Notes from a Spinning Planet—Ireland (6 page)

We find this cute little coffeehouse called Cromwell’s around the corner and order our coffees to go. Ryan gets a double latte, and I go for the mocha. We’re barely out the door when we decide
these are way better than what the B&B had to offer. Then we take our time as we stroll along, looking in the various shop windows and pausing to admire some contemporary art that’s being featured in one of the galleries. The sun is shining, and the sky is perfectly clear as we casually make our way toward the bike-rental shop.

“Looks like a great day for a bike ride,” Ryan comments as he drops his empty coffee cup into a dark-green garbage can that is actually rather classy looking.

“I totally love this place,” I tell Ryan. We walk past a small grocery store that has its fresh produce artfully displayed outside the front door, neatly arranged in colorful rows, reminding me of a patchwork quilt in shades of reds and greens and purples. “I think I could live here.”

“Wouldn’t you miss your family?”

“Sure. But they could come visit me anytime they liked.”

“It’s a pretty long trip.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right.” Even so, I do think I could live here.

Before long, we’ve got our bikes, and Ryan is pretty sure he knows which road to take. I don’t admit that the idea of riding a bike on these narrow roads is freaking me out a bit. I’m actually wishing I’d taken the bike helmet that the rental guy told us was optional here. But the road we take doesn’t appear to be very busy, and for the first half hour, we see only a couple of cars. We are going up and down rolling hills, and while the going down part is pretty fun, my thigh muscles are starting to burn from the uphill climbs. I’m barely keeping up with Ryan. After what I’m sure must
be an hour of pretty vigorous riding, I spot what appears to be a mom-and-pop store, and I call out to Ryan that I need to stop and get something to drink.

“Sorry,” he says when he comes back. “I didn’t know you were getting so tired.”

“I guess I’m not in very good shape.” I wipe the back of my hand across my wet forehead. “I need to get some water.”

“We don’t have to be in such a hurry.” He checks his watch. “Take your time and cool off. I’ll stay with the bikes.”

I attempt some long, deep breaths as I go into the tiny store. My legs are throbbing, and I feel pretty sure I won’t ever be able to get back on that bike again. Maybe I should tell Ryan to go on without me.

“Cycling, are you?” asks an old man who’s sitting on a stool behind an ancient cash register. “Good day for it too.”

I see my blotchy red face in the mirror behind him and realize that I look like I’m about to have a heart attack or heatstroke. “Yes.” I glance around the crowded shelves of the store. “Do you have any water?”

“Water?” He stands up and looks over his shoulder toward a door that I’m guessing must lead to the house behind the store. “You wish a drink o’ water, do ya? Why, certainly. I’ll be right back—”

“I mean
bottled
water,” I say as I realize he’s probably about to fetch me a glass of water from his house. “I want to buy a bottle of water.”

“A
bottle
of water?” With a slightly befuddled expression, he
scratches his head. “I canna understand why you Americans buy water in bottles when we have perfectly good drinking water coming right out of the spout. The wife tells me I should order this special water in the bottles for my shop, but I don’t believe anyone in his right mind would really want to
buy
water.” He nods to a tall cooler against the back wall. “Now, I do have what they call sports drinks, though. I’ve noticed that the one by the name of Lucozade is quite popular with sports enthusiasts.”

I find the brand he’s talking about. It resembles Gatorade, and I decide to buy a couple of bottles.

“You’re a bit flushed,” he says as he counts out my change. “Perhaps you should have a wee bit of a rest before you travel on.”

I nod. “Yeah, I think you’re right.”

“Feel free to make yourself at home out there.”

“Thank you.”

Taking him at his word, I hand Ryan one of the drinks and flop down on the grass in front of the store and let out a loud groan.

“You okay?” Ryan leans over from where he’s sitting on the bench and peers down at me with what appears to be bona fide concern.

“Maybe you should go on without me,” I tell him as I slowly sit up and take a long swig of the red drink. “I didn’t realize that I’m in such bad shape.”

“I was probably riding too fast,” he says apologetically. “We can slow it down. I think it’s only about five more miles to the ferry, and we have plenty of time.”

I really want to tell him to forget it, that I’m finished with biking and will be calling a cab to come pick me up, but his face looks so hopeful that I just nod and take another long drink. After a few minutes, I actually start to feel human again, and I force my tired body back onto the bike.

“You gonna be okay?”

I nod without speaking.

And so he takes off, but I notice that he goes a lot slower. Before long, I feel like I might be able to make it after all. He glances back at me from time to time, probably expecting to see me lying on the side of the road like a beached whale. But somehow I manage to keep up, and finally what looks like a seaport comes into sight.

We park and lock our bikes outside of the ferry ticket office and go inside to get our tickets, where the man informs us that it’ll be an hour or so. “She’s arunning late today,” he says. “Maybe you’d like to get yourselves a pint at the pub next door. They’ve got a snooker table.”

“Snooker table?” I quietly repeat to Ryan as we leave and head toward the pub. I can’t imagine what that must be, but I’m thinking it’s probably fairly disrespectful, and, consequently, I’m not even sure I want to go inside.

“Pool,” he says as he opens the door.

“Pool?” I’m still not clear. Does he want to go swimming?

“Billiards,” he says as if I’m mentally impaired.

“Oh, yeah.” I nod as if I really did know this. Duh.

“Do you play?” he asks as he goes over to the pool table.

“As a matter of fact, not very well.” I pick up a cue and pretend to study it for straightness.

“Want a drink?” he asks as he heads for the bar.

“Sure. Something lemony.”

When he returns, he has a lemon drink for me and what appears to be a Guinness for himself. I frown at him.

“Does it bother you that I’m having a beer?”

I just shrug.

“I won’t drink it if it really bugs you, Maddie. I just thought it sounded good after that ride.”

I shrug again. “Do as you like.”

He racks up the balls, and we begin to play pool, but I have to admit it does bug me that he’s having a beer. I mean, its barely noon. What’s up with that?

We’re about midway through the game, and fairly evenly matched, when Ryan asks me why I’m so quiet.

“I don’t know.” I lean over and take my shot at the nine ball, blowing it by several inches, probably due to the distraction of his question.

“It really does bug you that I’m having a beer, doesn’t it?” he says, holding up his half-f glass.

“Maybe.”

He walks over to the bar, sets the beer down, then orders the same lemon drink I’m having, and comes back. “Better?”

I kind of smile. “Maybe.”

We continue playing pool, or snooker as the Irish call it, and just as Ryan is about to put in the eight ball, we hear a loud toot
that we figure must be the ferry’s horn. He misses his shot, but I concede the game to him since I still have two balls left on the table.

“I’m curious why you’re so bugged about the beer thing,” he says as we pick up our bikes. Our plan is to take them on the ferry and use them to tour the island. “Someone in your family have a drinking problem?”

I shake my head. “Just the opposite,” I say. “My family is pretty conservative about alcohol.” I consider the next statement I’m about to make and figure why not just get it out into the open. “And I’m a Christian.” Even as I make this announcement, I feel kind of hypocritical.

He shrugs. “So?”

“Well, I just don’t think Christians should drink.”

“All
Christians? You’re making that decision for
all
Christians?”

Okay, I’m not quite sure how to respond to that.

“I’m curious as to how you reached this conclusion,” he says as we wheel our bikes onto the pier. “I mean, that Christians aren’t allowed to drink.”

“It just seems pretty obvious.”

“And how do you explain the fact that people in the Bible drank wine and that Jesus and his disciples drank wine? In fact, Jesus’s first miracle was actually changing water to wine. How do you account for that?”

I’m surprised he knows anything about the Bible, having assumed he is
not
a Christian. “I don’t think it was real wine,” I say. “I’ve heard it was more like grape juice.”

He kind of laughs but not in a mean way. “Right.” Even so, it does make me feel uncomfortable, and I’m relieved I can focus my attention on wheeling the bike up the ramp that leads to the boat. Hopefully we can talk about something else. We park our bikes in the bike rack, and I start walking toward a door that looks like it leads to an inside seating area.

“Want to go up to the bow with me?” Ryan asks.

“Is it okay?”

“I don’t know why not.”

So I follow him along a walkway and down some stairs, then onto an open deck. Soon we are at the very front of the boat, standing in this little triangle where the bow leans out like a platform, extending right over the ocean. “Cool view,” I say as I look down at the dark blue water below us.

“Yeah. I think this is the best seat in the boat. Except you have to stand.”

Soon we are moving, and I have to agree with Ryan—this is the best seat in the boat! It feels kind of like flying as the bow moves up and down with the waves. “This is so cool,” I say as I hold on to the railing and peer out.

“Look!” He’s pointing at the water directly below us now and off to our right. “There’s a dolphin!”

Sure enough, I see the dark gray shadow of a large fish swimming right along with the boat, keeping a perfect pace. And then I spot another just behind him. “Look, there are two!” Before long we have sighted about six of them, all racing alongside the boat as if this is a fun game they’re used to playing.

“This is so awesome!” I say as I watch these graceful creatures moving along, occasionally jumping out of the water as if they’re having a blast.

He nods with a huge smile. “I wish we could swim with them.”

“It’d probably be cold down there.”

“Maybe with a wetsuit.”

The dolphins stick with us until we get closer to the island, and then they just sort of slip away. I’m disappointed to see them go. “That was so cool,” I tell Ryan. “I’ve never seen a real dolphin before.”

“Not even at Sea World?”

“I’ve never been there.”

He looks at me like I have a cucumber for a nose. “Man, I guess Sid wasn’t kidding.”

“Kidding?”

“You really don’t get off the farm much!”

As much as I want to punch him, I realize he’s right. But, hey, I am here in western Ireland now, and we’re about to see one of the most remote places in Connemara! And I actually managed to ride a bike all the way from Clifden. This is a really, really good day!

A
s the boat draws closer to land, Ryan pulls out the brochure about Inishbofin and points toward what looks like a small castle. It almost appears to be part of a rock that’s not too far away from the actual island.

“According to this,” he reads, “that’s a Cromwellian fort, which was used as a prison camp for Catholic priests.”

“Why did they lock up the priests?” I ask as I stare at the dark rock fortress standing all by itself on a small stone island.

“Why?” Ryan repeats as if he’s considering the answer himself. “I’m not sure anyone really knows why, Maddie. It’s just the way they did things. The hatred between Catholics and Protestants pretty much defies common sense, don’t you think?”

“Yeah. I know I don’t get it.”

Then he tells me how this island was picked by a dude named Coleman for the location of a monastery in 665. “Talk about a secluded place,” he says. “It must’ve been totally uninhabited by anyone back then.”

“What does Inishbofin mean?” I ask him since he’s the one with the brochure and therefore the expert.

“It says here that
inish
is Irish for ‘island’ and that Inishbofin is the ‘island of the white cows.’”

“I wonder how the cows got here,” I muse as the boat pulls into the dock.

Soon we are wheeling our bikes down the ramp, and I can smell something cooking. It’s well past noon, and I’m feeling pretty hungry. “Do you think there’s any place to eat around here?”

“I don’t know. The brochure says the population on the island is only about two hundred. That doesn’t exactly sound like a bustling metropolis.”

I remember the sweet little bakery across from our inn back in Clifden. They had a sign in the front window advertising sack lunches. I wonder if we should’ve bought a couple to bring with us.

But as it turns out, there are a couple of places to eat. They look pretty small and unimpressive. I suspect they’re simply homes that double as pubs, but we place our orders from the very limited menus and are pleasantly surprised that, even out here in the sticks, the food’s still good.

“I’ve heard that the Irish take their food very seriously,” Ryan tells me as we finish our lunch of hearty sandwiches and chips. “It has to do with the potato famine and being starved out by the British. Maybe they’re extra motivated to make sure they never get stuck with crummy food again.”

“Works for me,” I tell him.

Then we bike on the small roads that wind around the island, passing delightful little rock houses, small farms, lots of happy-looking white cows, and finally end up at the most amazing tide pools. We park our bikes and just walk and walk, examining the
incredible sea life contained within these pockets of seawater while the tide is low.

“This is awesome,” I say as I try to snap a picture of a purple crab and a bright orange sea anemone.