Camino 4

Camino 4

My body and spirit felt so full the next morning that I smiled down every hill, cutting the fog in half and laughing into the coastline. I decided to stay almost explicitly on the street that day, not for anything other than the fact that it felt good. My camino wasn't about finding God, it was about me insider my body inside this planet. The street and trail were so intertwined that i want OFF trail for much, but it didn't bother me anyway. Day 4 let me hug the coast and find another small beach to enjoy my lunch. The sand was black and beautiful and I had the whole beach to myself. It felt so free. The last section of the route for that day would take me inland, so I tried to embrace the view of the water as much as I could. I kept going at a leisurely pace, aware of the fact that the previous 2 days had cut my mileage substantially. Regardless though of my pace, the route was largely downhill.

I covered about 70km by my late lunch, so I took my time and eventually decided to keep going. The trail markers disappeared for a while, but I knew the general route by way of a few towns. On the way to the hostel, I met a man from England who pushed 4 carts along, carrying everything he owned. I asked him for directions and we talked for a bit. I told him I'd check out the next town and wished him luck. Upon arrival, the massive sign that said Albergue, was not in fact, an actual Albergue. It was a hotel that costs 6x what a standard pilgrims hostel costs. GOOD. BYE. I asked where the next actual Albergue was, and they said Trabada, 11km away. That was a bummer because I was getting tired, but I had time so it wasn't too big of a problem. On the way back out, I saw the English man again and asked if he wanted to each lunch. I gathered that the carts were his home, and that he probably spent most days by himself, which he affirmed. He told me about his childhood and his time as a cobbler and a violinist. He moved to the northern part of Spain about 8 years ago and has wandered with his carts ever since. He was kind and shared his bread with me. Holy wow, what a mangled communion. It was beautiful.

Sadly, the route to Trabada was mountainous and not quite as gracious as the day before. But I was motivated and starting to get tired. Eventually, I made it to Trabada and asked some of the locals where the Albergue was. I had just entered Galacia and left Asturia, which were very distinct states. Many people in Galacia don't speak Spanish, I think it's technically basque? But I can't remember. But the funny thing was that the men at the bar had a Spanish vocabulary on par with mine, which in some ways, made communicating easier. Trabada is super small so they were excited to see a pilgrim. One of the men at the bar spoke sufficient English, and offered to call the hostel for me, since the owner was a good friend of his. I was surprised to hear perfect English on the other side of the phone, but it turns out the owner had spent a year in the states (in Arkansas, woof) learning English. He was super excited and hospitable and offered to meet me on the road to show me the Albergue since it had only been open a month. So damn generous. I thanked the men at the bar and started towards the meeting point.

Jose met me just as he said he would, his face covered with a massive smile. I was tired so i slogged down the road, following his car at a distance. He waited for me and explained to his neighbor that I was the first biking pilgrim that came to stay with him. When we rolled up, I ran out of words. The hostel was perfect! Jose explained that he has deeply loved the camino for many years, and that it was his dream to open an Albergue, because he LOVES the spirit of the Camino. I thought that was so cool! A few years ago, he'd purchased the house and slowly started transforming the remnants of a dilapidated farm into the perfect hostel, embodying the spirit of the pilgrimage. He also had a dog, so I was totally sold.

We chatted for a while about America and I reveled in his hospitality. There is this deep hospitality that undergirds the whole camino and when you find someone who loves it so deeply, it almost resets your hope for the world. I stored my bike and walked inside to find a really cool, rustic, studio-style accommodation. 

There were 5 of us staying the night, most of whom were napping or adjusting their packs. I got my stuff sorted and sat outside for a while. There was a gay couple from France and another Spanish couple who lived in Ireland. Everyone was kind and seemed to run about the same temperature, which made us all pretty compatible personality wise. I sat outside for a bit and one of the guys for France joined me. He said his English was poor, so I offered Spanish, and we managed pretty well! I definitely wasn't at the same level I'd been in high school, but I was nearly conversational, and that was good enough. We slowly meandered through our conversation, stopping for clarity and for rest. Eventually, Jose joined us and offered us some wine. The couple from Spain joined us, as did the other guy from France. We just enjoyed each other's company and everyone graciously checked in with me to make sure I was included in the conversation. Everyone was just nice and easy going. I had the sense that I would either become like these travelers, or be friends with them in some capacity. At some point the first French guy said, "you know, the camino is hard on your body, but it is good on your hope." And I LOVED that. I think he's right. The trip is beautiful and it wears on you. But then you talk to a farmer along he way who tells you that he learned a little English so he could help pilgrims who walked by his farm, or you walk between a herd of cattle, or you meet a man who is so filled with life and love that he bought an old ranch house and turned it into a pilgrims shelter. It is good for your hope.

The night we all ended up in Trabada happened to also be the night of a fire festival. I can't remember the name of it, but essentially, every town or village lights a massive bonfire to ward off evil spirits, and throws a party. Traditionally, it's good luck to jump over the fire on the first night of the festival. Jose told us all of this and explained that it would be his pleasure to take us as his guests. He drove us in sections up to the village, and we all met in the bar before walking over. The French guys bought a drink for everyone, explaining that every time they section hike the camino, they bring a small thing of "boat money", or community money. Just cash that they have on hand to share if the occasion presents itself. I LOVE that idea and told them I'd take it home with me.

After we finished our drinks, Jose took us over to the plaza where the bonfire roared on. Everyone in the village was there and several people were dancing. Jose introduced as his pilgrim guests and though initially skeptical, the locals quickly became our champions for the night and offered us some of the grilled anchovies that traditionally complemented the festival. It was beautiful and infinite and such a good reminder of the things I think are most important in life. It made me a wee bit homesick for my nashville tribe, but mostly, it made me so grateful to the camino and for the people I'd met along the way.

The night wore on and eventually, we made our way back to the Albergue with full stomachs and full hearts. For a brief night, we were a tight little band and it was beautiful. The next morning, Jose prepared a family style breakfast for us and we all ate together. It felt like family. He told us that earlier the day before, he had no pilgrims lined up to stay with him, which was disappointing. But then, in the late afternoon, his friends at the bar had called him about 2 pilgrims who needed beds. About 10 minutes after he'd gotten the first couple settle in, the guys at the bar called again and said there were 2 more! He was so excited! Then I rolled in about 30 minutes later. From 0 to 5 pilgrims in under an hour! And we were all compatible, which made it even better. It did feel like there was something special about all of it. The day was starting though, so we cleaned up breakfast and said our goodbyes and best wishes and started onward. Jose told me that on the bike, I could expect 2 grizzly mountains but after that, I could coast for as long as the eye could see. I said thanks for the good word and set off again. Hallelujah, what a wild journey.

Camino 3

Camino 3

I started earlier the next morning to beat out the heat, energized and ready to address the gap between myself and my destination. Oviedo to Aviles was BEAUTIFUL and much cooler in temperature. The ride was pleasant and I traipsed through several tiny villages, occasionally stopping just to breathe in the view. I got to Aviles in decent time and decided to aim for a small town about 40km further, giving me a total of 75km that day. I also decided that since the road was essentially parallel to the path, I could choose to skip the trail if I wanted. And I did a few times because it was clear that the trails were not bike friendly, and my calves were still littered with blues and greens. I ended up getting to the small town and for whatever reason, I was unimpressed and kind of turned off. There wasn't even a real reason for it, I just got a weird feeling about the place. I had plenty of time before the sun went down so I decided to head to the next one since it was only 8km further.

It was mostly uphill, but it wasn't as aggressive as the previous day's mountains, so I coasted on the energy of knowing I wasn't too far. I finally made it to the town and asked 2 old men where he Albergue or hostel was. They both started laughing. "25km to the next one, good luck!" Mild despair for a second, but I reasoned that cutting out a day with the train afforded me a night in a hotel if that was all I could find. They suggested a hotel up the road so I kept moving. The inn keeper informed me that sadly, no, the were no open beds. The next hotel was 10km, so I got on my bike, noting my body's insistence that it was quite tired and running low on gas. I listened and gently forged onward, promising a nice glass of wine and a proper meal when I arrived. I tried the next hotel and they too were full. I got a little angsty and shifted down to 2nd gear in my body, slowing down to make it to my destination without overdoing everything. Several winding mountain-y roads later, i stumbled into a cute cliff side bar with an attached hotel room. 

The woman who owned it was thrilled and offered me a solo room for half price, and free towels to shower. What a gracious thing. She was warm as a person and spoke no English, but was patient and happy enough to help me sift through the Spanish, which was notably coming to me faster and faster. 

After I settled in and showered, I walked across the street to get a glass of wine and make use of the wifi so I could check in with veronica and my parents. I ate the official "menú", which is a daily meal set offered to pilgrims at a discounted rates. A full 3 course meal y'all. It was awesome. I went to bed early, well fed, and grateful for the growing trust between myself and my body. I was listening and still working out the kilometers, and for that I gave a massive thanks. It was a really peaceful day and an encouraging one, because I really did cover some unexpected mileage, and did so NOT at the expense of my own body. 

It also made me grateful for the Purposeful Running group back in Boiling Springs. I used to train at a level that was unsustainable for the long term. Part of that was the thought that if I ran faster, the running would end sooner. This had its perks for fitness tests and general conditioning, but it's not a good training model when doing distance stuff. I used to think that if you weren't managing sub-9 minute miles, it wasn't really running. (Cue consequent hernias, y'all) When I ran my first half marathon with the group, I was really against the run-walk method that some people did. It just looked like giving up and I was too prideful for that. But what john, Shana and beth showed me was that running and stopping is actually just as fast as running straight through. They all said the same things before their first half. And what they found was that the walkers ended up passing the running group, and then falling behind when they walk, and running past again, while the running group slogged on. I learned this too after my first race and gratefully adopted it as a training style from that point forward, which benefitted me TREMENDOUSLY on the camino. It's okay to walk the uphill, ya know? I'm not in a place where I feel the need to constantly prove myself; I think when I was in that place, I wasn't proving anything to the world, I was really just trying to prove to myself that naysayers (see: myself) were wrong. Internal monologues can be rough, y'all. But anyways, the point is, I ditched that, and after I got to eat my dinner in celebration, I gave thanks for that too.

Camino 2

Camino 2

After a nice dinner and some sleep, we all started to assemble for our respective journeys. I was the only biker, so I walked with the pack until we'd crossed over on the ferry towards Santender. The morning started out later, which only exacerbated the brutal heat. Luckily, the path was fairly flat and it even went downhill for a chunk. I applied sunscreen 3x before lunch time and watched it slowly drip off my arms under the scrutiny of the relentless heat. It was damn hot, over 100 degrees later in the afternoon. I biked through a few small villages and just baked in the heat. As a Floridian, I've encountered my fair share of hot days, but this was awful. I ate extra because I could feel the calories leaving my body so quickly. At some point in the middle of nowhere, I asked for directions from a woman who was harvesting fruit from her tree. She spoke too quickly for me to understand, but it was clear to me that she was telling me to stay at an Albergue for the night because in was too hot. She was probably right, but I also had a limited amount of days so stopping would entail doubling my distance the next day. I told her I had to keep going and she offered me some fruit from her tree. It was so beautiful and I was so grateful. I biked another 20km to Santender.

There was another ferry crossing about 10km before Santender, and I sank into my seat out of relief. Time on the water in the shade of a boat gave me a chance to sort through my next steps. I met another biker from England and we chatted pleasantly for a while. I checked the weather again and it said the temperature would keep rising, which was disheartening. I also learned from the previous day to check elevation charts because holy wow that would be important. I read, "The next 35km after Santender are some of the most difficult on this trail because the elevation changes are so abrupt and so frequent." Well that's cool... 

Once the boat landed, I kept biking, knowing deep down that I was probably lying to myself about going forward. Within 15 minutes of biking I could feel the sun burning my arms. I looked at the next part of the path that I could see and finally consenting to what my body had been whispering all along. "You need to take a bus. If you push me today I'll refuse tomorrow, so sort it out." In another season of life, I would've stubbornly pushed through and ignored my body, or at the very least, I would've shrunk into a bitter, resentful sense of defeat for giving up. The great news is that I don't live in that world anymore. So I biked to the train station and bought a ticket to Oviedo, shaving off about 100km from my ride. I looked down at the back of my calves once I positioned my bike in the rack and realized that I definitely made the right decision. They were covered in bruises from pushing my bike up the mountain trails. My skin was burned and my thoughts were largely centered around doubting if I could finish the ride in time. So I breathed deeply and watched the scenes passing by, leaning into rest.

On the train, I met a man from Belgium who teaches English and travels around with his life on a bike. He told me about his family and his experiences as a Belgium kid in the US and about the transition back to Belgium. His nomadicism was inspiring solely because of the way he lived into the hospitality and adventure of it. He wasn't running from anything, he was just happy to live in a part of the world that was so beautiful. We sat next to each other for the remainder of the right, parting ways just a stop before my own.

The sun was starting to set when I got to Oviedo so I quickened my pace because yellow arrows are harder to find in the dark. I found the seminary and got settled in for the night. My plan at this point was to just start on the Camino Primitivo, since it would be shorter and ensure that I'd get back to Madrid on time. The man at the desk sadly informed me that the Primitivo is not bike friendly at all, so if I didn't want to push my bike up the unpaved trails, I would needed to bike back north to the Camino Del Norte, to Aviles specifically. I wasn't thrilled about that, but I think the train ride had helped me recalibrate a little bit. And it gave my body a chance to rest. I was bummed but not shattered and that's a pretty good place to start a bike ride. My roommate in the dorm was very kind and helped me practice my Spanish before I left. She also suggested that at some point in my life, I was the Camino because you experience the sensations so differently. I made a note and finally took a long deserved showering before calling it a night

Camino del Norte!

Camino thoughts:

I'm a few days past that end of my formal Camino De Santiago. Holy wow. I hope that I never rid my body of that memory. Some people do the Camino for religious reasons, akin to a Christian Mecca journey, tapping into ancient routes forged by willing pilgrims and some do it for the scenery. I don't think it matters what you use for motivation, because I think the whole thing is sacred. I did it to see if I could push my body and honor/listen to it at the same time, and unwrite what i learned over too many years.

The basic story that undergirds the Camino de Santiago is that after the death of Jesus and the subsequent dispersion, James went westward to preach in Fini Sterre [which is Latin for "end of the world", James took that commandment seriously] and then sought to head to Rome (or Palestine, it's not clear. But something East of where he was.) Eventually, he was killed and his followers brought him back to Spain. When they arrived at the coast, the Queen of the region said he could not be buried within a 3 day walk, so they brought him to Compostela and buried his body there. 

Since then, pilgrims have worn grooves into the land, shuffling along towards the burial site. Many people began their Caminos by walking out their own doors, navigating by way of a compass and some sparse arrows. Over time, pilgrim refugees popped up along trails (called Albergues) since pilgrims traditionally only brought a cloak, a shell (marking their pilgrimage) some wine, and maybe bread and cheese. The hallmark of the Camino was the unwarranted but ever appreciated hospitality that seemed as certain as gravity along the Way. As time wore on, more hostels showed up, pilgrims became a bit more modern, and some Camino savior painted yellow arrows to mark the journey. (Further blessings to the 'bici-fairy' because some trails were not bicycle friendly😳) Now, the Camino has several variations, sufficiently ending in Santiago de Compostela, though technically in Finisterre. The inexplicable hospitality is still present today, and anyone who has done the trail will tell you the same. 

My Camino was inspired by 'The Pilgrimage' by Paulo Coehlo, which i read a few years ago. The book captivated me so I did a bit more research and decided that one day I would take the 30 day (give or take) walk across Spain. Plans changed a bit (nursing instead of theology, gay and happily in love with my girlfriend instead of straight and single, 3 months to travel instead of 6, etc) so I decided to bike the trip instead. Initially, I'd still planned to do the Camino Frances, the traditional way. Then I talked to my good ol' dude Matt LaBorde, who suggested looking into the Northern way. That route is flanked by the sea on one side and mountains on the other. There were some warnings to say it was a bit more challenging (and expensive) than the normal way and it was less popular so there would be fewer pilgrims (hi, this sounds like Christmas, SIGN ME UP) so I switched plans to the Camino Del Norte, or the Camino de Costa. 

BEST DECISION.

I stayed with my friend Nikki's family and managed to buy a new bike in Madrid for ~140€ (including my butt-rack, as I affectionately called it). After a weekend in Ledesma (holy beautiful, more about that later) I biked to the bus station and caught the next train to Bilbao, about 150km short of the standard starting place. I met a guy from Germany named Julian who was also doing the Camino, so it was nice to start with another pilgrim. I recklessly did NOT buy a guidebook, going against the advice of almost every website, but here we are, and you're not shocked. I ambitiously reasoned that my rusty Spanish would kick back in, and that between the coast and the road, I could functionally navigate. (I would like to take this opportunity to tell you that I was right, despite what could've easily been foreshadowing that I just provided)

I decided to walk with Julian for about 12km to the next stop on the route before biking on my own. We had a really nice convo and shared some of the reasons we decided to do the camino, which felt appropriate. We had a late breakfast in Portugalete and I wished him well as I started my ride. The scenery was beautiful, and breath taking. The blazes were usually little yellow arrows that someone had painted, but occasionally you were lucky enough to see a blue tile with the scalloped shell, or a bronze plaque embedded in the sidewalk. Eventually, I learned that I would not see the blazes every 10m like I hoped, but instead, I'd see them just often enough to keep me moving in the right direction. The Way wouldn't tell you to change direction until it was time. You can guess the myriad of lessons that come out of the Camino. The rest of day 1 was brutal and yet somehow, in a mangled way equally beautiful.

 I stopped at a few different beaches and enjoyed the sandwiches I packed in the morning. I thought I'd spend my time listening to music but that never happened, which surprised me. Most of rides were either spent absorbing my view as best I could or mustering enough motivation to push my bike up the paths that were meant for walking. I will say without shame that the latter of those two was exhausting and frustrating. But I could be frustrated and still not have a bed to sleep in, so it didn't fix my problems to huff around about it. About 10km from my goal for the day, I stopped before a mountain trail because I was out of calories and I needed a break. I sat on someone's garden wall and tried to not think about the wrestling match between brake, tire, gravity and exhaustion that I was preparing for. My water bottle had almost nothing left in it and for a brief moment, I considered "waiting to fill my water as a reward for getting up the mountain." It was 90 degrees outside. Someone was watering their plants on the opposite side of the hedge. C'mon, don't do this. Thankfully, I'm a semi-stubborn 27 year old and not a relentlessly stubborn fool in the same way I was at 20. I walked around the corned towards the woman watering her yard and before I could even ask, she said, "ah, quieres agua, espera." I handed her my bottle and she came back with it full of water and ice. AND, she brought me a frozen water bottle. I almost cried, stumbling over a round of "gracias, much as gracias!" a little better off to start up the mountain. 

It was as terrible as I expected. I was soaked from sweat, and tired, since I was going on hour 12 of my journey. And the mountain wasn't suited for a bicycle. But I'd been given a wild gift in the form of cold water, so as grumpy as I felt, I was also wildly grateful. After that mountain was another smaller one, though equally steep. At one point I stopped and rested on my bike. A man siting on his porch and offered to fill my water bottle again. His wife came downstairs and we chatted by way of patience and rusty Spanish. They assured me that Laredo was at worst 2km further, and that I might even be able to bike to the next town since it wasn't far and mostly downhill. 

By the time I reached the summit for Laredo, I was totally spent. I rolled onward, embracing the downhill and anxiously searching for my little yellow arrows. I couldn't find any, so I did some guessing and found a map. A woman read the look on my face and told me that I was going in the right direction and would be at the Albergue soon, which was kind.

This Albergue happened to be part of an actual church, which was really cool. The nuns who ran it still did singing services which pilgrims were welcomed to attend. I was collapsingly grateful that I'd found a bed for the night though. I took a slow shower and later, and inventory of which clothes needed to be washed. Dinner was probably the best thing about the whole experience though. The meal is community style, sloppily stitched together out of holy sisters and weary pilgrims. The nuns provided a main course and pilgrims were asked to share what they had to give. I offered cheese and an orange to the table of growing cured meats and wines. 10 pilgrims danced around each other, setting the table, finding serving plates, all while rotating through the collection of languages between us. The were 2 folks from Spain, 2 from Italy, 1 from Germany, 2 from France, a man from Japan and 2 of us the from the states, along with 2 of the sisters. The meal looked haphazard but in my eyes, it was the perfect scrap quilt. Dinner was the perfect piece of rest after a 70km bike day.

Germany

Germany

Lemme tell you a grand ol story. This morning, after a hearty visit to the "local" pub (and 2 stolen Guinness glasses later 😉) and its subsequent cautious celebration of the election results (we finished up around 230am) I woke at 415 to catch the bus to the airport. I had plenty of time so that wasn't a scramble situation, thankfully. But. My bag was too heavy. I'd snagged a few groceries before leaving, so I was faced with a different adventure, in which I tried to guess which items in my bag would 1) be worth it regarding weight 2) would fit on my body or 3) fit in my splitting carry-on without tearing the seams completely. Which is to say, I was ROASTING as I scampered towards my terminal. 

The flight itself wasn't bad, I drank half a nalgene & slept through most of it with gratitude. The night before had been lovely so I wasn't mad about being tired at all. I wandered through Frankfurt's airport, fully aware of the privilege of speaking a language that took over the global markets, thus was written beneath the native language on all the signs. Wowzers grateful. 

I made it onto the correct shuttle with the help of multiple information desk pals. I got onto the train, a bucket of questions and confusion because I had one ticket, but my route indicated a change of trains. I asked one of the officers who informed me that I would stay on the train all the way to Nürnberg. So I people watched and opened up the German DuoLingo to catch up on a language in which I knew a total of 5 words,  3 of them being the first 3 numbers before starting a soccer game. (Shout out to Sonja) we started the journey and pulled into the station, which was massive and beautiful. There was an announcement entirely in German (sure) and I waited for the English translation that had followed for previous announcements and kept waiting. And waiting. And then as the announcement continued in German, I watched a flurry of passengers grab their bags and mutter "shiza!" a they get off the train. So my frenzy kicked up a bit and I asked the train officer what the announcement said. 

"There are technical difficulties with this train, so you will need to board another one."

"Cool, cool. Uh. Which one? Towards Nürnberg?"

"Platform 9, under the tunnel turn right"

"Thankyoublessyou!"

So I joined the pack of scrambling patrons and saw a woman who had been sitting across me on the train initially, and asked where she was going. Also Nürnberg, so I asked if I could follow her to the right train. We were *just* trading broken language fragments and getting to know each other, when someone told her that the platform had changed again and was leaving in 5 minutes. Cool, cool. We both made it onto the train, but she had a first klasse (class 💁) ticket so she found a seat while I wandered to the next coach. LOL THE WHOLE TRAIN IS OVERBOOKED. So I stood with another woman in the small space between the "restaurant" and the next coach, laughing at how silly all of this has been. She'd been on this train properly, but in the scramble someone had taken her seat. Once everyone settled, she went back and snagged her seat and I stood for a bit near the door, but was annoyed by the motion sensor door that I set off every time I breathed. K,bye. So I joined the amiable group of older folks who committed themselves to the floor space they found in the joints between coaches. And for the next 3 hours, I too am committed to laughing in this wee little floor space. What a great adventure so far. 

Connors pass

Connors Pass

For the first time on the trip (I think) we woke up early and made it out the door on time! (It's hard to get up early when your body is so well adjusted to a late sunset, and consequently, late nights!) we started driving south, attempting to make it around the ring of Kerry. I'd read a few suggestions that said Connor's Pass was the place to be, and one of Veronica's friends said the same. She also told Veronica that there was a mysterious but short hike that was 100% worth it by a pull-off. So we climbed it and saw the most amazing view. It felt like another piece of magic that we got to share. We stayed up there for a while, trying to soak all the inches, ounce and moments of our remaining time together. We finished the winding road through Connor's Pass, and while my namesake is a successful fùtbol team, I think my brother did pretty well too. It was breath taking. 

We started for the Ring of Kerry but then decided we wanted to get closer to Cork, so we compromised and tried to get to Killarney National Park. On the way, 2 backpacking ladies were hitching for a ride in the POURING rain, so we picked them up, thinking of our friend Matthieu. One was from Switzerland and the other was from Germany. They were both working at an organic farm for a week, which sparked a later conversation about living more responsibly since mr. 45 pulled out the Paris Agreement. 

We dropped off our companions and proceeded to sit in numbing traffic, made worse by the rain. It felt appropriate that our last day was filled with rain. So we skipped the park too and tried for another leg of the Atlantic Way on the way to Cork. Eventually we made it, and I, the mopiest of zoo lions that day, was so sad. We both packed our stuff properly and redistributed weight, so we wouldn't have to think about it in the morning. We took ourselves out for the nicest dinner we could find, dressed as nicely as we could manage. Dinner was great, but sadness clouded the view, since veronica was leaving the next morning. We finished up the evening with a glass of wine and a small walk around Cork before calling it a night & figuring out our next steps.

The next morning, I cried like a crocodile and waved goodbye (for now) to the love of my life, returning my wet car keys to the guy at the rental. I waved, "adios!" to the fuchsia plane from the parking lot and went downstairs for my bus ticket to Dublin. It rained the entire drive, and felt wholly appropriate. 

Aran islands!

Aran Islands

The next morning we got up to take a ferry to the Aran Islands, per Sarah Quain's wise suggestion. Basically, it's one of hundreds of islands that pepper the Atlantic coast of Ireland. This particular island is one of 3 accessible by commercial boat. The ride to the island was sunny and rolling. Veronica and I both eyed the most perfect little golden lab (I think?) and shocking to none, I eventually asked the owners if we could pet their dog. Melted ❤️ we chatted a bit coming off the boats and said cheers while we made our separate ways.

We rented a bike to tour the island and made our way to see some seals that supposedly hung out on the rocks towards the middle of the island. Unfortunately, we didn't see any, but we did find a beautiful beach that wasn't yet filled with other tourists, so we rested from our hilly ride and ate some more biscuits. Eventually, a class field trip caught up with us, so we ditched the beach for higher ground.

From the beach, we made our way towards a castle on a cliffs ledge. Apparently you were supposed to pay to walk yourself the kilometer to the edge... We pretended to be absentminded tourists, which was successful. Didn't feel bad about it. The cliff edge wasn't quite as tall as the Cliffs of Moher, but I'm not sure that made it any less breath taking. We ate some snacks, peering over the ledge of a cliff that would make any parent nervous. How incredible. 

On the way back down, we ran into our dog friends, another gay couple (what up!) who happened to be going to the same "wormhole" that we were looking for. They both had been to the island a few times before, so they offered to show us how to get to the spot. It turns out, we all had similar interests and worked in similar fields. Robert was in school for his masters in nursing and his partner was in social work. We finally made it to the wormhole! It's a DEEP pit, theoretically made by the unending battering of the Atlantic. The hole is in the shape of a perfect rectangle, corners cut to 90 degree angles. Apparently, every year, Red Bull hosts the national diving championships there every year, about 3 weeks after we were there. The boards are an addition 2 stories from where we stood, which is plenty damn high. After the wormhole, we started back towards the start. Robert and his partner (whose name I embarrassingly cannot remember) invited us into the cottage where they were staying, for a cup of tea. I love Ireland! The cottage was BEAUTIFUL and perfectly located. We got to share stories, laughs, and puppy belly rubs. It was incredible. 

Once we decided to head back to the ferry, it started to rain quickly. Our hosts invited us back in, but veronica and I had been bitten by the adventure bug and we wanted to see what would happen. So we said thanks and sent our love, cycling through a mini downpour. It only lasted a few minutes, but it made both of us laugh to the end. We caught our ferry back and started towards Ennis for the night since all of the hostels were outrageous and we just needed a place to sleep for the night. (Limerick is not cool enough for expensive hostels!!!!!)