My Travel Adventures

My plans for my last day in Ireland came together in a very ad hoc fashion. Having seen everything I wanted to see, I searched for interesting sights close to the highway between Dublin and Belfast. These did not include – though I found it the most interesting sight of all – the modest highway sign saying “Welcome to Northern Ireland” painted over with several streaks of dark red paint.

I would have begun the day later, but the Airbnb where I was staying did not serve breakfast, and so – much like a migrating wildebeest in the vast savannah – I drove off at seven o’clock in search of food. Walking down the streets of Kilkenny, I eventually found a café. Predictably, the only establishment that was open at this hour on a Saturday morning was not a local enterprise but part of a chain I will not name.

I began the day writing my blog in bed while waiting for the opening times of the places I wanted to visit. At nine, I arrived by Blarney Castle; or rather, I arrived at a nearby street and parked the car on the side because I completely missed the giant parking lot in front of the castle. Due to this little mishap, I walked into the grounds a few minutes past nine, a negligible difference in all other circumstances, but not at Blarney.

I could not sleep all night. Two days ago, I received an email saying that due to unpredictable weather conditions, it was unclear whether my boat ride to Skellig Michael would go ahead. The weather had been nice in the evening, but it seems so unpredictable in this corner of the world that this provided no guarantee. In my restless state on the verge of consciousness, I even dreamt that I had already driven to the marina and that I was waiting there for my ride.

In the morning, I drove the short distance from my accommodation to Dunguaire Castle, which rises above the sea by the village of Kinvarra. Learning from yesterday’s experience, I left the car by the side of the road rather than in the parking lot (though I am still not sure whether the latter charges a fee). I did not spend much time at the castle though. Since it was still closed, I walked along the road taking pictures before I decided to leave again.

A visit to Brú na Bóinne takes some planning: the website advises visitors to book tickets in advance, and with good reason. When I arrived at nine in the morning, there were signs by the visitor centre saying that tickets for the day had already sold out. Luckily, I had bought mine a whole month in advance.

Overpowered by jetlag, I fell asleep very early yesterday; indeed, I remember it was still bright outside when I nodded off. The jetlag, however, worked to my advantage: I arrived again by the Dark Hedges at half past six as one of the first few tourists. Only this way did I finally manage to appreciate the solemn beauty of the mighty old beech trees.

Bonnie, Zach, and I spent the morning at Lough Eske, where Tom and Elva hosted a post-wedding brunch. Almost everyone beside us had stayed awake until at least three in the morning, a fact that one could readily ascertain from the haggard faces and hoarse voices. Because of Bonnie’s dislocated elbow and my antisocial habits, we left far earlier, and were thus probably the best rested of the group.

India and Ireland are very close to each other on an alphabetically ordered list of countries, but it does not take a world traveller to know that they are not so in reality. I was confronted with this fact towards the end of this week during my pilgrimage from Darjeeling to Donegal, a journey that took the better part of two days.

As I have already written, we had intended to visit the city of Darjeeling on Independence Day but were kept from doing so by terrible traffic. Having learnt our lesson, we moderated our ambitions and decided that today, we would only try to get as far as Kurseong. After all, the people travelling to Darjeeling would probably be returning in droves that day, and the driver estimated it might take three hours one way if the roads looked the way they did yesterday.

Tuesday the 15 th was Independence Day. I woke up in the morning to find a scorpion in the bathroom, whom I clobbered to death with a flip-flop. I figured that leaving it alone to go seek help might give it a chance to hide somewhere and threaten us later. I paid off my karmic debt in a few minutes by letting a trapped cicada out of the house. Having lodged itself between a shoe and the door, the insect zoomed off into the garden when I threw open the door and pushed the shoe out.

I woke up a few minutes after four this morning as Sparsh began to rouse the house for our journey to the train station. Frantically but methodically, we washed ourselves and packed the last of our belongings before loading them into three cars and piling the fourteen-headed group inside them. The ride was smooth. Although I had been woken up a few times that night by the loudest thunder I had ever heard, the roads did not seem dangerously wet, and indeed, it was early enough in the morning that the lack of traffic added considerably to my feelings of safety.

As though a hole had been torn through the clouds, torrents of rain began to pour down just before our departure from the house at half past seven. Even our brisk leap into the Uber got us wet, and as we rode on, we feared that the rain would not stop. All of a sudden, however, it did stop, and we noticed that some parts of the city were completely dry.

I had another early start today and spent much of the morning writing posts for this blog. Since Sparsh’s grandfather had me sit at a different end of the table this time, I did not see the shrine very well, but I noticed that unlike yesterday, Durga received her beloved hibiscus blossoms and half a coconut. I also saw that when the priest came, he not only dressed the idols but seemed to put something like hair on their heads as well.  

I woke up early in the morning, still a little dazed from jet lag. It was only five o’clock, but Sparsh’s grandfather was already sitting at the dining hall table. Holding a necklace of glass beads in silent reverie, he was facing away from the door and towards the family shrine, a tiled structure set in a niche on the balcony and filled with various plates and other metalware. The lamp was shining, and the incense was already placidly burning away.

I departed for India on the very morning after my graduation. As though it meant to taunt me, the weather in Oxford was cool but sunny – a far cry from the torrential rains yesterday.