffee (two sugars).
This entire day is hard to put on paper. I talked with these interesting strangers from the United States and looked out a rain-soaked window at a beautiful country with a scarred history.
We stop again at another lake. "Just a few meters away is a large body of water referred to as Guinness Lake, as a number of Arthur Guinness' family members have lived on property near here. It's a majestic view...on a clear day."
With that, we continued.
Something I found honestly hilarious, highlighting what a diverse country the United States is: As we drove, Deb gazed out her window and said, "Dad! Look-sheep! I know you wanted to see some sheep on this trip!"
"Oh really?" said Ray "Where's the sheep?"
I tried so hard not to laugh.
"Those dumb sheep, just standing out there in the rain, why don't they take cover?"
Seriously, I love New Yorkers. It's official.
A few minutes down the road a whole herd of sheep stood outside my window (on the opposite side of the road). "Hey!" exclaimed Ray. "This guy's got sheep galore and ain't sayin' anything!"
"Sorry," I said, "Umm, there are a lot of sheep in South Dakota. I'll be sure to let you know next time I see some."
So for the next 10 minutes every time I saw such "wildlife" I would dutifully announce "SHEEP!"
The experienced New Yorkers posed to me a question: "How often do sheep get sheared?"
"I believe once a year. There is a shearing 'season' and the sheep spend the rest of the year growing their 'wool' back."
"Ah, thanks kid."
"But then again, that's South Dakota sheep. I don't know about Ireland sheep." (my attempt at a joke)
"Kid, sheep are sheep."
OK then, fair enough. (For the record I looked it up. Most sheep are shorn once a year, though some are sheared twice a year and some every two years. Not that I'm bitter; the point is I'm always right.)
As the drive continued with nice Irish music being played over the speakers, the spry New Yorker and I come to a conclusion: if we can only see four feet out of our windows...then wouldn't the driver also have the same amount of visibility? We decide not to think about it as we hang a right on what looks like a river but is apparently the dirt road leading us to the great waterfall.
This waterfall is massive. I'm expecting a herd of sheep to come flying over the mountain at any minute. The rain is still coming down like a kid that just dropped an open bag of marbles out the window. "Word is, it's going to clear up" the tour guide tells us. Even I am skeptical, BUT still loving Ireland. It can't be the Emerald Isle without a little rain! (Or so I tell myself...constantly.)
We pull into the town of Glendalough to eat some lunch, and all of us are grateful for some legroom and the prospect of putting some food in our stomachs.
After ordering the Guinness Stew, Patrick and I sit down next to our tour guide, along with another man who was running a tour from a different bus. We chat about politics, about Ireland, and about the guy on the other side of the room, who, as it turns out, is brother to Grammy Award-winning singer Enya. Neat.
Probably the funniest exchange of the afternoon:
Tour Guide: What are ye names, lads? Where ye from?
Me: Aaron. The U.S.
Patrick: I am Patrick, from Germany.
Tour Guide (both): Aye, Patrick! And yer from Germany?
Patrick: Yes, I guess it was popular to give your child an English name in the '80s.
Tour Guides: AN ENGLISH NAME!? Why that's as Irish as it comes! Why we're almost to St. Kevin's Church--aye Kevin, that's a good Irish name.
Patrick: Ah yes, I have a friend from Germany named Kevin. His parents also gave him an Eng...IRISH name.
Patrick later whispers to me, "I meant the English language, not the country."
"HAHAHAHAHA, I mean, I understand, Patrick."
After our stop, we head to the back country of Glendalough county. After a short tour of an eroding monastery that was founded in the 1400s, we were let loose to explore the countryside and the two lakes. The weather did clear up. This experience is basically too beautiful and awe inspiring to describe. The pictures may help. As Patrick said, "It's just too much..."
The mist hung over the mountains as the hills rolled and the waterfalls flowed. This was the Ireland I dreamed about while looking at a world map.
On the way home we drove along Europe's largest man-made lake. Turns out they flooded a town and it took them seven years to finally drag out this one old man who refused to leave. Tenacity. We drive awhile more and the driver tells us that 80 percent of Braveheart was filmed in Ireland, with many of the battle scenes using members of the Irish Army Reserve.
At this point, I'm still loving Ireland, but I'm so car-sick I'm just praying to St. Patrick I don't throw up on the guys from New York. We arrive back in Dublin to blue skies and a shining sun.
The next morning, Monday the 5th, Patrick knocks on the bathroom door as I'm brushing my teeth.
"Aaron, you know how we thought our plane took off at 2 p.m.?"
"What do you mean, ‘how we thought’?”
"Well it turns out that's when we land in Sweden...our plane leaves at
11:00."
"What time is it now?"
"9 a.m."
"And we're supposed to be there right now?"
"Technically."
So Patrick and I throw everything in our bags and jump, grab a chocolate muffin, and hop on the next bus to the airport. We get there 10 minutes before they stop taking passengers. We made it. All in all, it was a fantastic weekend. I daresay we conquered Ireland. Flying back, I found myself slightly sad to go back to Sweden, not because I didn't miss it, but because it meant being covered in a canvas of clouds again. But the next week the weather gave us nothing but sunshine.
