Pen shops that masquerade as pubs
The bus deposits us in O’Connell Street – a huge road that goes straight through the city centre. ‘Which direction shall we head in?’ he asks, and I proudly pull out the home-made map that I spent an hour printing out, chopping up, lining up and sellotaping together yesterday. Which would be perfect if the internet map company hadn’t decided to move various features of Dublin to different places, making our journey to Temple Bar a lot more confusing. He immediately goes into ‘aah, bless you’ mode – implying that the map company couldn’t possibly be wrong, and that I’ve obviously tried very hard, but messed up with my cutting and sticking. My teeth wear down to stumps as I painstakingly point out that the series of references around the sides of the map are all aligned correctly – therefore the fact that Trinity College appears to now sit snugly on the banks of the Liffey is not my fault. He reads my narrow-eyed, lips-pursed expression well, and decides not to offer any further reasoning. He’s learning.
Our bags are feeling heavier now, our legs more tired. Hallucinations involving pints of beer beckoning me begin dancing in front of my eyes, so the relief of a friendly-looking pub straight ahead brings welcome relief. We walk in. It is a shop selling pens. We walk out and try the next one. A bag shop. Hmmm. Why do all their shop fronts look like pubs? It can’t be in the hope of accidentally enticing people in…‘Well I really wanted a beer, but actually, while I am here I could do with a packet of biros and a fountain pen…’ Three more tries later (a gentleman’s outfitters, a stationers and another pen shop) and we go through a door to find a bar, pumps, optics and a barman. We’ve arrived.
Our order is placed, the Guinness is poured. We wait. It takes time to pour the perfect pint, but it is worth it. Clichés aside, it truly does taste better here than at home. It is a different colour, a different texture, a different flavour. Our travel troubles forgotten, we sit down by the window, watch the people outside, and drink; smiling.
Photo credit to cutebutstupid on Flickr.
City Centre or bus(t)...
Having only hand luggage increases the smugness factor that is already sky-high after another flight survived. No waiting for an age at the baggage reclaim (watching my suitcase crash on to the carousel while I wince at the thought of all the breakable objects inside) – nope, we just swan right through Customs, and hit the fresh Eire air.
That feeling fades pretty quickly outside the airport however, as we realise that to get a bus to the city centre requires you having the exact money for the fare. Having just arrived in a different country, we only have notes, which the bus driver (with more than a hint of jobs-worthyness, I note) refuses to accept. This is the first time I have ever been refused payment of something for having too much money…!
Another 19 minutes of frustration; shops that won’t change money and mental arithmetic as we try to work out what to buy to give us the requisite change – finally a sweet Irish shop assistant tells us that we could actually buy tickets from her that will entitle us to a whole hour and a half of trouble free Irish bus fun.
1440 seconds later, he is complaining that he doesn’t want to get off and see the sights of this amazing European capital city, he wants to fully exploit the remaining 66 minutes that he could be having bouncing around on the back seat of a public transport vehicle… My teeth grit for the second time today, and I point out the alternative: leaving the bus on a mission to locate a cold, proper Irish Guinness in a cosy pub. I win.
0 - 470 mph in 20 seconds
An hour and a half later we are sat in the departure lounge, having read every English newspaper published that day (trying to ignore the seemingly endless articles about planes falling apart around the world), eaten our weight in crisps, and exhausted the fun to be had with electrocuting each other using the 'charging up your feet on the nylon airport carpet' technique.
Finally we board, and once I have been securely strapped into my seat in the vain attempt to prevent myself running down the aisle and begging the tired-faced stewardess to let me off again, (as I always want to do) the plane revs its engines and we move. About 30 feet. It takes 55 minutes to do this. We watch 13 other aircraft nudge their way in front of ours and take off. The tail fin on each one begins to look more and more like a middle finger stuck up at us sneeringly as we sit impotently on the tarmac, and all the while I start to convince myself that the walls of the plane are gradually closing in on us. He looks at me curiously as I start the inevitable ‘eyes-welling-up’ routine.
A Dubliner had told me that pilots to Ireland like to make good time once they get going, and as we finally get clearance for take off this becomes apparent. In the style of a boy-racer waiting at a red light, the engine revs once more until it sounds like it’s going to explode, and we take off from an almost standstill. It normally takes me at least 30 minutes into a flight before I can relax enough to pretend I’m not several thousand feet above the ground – 20 minutes on this plane (as I am undigging my nails from the back of his hand) and the pilot is announcing over the intercom that we are starting the descent. Blimey.
The path to Dublin
Up at 5am, in the car at 6 and on our way as dawn breaks over the New Forest. On schedule as we accelerate onto the M4, enjoying the sunshine and the excitement of our latest adventure. Traffic gets heavier as we approach our junction – and my eyes constantly watch the seemingly increasing speed that the minutes are passing on the dashboard clock.
Eventually we crawl off the motorway. I’m trying to watch the cars in front, as well as following the directions, as he gets car sick when he tries to read in motion. Or apparently, at any time that I am driving. Get to the roundabout, see the name of the road we want and zoom off. Only the road we want goes in two directions on either side of the roundabout, and guess what? Sod’s Law dictates that we actually need to go the other way. He notices that I have chosen the wrong signpost to follow, but in his state of nausea has decided to let me work that out for myself. Wisely he also chooses to wait to tell me that until I am sat in a bar that evening with a drink in my hand….
After a mile and a half of Indian supermarkets and cut-price car dealerships when it should be airport parking I realise we are heading into central London. Pull up sharpish, 8-point turn (very small road) and foot down again. Back to the roundabout, try another direction (he is still keeping quiet about the road sign that is now waving at me to indicate the right way, but that my fog of panic about missing the plane is obscuring) – huge dual carriageway that obviously (now that I am on it) doesn’t go where we want it to. Thank goodness for mobiles…screech to a halt down a side road – looking green, he gets out to escape the car (and, I suspect my gritted teeth swearing) for a moment whilst I ring the parking company. I smack the steering wheel rhythmically with my forehead when I’m put on hold for 3 minutes whilst they attempt to figure out where the stupid cow that can’t read a simple map is.
20 minutes later we have negotiated the return journey on the dual carriageway, (only 2 red lights jumped, my personal best) gone the right way off the roundabout that I am now pledging I will never drive over again, and are handing over the car keys to the false smile of an overmade up receptionist. The minibus drops us outside Terminal 1, and the driver wishes us a good trip. We both snort sarcastically.
Not the greatest start to my ‘I’m treating you to a weekend away darling’ surprise, but we are here now. We check in, race to find out what gate we are departing from – and then try to laugh ironically when we realised the flight has been delayed for 2 hours…
