The Ballinastoe Death March, Part Two

This is a tale long in the telling, and I want to thank everyone for being so patient, as I let myself get distracted by other matters large and small. Linus had a birthday not too long ago, and he said a great present would be for me to finally finish the damn Death March story. So here you go:


It was when we started downhill that everything went wrong.

After straining our winter-sore muscles, climbing up a steep incline that never seemed to end, sweat mixing with the cold March Irish wind, we reached the peak, took some pictures, and were happy in the knowledge that from this point on, everything would be easier.

After walking through a brief suggestion of a forest, we were presented with a choice: not exactly a fork in the road, but an option, let's say. Go this way, or go that way. There might have been a detour sign involved as well, but it's been four months, and this is a story, so it doesn't really matter. You see where I'm going with this.

We stalked downhill, switching this way and that, getting hungry and thirsty as a brief weekend jaunt in the country moved into hour three. We edged closer and closer to where the car (in theory) lay, when suddenly the path just...ended. Stopped. Not blocked. Stopped. No more path.

Issy went over the map, Elimare cursed her decision to get up and join us (perhaps), and others tried their iPhones for some sort of desperate navigational epiphany, until we resigned ourselves to our fate and turned around. And started walking uphill, again.

The Gurrier, not one to take his medicine gladly, at one point left the pack and decided to strike out a new path for us, trudging through thick bracken and shrubbery, up a steep hill, and suddenly disappeared into the treeline, hidden from view.

I don't know if it was actually bracken, but it seems like the appropriate Tolkien-esque foliage description. And anyway, we were making all sorts of Sam-and-Frodo-march-through-Mordor jokes as we passed through a nasty bit of deforestated desolation.

Anyway, Donal disappears from view, and then Linus decided to follow. I stayed with the women. To protect them. From bears, or Gollum, or something. At least that's how I remember it.


Donal and Linus eventually came back, defeated once again, and we retraced our steps back to The Choice, and this time, chose wisely.

We finally found the car, and headed towards a small town for dinner. Something called a Rock Shandy was consumed, burgers and Irish stew and something vegetarian was eaten, and we eventually headed back to Dublin. We had planned to go into the city to visit a pub or two, but we were all just too exhausted. A cup of tea and some episodes of Arrested Development at Linus' flat were all we had in us, but at least I got to meet Franklin.

And then it was Sunday and I had to leave, back home, back to everything I know here, in Illinois, in my classroom, on my stage. They are all wonderful things to come home to.

But heading over to Dublin every now and then, despite the cost, is also something wonderful to come home to. That's how I see it now. I have my home here, and my friends, and I have a sort of home over in Ireland as well, and I have my friends in Ireland. They are wonderful people, and I feel incredibly lucky to be welcomed into their lives. It was four years ago this summer that the blogger Linus agreed to meet me in Grogan's for a pint, talking about comic books and mobile phones and introducing me to Elisa, Isobel, and Donal.

There's a guy named Chris Cope, another American friend of The Dubliners. He lives in Wales, and achieved two things that I've been unable and/or unwilling to get done: publish a novel, and live overseas. We both share a friendship with these guys, both have hung out with The World's Greatest Blogger, and we both like drinking. It's strange that we've yet to meet.

Not sure why I bring up Chris now, but he somehow seems to be mixed up in this grand story, and I'm curious to see what part he may play in the tales to come.

I leave for Europe in a week, once again spending my hard-earned cash on an expensive trip overseas. but it's what I want to do, what I need to do. This time I'll also see Bicyclemark, and hopefully JaG, and some new places, in addition to my old Irish haunts.

My dear, dear Kate told me last week that I always come back different after a trip. I told her she was wrong, but she might have been on to something. Travel always changes me, a bit, mostly because I travel solo, giving myself a long time alone with my thoughts, that rare chance to think about myself and my life.

I don't know if I'll come up with any grand realizations this time 'round. Bobby Neuwirth's coming with, and I won't be able to get lost in my head like I usually do, but that's probably a good thing. Mostly, I'm just looking forward to wandering around a bit, and seeing some good friends in far-flung places.

The Ballinastoe Death March

"So what do you think you'll be in the mood for, when you're over here?"

"Well, I really liked that trip down to Wicklow you and I took last time I was in Ireland. I'm always up for a good hike somewhere."

"Okay, we can probably manage that. I know a few good places."

"Think everyone will come with?"

"Issy for sure. The others...? We'll see."

----------------

Saturday morning was something none of us celebrated early. Linus found a home on the couch, Donal and Issy slept late in their bed, and Elisa (hopefully) made it back to Dublin proper.

Tea and breakfast and a shower and the plans were made. Drive down to Wicklow, walk a bit, then head into town later that night to have a few drinks. Linus was ready to go, despite not owning any shoes or clothing suitable for hiking in the wilderness. Elisa was tracked town and talked into coming with. We all had a bit too much to drink the night before, but we were feeling pretty good, for the most part.

If you drive about thirty miles south out of the largest city in Ireland you'll find yourself in the Wicklow Mountains, surrounded by green and sky and nothing else. The Irish rebel princes used to hide here when the British were looking for their heads, hundreds of years ago.

We got out of the car near something called Ballinastoe. Maybe. I'm not completely sure about that. I'm not sure about that bit about rebel princes either, but I think I remember that from a book. We were in the mountains, though. I can say that.

"The tough part's at the beginning, but it gets easier after that," warned Donal. Suddenly we all remembered the fact that we were horribly hung over.

Wearing a gifted pair of brand-new hiking boots and a long wool coat, Linus started trudging up the long slope. The long winter spent sitting around my house was felt in my legs and my lungs as I struggled to keep up. We would pause from time to time, staring longingly back towards the bottom, to the car, to freedom. Linus, despite a recent infection (and an aversion to the outdoors), continued to stride ahead of us, looking like a country gentleman out for a stroll. Bastard.


The peak was eventually reached, the path leveled out, and we caught our breath. We started taking a few pictures, when Isobel gave me a look and we both agreed, "This is the Place."

Then we started stripping off our clothes.

Two years ago I brought everyone souvenirs from home, and Issy got a t-shirt from a Limelight production of Pride and Prejudice. She knew about my ongoing project to collect photos of people wearing Limelight gear around the world, and was ready to join the club.

The cold wind was whipping into our faces and I had to be careful to hand my sweatshirt and windbreaker to Linus, lest it fly away into the Wicklow skyline. Issy was a bit more cautious and just flashed her P&P logo from under her fleece. Bare-armed and fierce-eyed I gave a thumbs-up and shouted from the heavens as the picture was snapped.

End of Part One

Wye

I'm dying for something like this...

The deep green forest along the Wye River Valley in SE Wales, August 2006...

Unfortunately it's March in Illinois, and so the forests are brown and bare, and the ground is soft beneath your feet as you march along the trails. Not much green around, except for the Spruce Plot on the far eastern edge of the Arboretum, where I was rambling the other day. After walking through these empty woods for a while I suddenly came upon a wall of towering Spruce trees, the green barely visible in the pale light.


Moss grows on the base of the trees, and a few plants have started to sprout from the ground. Spring is here, but barely. Give me some green, soon.

Walkers

My head hurts a little, and my vision is blurry, but it's just a hangover from too much celebrating last night. Feel like writing a bit so I'll try and catch everyone up.

Not going to write about what's going on at work yet; I'm in the middle of Deciding something and would prefer to just let the thoughts stay in my head a bit longer before laying them all out. It'll all turn out well, though, and I'm okay with where it's going.

Last night I drank wine with beautiful people and indulged Duder's growing obsession with The Pogues, and then I dropped by for a couple glasses of rum with some of the boys and discussed many things relating to this show and we probably also were wiseacres at some point, but that's a bit fuzzy.



There were these two guys walking in the halls of my school yesterday. Late middle-age, shorts, big backpacks, weathered skin. Walking sticks. I immediately liked them. They were a grandpa and an uncle of a 5th grade girl and they were giving a presentation on The Appalachian Trail to her class. We talked about the trail for a couple of minutes, and Bryson's book, which is what everyone does I suppose, when talking about the trail.

Weather was overcast and drizzly, temperatures cool but comfortable yesterday. I loved it, while everyone else looked forward to their warm spring break destinations. For me, that's good walking weather, and although I haven't looked out the window yet, I'm hoping it's about the same today, because I'm going to make me a quick breakfast of eggs and hangover cure-all, take a shower, and go for a long walk in the bare, mucky woods.

The Song

I WENT out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head...

Nothing like a walk in the woods to clear one's head. Too much on my mind this past week, back to that old push-pull of competing future lives, the safe road vs. the unknowable.

You don't necessarily find answers in the trees, but they are just the thing when you need to shake things out a bit and get your mind clear.

The Real and True of it All

Spent the final day in Dublin just wandering around, lost in thought and getting ready for the trip home tomorrow.

I wanted this trip to kick the shit out of me, and that's exactly what it did, in ways I never even imagined. You want to live here? Fine, then you're going to spend night after night sitting in pubs by yourself, and your days on buses with the rest of the colorful locals you wish to live among.

Had enough? Lonely for dear sweet home yet? How about I throw a major terror threat your way? Let's give you a near-panic attack in a London hotel room as the BBC and Sky news fill the screen with horrific potential what-ifs in your head and once again make the world a more dangerous, more unfriendly place for an American traveling alone abroad.

I'll give you green fields and staggering history and architecture and even a few friends to meet up with, but I'm also going to give you some devastating food poisoning on the way over. Nothing like severe vomiting to make you want your mother by your side, eh Brian?

A nice hike in the Welsh countryside? No, let's hike uphill for three or four miles, pal. Now let's ride a bike up steep roads and climb slippery rocks so you can see some goddamn ancient Celtic fort. Had enough yet?

I got my ass beat real good on this journey, but had fun doing it along the way. There's a lot to solo travel that's great, but most of the time it's hard fucking work and I'm rarely at ease with myself. It's usually afterwards that I can look back and appreciate everything, like a marathon runner who knows it's going to be brutal at times, but you do it because you have to.

Now I come home and try to sort out the elaborate fantasy world that I call my life. Pick up the pieces and try to figure out why I'm such a bastard sometimes. Why my preferred method of solving problems is to pour gasoline on them and light a match.

So long, Ireland. So long to good friends and strangers I passed on the street. See you later, London Tube. St. Paul's, I'll get inside you one of these days and see that T.E. Lawrence bust, I promise. Not for a while, though.

This trip had to be taken, I now realize. I had to once and for all get this place out of my system. Be over here enough that I run out of things to do, stop seeing the place through Pogues lyrics and Murdoch references and just see it for what it is, the real and true of it all. The rain and the bums and the dirty streets, and the wind off the bay and the creamy head of a pint. Fill it all up in my head, and keep it there.