In the (early) morning, we nursed hangovers with tea and toast (upon seeing the chunk missing in the loaf of bread, Teneile winked and informed the group there were mice in the kitchen the previous evening). Then we headed in an iced-over bus across a heavily frosted countryside to the Cliffs of Moher. They were gorgeous to see just as the sun rose in the East, the sky behind O’Brien’s Tower all dappled hues of pinks and purples. Colm, our driver, had kindly offered to drive Aedín and her friends down to the cliffs as well, so he dropped us all back at the hostel and we said our farewells to the tour group. Jen returned with them, and Kavita decided, last minute, to go as well, leaving just Tom, McDow and myself to trek on.
Since our bus to Limerick didn’t leave until 12:30, and it was still only 9:30, we got permission from the hostel workers to chill out in their front room, which was literally across the street from the bus stop. So we settled in to watch bad reruns on TV and play Canasta.
After a brief catch-up nap, Tom and I walked down towards the coast. The skies were unseasonably crystal clear and it wasn’t even terribly cold, so we got an awe-inspiring vista of the Aran Islands and distant Connemara Mountains in Galway, as well as the Burren-like granite rock slabs lining the seashore, and a tiny coastal island with the ruins of an ascetic monk’s beehive dwelling. What an incredible, meditative morning walk!
Having picked up some provisions (water, fruit and biscuits) at the tiny general store in Doolin, we moved all our luggage out to the bus stop and awaited our chariot to Limerick, all seven of us, plus a local dog who came out to sample the biscuits. Our ride was quite long, veering through the picturesque Clare countryside, passing through Lisdoonvarna and Ennis, before finally approaching Limerick city, passing by Bunratty Castle along the way – and Durty Nelly’s, too, of course! I was quite amused on the way how the bus driver pulled over to let some man off to go to the bathroom, which he did in full view of the bus and other passing motorists.
At the train station we met up with Tom Harty, and Fred’s brother Leslie gave us a lift down to our hotel – we booked into a Jury’s Inn. Before dropping us off, Leslie drove up around the Sarsfield Bridge (named for the historical general who headed off the siege and led to the signing of the treaty of Limerick), through the Thomond neighbourhood the WaWas all hail from, and past the Cranberries’ houses, which are just down the street from actor Richard Harris’ birth home.
We made arrangements to meet up that night at Squire McGuire’s – one of the “locals”, then booked into Jury’s for a bit of kip and relaxation. We were incredibly happy to be in our own hotel room with our own beds, bathroom, heat and TV – creature comforts we had sorely missed after all the hostelling and sleeping on floors. We could even make tea or coffee in the room, and our view up along the river to the King John’s Castle was breathtaking. McDow was loving the whole situation, and danced for joy at his freedom from the women of the trip, with whom he hadn’t been getting along very well.
The only downer was that Tom realised he’d left his camera on the bus from Doolin, and found out, after calling the station, that said bus had already departed for Tralee. Nevertheless, after spending an extra day in Limerick and many attempts to ring the station inspector, and even a trip out there to look for the lost article, we were able to get it back, with the film and everything still intact.
Before heading out to what we knew would be a heavy night’s session at McGuire’s, we lined our stomachs in the Arches, the hotel pub/restaurant. Refueled with plenty of bread and fish and chips, we got to McGuire’s at around 21:00, and would be there till around 02:00. We met lots of Fred’s friends and family, including Lindsey, her husband Wayne, Louise, Moira, Elsie, etc. etc.
At one point, after several pints had been already downed, a man staggered into the back room we had nonchalantly taken control of, and said he didn’t like the look of me and wanted a fight. It was Tony Mc! It took me a second to recognise him, but he and Siobhán had arrived.
Since it was George’s 18th birthday, we got a cake, and the night involved into quite a sing-song (“diddle-de-ay...”). Though Fred couldn’t be there in person, he rang, and was taking part via his mobile for a portion of the evening. Lucky for us that our hotel was so close, so we didn’t have too terribly far to stumble once the pub closed.
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