Irish Weekend

There’s this quote. You know the one. Marilyn Monroe, I believe. Anyway, it says something about not regretting the things you’ve done, but only regretting the things you did not do. After my weekend in Ireland, I fully ascribe to that quote. Maybe it won’t be applicable to the rest of my life, but I cannot possibly think of a better theme for this weekend or this program.

Friday began as a day of travel. After traveling by tube to Liverpool Street, I used my yet underused BritRail pass to take a train to London Stansted Airport, where I then flew via European airline Ryanair to Dublin followed by a bus ride into the city within a short walk of our hostel. Run-on sentence? Appropriate, as Friday was a run-on day.

And what is there to do after a day of uncomfortable seats and long queues? Pubs it is! Dublin is famous for its Temple Bar and the neighborhood of bars surrounding it, and shame on us if we miss an authentic Irish experience such as that one. Temple Bar was our first stop. The Guinness beers were five euros each, but of course we relented to the tourist attraction of having a Guinness in Temple bar in Dublin…and of course the boys relented, oh so reluctantly, to finishing the famous beers that we could not. Such troopers!

Friday proceeded as I assume most Irish evenings do, with much fervor and a bit of street music. A small yet talented band was playing in the Temple bar area, and the boys’ euros that did not buy Guinness went into the guitar case out front because “that guy can really jam.” Can he? I certainly have no idea, but I sacrificed 50p for the struggling artist anyway.

Saturday morning began with the Camden Hall Hostel’s “complimentary continental breakfast.” This included, and was definitely limited too, the whitest white bread I have ever seen, strawberry jam, whole milk, margarine, white sugar, and instant coffee. Unfortunately, the instant coffee’s identity was apparent to everyone but me, as I used it to top off my toast with margarine and sugar. Cinnamon toast, anyone? Whoops… Not the best breakfast I’ve ever had.

After breakfast and long deliberation, we decided to hop on a bus and ride out about 45 minutes to a little fishing village that somebody’s brother’s girlfriend had maybe heard about being fun and we should probably go there to have a sort of good time. Best decision of our lives.

But really. When we pulled into Howth (pronounced “hooth”), we knew it would be a great day, but at that point we didn’t even know how great. Considering our late start and suspect breakfast, we began this fateful day with fish and chips, a meal that has often begun and ended our fateful days here across the pond. Sitting on the pier, munching of fresh cod and “chips” (as you might know, French fries), we decided that a small ferry boat ride would be in order. After finagling a group deal, we piled onto a rickety “ferry” (held about 20 people) and puttered to Ireland’s Eye, a small island off the coast of Howth.

Another best decision of our lives. The island was lush and green, covered in rocky cliffs and pebbled beaches—and, little did we know, very dangerous bits. More on that later.

The boys found a tower and couldn’t resist climbing it. I gave it a shot, but shimmying up 15-foot worn-down ropes isn’t exactly my thing. After that, the trek to the highest point began. Many photo opps and Lord of the Ring references later, we sat at the top of the island. The view was breathtaking, even if Professor Armitage wouldn’t approve of my flowery word. From the top of Ireland’s Eye we watched one return ferry leave with little qualm. Perhaps if we had caught that, the Battle of the Seagulls and the Tourist would have never commenced…

Let me just say that Arthur started it. The seagulls (who dominate the island, by the way) wanted nothing to do with us until Arthur decided he wanted to get close enough to touch a baby seagulls. Poor choice, Arthur. When Arthur got too scared to be out there alone, Taylor joined him…and didn’t prove to be much help. I have never laughed so hard and two boys trying to be gallant. The birds began to notice the boys and therefore swooping dangerously close. Arthur and Taylor’s windbreakers hit the sky every time a bird got anywhere near them, but we soon realized they’d be much better just putting them on because poop seems to be the weapon of choice of defensive birds. Wish I was kidding.

Finally we coaxed the boys off of the battlefield, thinking it would calm the birds. It did...until we decided to ascend onto Seagull Cliff. Another poor choice, or at least it should have been. Running across the cliffs and through crazy stinging bushes with birds swooping at our heads was the most fun I have had in a long time—which is saying something because I have a pretty fun life. We maneuvered and climbed and ran and jumped and helped each other out, all under attack of the seagulls and through weird plants that stung our legs. Mine still itch, but it’s only a reminder of how much fun I had that day.

After much ado with the seagulls, we checked out the beach. Five hundred attempts later and I still can’t skip a rock, but I sure did pick up a ton a rocks and shells from the authentic Ireland beach! How’s that for saving money on souvenirs?

Back on the ferry, and onto our next adventure. The ferry guide, Karl, tipped us off to a cliff-jumping location that’s popular among the locals. “But ‘ey, don’t tell anyone about it, eh? It’s not exactly legal ‘round here, yeah?” Okay, Karl…

Didn’t stop us! We took Karl’s directions and tried to find Red Rock beach. We searched, asked for directions, then searched some more. Two and a half (beautiful and exhilarating) hours later, we found our place. A long rope tied to poles at both ends was there to support us down the mountain. Good idea? Probably not, but after looking for that long, we’d be damned if we weren’t going to check it out.

Down the rope we went, leading us to a series of cliffs that looked fairly legitimate. Steps were built into the cliffs to help jumpers climb back up, concrete platforms were created to mark the safe jumps, and empty beer cans littered the grounds to make us marvel at how crazy Irish people really are.

“All right,” someone asked, “who’s up first?”

“Arthur!” the group responded.

Arthur it was. He quickly took off his shirt in the 55 degree Irish dusk and lunged off the highest cliff. The girls took videos and held our breath, relieved when he came back up. Not to be outdone, Bryce, Carl and Gavin quickly followed. As the boys came out one by one, my courage picked up. The water was freezing, they said, and the current was strong, but their adrenaline was pumping, and I didn’t want to wuss out!

Arthur decided it would be safest for him to jump in right before me, staying in so that he could help me if need be. He went in, quickly and with confidence, while I waited (extremely nervously) for my turn. When he came up, however, he didn’t look so good. The current had knocked him around a bit harder than the first time, and while he was fine, he advised me, a small female, against jumping. My confidence shot, I put my shoes back on and called it a smart decision. Everyone agreed.

Now for the trek back. If you remember, it took us two and a half hours to get to these fated cliffs…and only ten minutes to find a bus that would take us back. Whoops! We collectively agreed that getting lost and taking the long way was just part of the experience, but no one complained when the warm bus pulled up to the stop.

Another night out on the Dublin town was in order upon our return, an, being our last one, we enjoyed it fully. At midnight it became the Fourth of July, and since Dubliners don’t like the British, they LOVE Americans. I’ve never had so many people wish me a happy Independence Day, and I’ve spent all previous Fourths in the States! Many renditions of the Star Spangled Banner were sung throughout the night, of course.

We let ourselves sleep in on Sunday morning. When we got up, we decided it was time to see the sight of Dublin. This included Trinity College, Christ Church Cathedral, Grafton Street, and the park outside of St. Stephen’s. After getting a photo of our bodies spelling C-A-R-O-L-I-N-A in front of a famous Dublin war memorial, we called it a day. A quick dinner of shepherd’s pie concluded the day. The boys took the opportunity to propose a toast: “To this NOT being our last pint of Guinness in Ireland!” Beautiful words.

This concludes the weekend. If you’ve made it this far, you must be one of three things: my parent, my close relative, or very very bored. I apologize for the length, but perhaps now you know why I do not regularly blog! My days are so filled that it is quite the task. Hopefully you enjoyed reading the accounts of my travels and debauchery as much as I enjoyed writing (and doing!) them. As you can see, I’m not giving myself many chances to regret missed opportunities…and it has been the time of my life.

Love and miss you all.