Culinary delights

My last visit to Connemara for quite a while to come (sad face) has been one to remember. After contemplating whether to take the car or the bus for some days I opted for the latter option and found myself on an uncomfortably stuffy and crowded bus Friday afternoon to Galway. The 15 minutes I had to change vehicles were reduced to a still sufficient 7 and by half five I arrived in Clifden, where Melani picked me up from the bus stop. That evening we feasted on a dinner of seafood delicacies, all locally sourced. We started with oysters, about a dozen each, their flavour further enhanced with some lemon and black pepper. Whenever I eat oysters they’re super expensive at some fancy restaurant and you get like six at most. These, however, were plucked from the seabed a few hours before and still carried the salty scent on them. Next were clams, prepared in a substance that included garlic and some other ingredients that gave it a superb taste. And if that wasn’t enough we had a third course of scallops, dropped by Gerry the neighbour that very afternoon, with some pieces of seaweed still attached to the large shells. Gorgeous food, but not altogether very filling, so I topped it all off with a plate of lamb tajine. Wow. Definitely one of my favourite dinners ever. Ever? Yes ever.

For Saturday we had scheduled a hike along the west coast of southern Mayo. When I gazed out of Melani’s bedroom’s window on Saturday morning however, dark clouds had ominously gathered on the northern horizon. ‘Surely it will blow over’. Yes, keep up that attitude, we’ll need all the positiveness we can get! Driving over there the clouds thickened, fog encircled the car, and once we parked at the parking lot wet snow had started to drift down. The mountain we were supposed to climb was hidden in thick clouds that made the whole scene simply quite dreadful. But then the capriciousness of Irish weather worked its magic, and a streak of blue sky emerged over the ocean. It stopped snowing, the patch of blue sky grew larger, and ten minutes later we were walking the beach in the blazing sunlight. What followed was a superb hike in the stunning landscape I have come to associate with the west coast of Ireland. We walked the soft sand of the beach, roamed the inland commonage in between gazing sheep, feasted on our packaged lunch (crepes!) and enjoyed the sun that extra little bit more.

Another culinary highlight awaited us that evening. It had been scheduled for weeks, our visit to a restaurant in Delphi that had recently hired some famous chef. Well, the 7-course dinner we got to enjoy was divine. A few courses of seafood and white wine to start with, followed by the more masculine dishes (meat!) complemented by a nice heavy Bordeaux, and some cheeses and ice cream to top it off with. As drinking and driving don’t go well together we had prepared Melani’s van for the occasion, and the next morning we were woken up by a man preparing his nets on the pier for another day of fishing mussels.

My spells of sunny weather that weekend couldn’t have been spent better, and the howling wind and torrential rain only made my bus ride home all the cosier. Melani, thanks for another lovely weekend. Connemara, I’ll be back, even though it will be another few years before I will see your stunning landscapes again. Keep your storms and floods, downpours and fog, so that those who dare to venture out and take a leap of faith have the place to their own when the sun shines and your mountains and lakes are turned into a paradise on earth.

Lithuania

It was late 2010 when I got a package sent home, containing introductory documents for my imminent internship at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs of the Netherlands in The Hague. Among the documents to sign and procedures to follow to verify that I wasn’t a petty thief with a past of robbing chippers, the package contained an introduction to the StageCo. What I didn’t know at the time was that this vibrant community of interns would play an integral part in making my internship not only academically but also socially very rewarding. The StageCo was the beginning of what has turned out to be friendships that last longer than the weekly drinks at Plein 19. Eagerly ripping open those envelopes, little did I know that it was the beginning of a journey that would take me all the way to Lithuania, more than 5 years later. The first lustrum trip was a great success; that many more may follow!

‘This is an anchor. It weighs 200 tonnes. It has nothing to do with this museum.’ Olga, our guide during our tour of the ninth fort, kept a smooth face while we chuckled at yet another random item in the underground aisles of the fortress. It seemed that any object of historic relevance that the Lithuanian government had to find a home for was conveniently dumped in the bunker a few kilometres outside Kaunas. The same went for a range of WW II memorabilia (the bunker served in WW I), neatly displayed in a glass box, and a Howitzer canon. ‘This canon was designed to kill infantry.’ Olga points to a less chunky unit. ‘Range such and such, crew 8. And this is the Howitzer. It was used in WW II and thus has nothing to do with this museum.’ We chuckled again, as she carried on towards the next object. ‘What was it designed to kill?’ Although very entertaining, Olga sounded as if she had swallowed an encyclopaedia on Baltic history and could answer any question, so I couldn’t resist to keep on asking. ‘Universal.’ She managed to keep a straight face, while I grinned and cherished my new ammunition for another quote.  

If it hadn’t been for Manon, we would never have learnt of the range of the Howitzer, the dark history of the ninth fort, or Olga. The place looked dead and deserted upon our arrival (‘Trip Advisor says you have to awkwardly cross a highway so let’s do that instead of checking out the tunnel’) and the front door of the fortress was shut. After an opportunistic attempt from Manon however, the door opened and a tiny old lady emerged. The pair exchanged some throat sounds (Russian, apparently) and a little later we were inside the museum and introduced to Olga. Well, cultural box ticked, let’s see what this ‘vibrant nightlife’ is all about!

My second night ever in Lithuania would prove a memorable one. The first night was less exciting, although still worthy of eternalising in my blog. It was only Wednesday evening that I realised that upon arrival in Vilnius Thursday night, the last train to Kaunas would already have left. Hence I postponed my reunion with the other former interns and checked in into a most peculiar hostel. In the ‘come to Vilnius hostel’ you take off your shoes on arrival and get served pancakes for breakfast by lovely Rita. The walls are covered with carpet and there are signs telling you to stay quiet after 10 lest you get kicked out into the street. Loved it. I vividly remember the excitement I felt when walking from the train station to the hostel Thursday night; being in a new city, a new country, inhaling the cold winter air, catching the fragrant scent of charcoal that nostalgically reminded me of my Erasmus in Poland… every time I set foot in a new country I get overwhelmed by a feeling of exhilaration that tells me the explorer in me is still very much alive and kicking.

The alcoholic in me is certainly still alive as well, as the subsequent night made clear. We started with a nice cold pint at around 4 in the afternoon and didn’t finish until a good 12 hours later when we left the last club. The evening had featured a traditional dinner, a decrepit rooftop bar, live music and table football in a cosy Brazilian place, and some decent clubbing in what the others tell me was an underground dance venue. It was one of those evenings where you laughed more than talked, and all thanks to Lee Towers, whose virtual presence made every Lithuanian national an endless source of entertainment.

·       ‘Could we have your autograph? You are like really famous in our country.’

·       Bob: ‘Ik heb vannacht van een Lee Towers look-a-like gedroomd.

Me: ‘Wit-Russen… Polen… Letten….’

·       ‘Wat hebben Kaunas en Vilnius gemeen? Lee Towers.’

Etc etc etc…. you get the gist (if you’re Dutch).

The next morning was tough, especially for Roelant, who only started to recover after some salty snacks at six pm that evening. Despite the hangover Saturday was quite pleasant however, featuring river-side strolls in the sun, gawking at bogus medieval towers, lovely fruit shakes (‘five more??’) and endless Lee Towers jokes. Kaunas has some fine historic architecture but after a good day out and about we had covered pretty much everything (‘we hebben Kaunas nu echt wel uitgespeeld’) so we decided to spend the last day in Vilnius. Well, that wasn’t before another entertaining evening in Lithuania’s ever-vibrant second city, with a class dinner at a fancy restaurant (‘ik kan jullie vanaf het toilet horen’), pints in ‘rock and rolla’ and a few games of pool to top off another enjoyable evening.

Walking to the bus station the subsequent day everyone agreed that Kaunas had been a wonderful destination but that no-one was likely to ever return. Except for me. ‘Jij bent hier morgen gewoon weer he.’ At least my awkward itinerary (Dublin-Vilnius-Kaunas-Vilnius-Kaunas-Dublin) was a source of entertainment to Minke, and I found consolidation in the variety of Lithuanian means of transport I got to enjoy because of it (we travelled to Vilnius on a small, warm sweaty minibus instead of the cheaper state-of-the-art train that had taken me to Kaunas on Friday).

Apart from the pathetic service we were treated at ‘Crepes’, Vilnius was a pleasant surprise. We strolled the medieval streets, checked out a dozen Vero Coffees, tried some ghastly traditional liquors before returning to our cherished honey liquor, took in the pretty view from the top of the tower in the centre of town until Minke made us leave, had another great value dinner (‘gaat die boom door beneden?’) and took on any excuse to pat super sweet Labradors (‘do you happen to know where we can get this traditional honey liquor?’). The last hours were spent in a cosy pub with cute waitresses, where all we did was chat and enjoying the company of friends. Minke, Bob, Roelant, Manon, Iris and Quin; thanks for a lovely weekend!

'Het is echt een goede vrijdag'
'Niemand heeft gezegd dat het leuk zou zijn'
Manon: 'Ohja, er is een uitzichtspunt op het dak van die kerk, maar dat was ik vergeten'
Quin: 'Ik heb mn badpak bij me. Ik dacht dat we naar Portugal gingen'

Jamaica

Or rather, ‘Jamaica with Laura’ would be a more apt description of a two-week journey that just came to an end. I met this Swiss girl on the second day of my trip and didn’t manage to get rid of her right till the end. And that despite what I considered a final goodbye, one week into the trip, on a dusty ‘transportation centre’ in Montego Bay! Well, we’ll get to that. First things first. Jamaica: Wow!

Lucky was I to experience the nadir of my trip right in the beginning, personalised by an ill-humoured and clinically correct immigration officer in Toronto. His coughs, quasi-tactfully concealed behind his elbow, were followed by an equally pretentious ‘excuse me’. He didn’t buy my story, just like the initial officer who had sent me to this special unit. What more was I to say? Yes, I am traveling on my own to Jamaica. And no, I don’t think that staying in a hostel in Kingston is dangerous. Whether this 7.2kg backpack is all I take? Yes, it’s 30 degrees Celsius over there, unlike this massive freezer I just got myself into. ‘I’ll give you a 48 hour visa.’ That was the final verdict. Oh please, if I had the choice I wouldn’t spend any of my precious time in Toronto in November. Air Canada Rouge just happened to weld in a 21 hour stopover into my trip. Well, good to go I was. Apparently the exit from the room into the normal world is rather infamous in Canada, as a lady who saw me coming out of here told me. ‘It’s tough in there isn’t it? I’ve seen it on telly.’

Well, that was my arrival in Canada. The departure was possibly even more strained, with us being pulled out of two (!) subsequent planes after boarding, both with ‘technical issues’. After a delay that lasted six hours in total we eventually took off. Canada, GOODBYE, Jamaica, here I come!

With fewer than three million inhabitants, Jamaica is way smaller than many people expect. And while I’d rather had had three or four weeks, it is very well possible to travel around the island in two weeks. Fascinated as I am by new destinations, cultures, economies, and countries as a whole, I noted with glee that this little country is functionally quite nicely. I mean, it’s not a rich place, but neither is it abjectly poor. It’s corrupt, and there are obvious contrasts between rich and poor, but it’s working out quite well all in all. Its income per head sits pretty much in between that of Georgia and Armenia, two neighbouring countries in the Caucasus that I visited in 2013. Jamaica has its own central bank with its own currency (Jamaican dollars), its own institutions, and decent infrastructure. Public transport is cheap and reaches pretty much everywhere, and the regulated system of ‘route taxis’ works well. Tap water is potable, they brew their own beer (Red Stripe, a refreshing lager), and make their own rum (Appleton, decent enough to drink straight). The Jamaican cuisine is tasty, with mouth-watering jerk chicken and patties abound. And I haven’t even started on the reggae vibes that are pretty much the rhythm of the island. There is music everywhere. Whether it’s pop blasting from speakers on the beach, gospel music played on a bus, or reggae played at the hostel, the ever present tunes make me wonder whether there’s a word for ‘silence’ in patois. A completely new destination, an entirely new culture, and it was all mine to explore in two weeks. What a feast. The explorer in me is evidently still very much alive.  

As I arrived in Kingston after sunset, due to the epic failure of Air Canada Rouge, I was presented with a dilemma. The plan had been to take a public bus to downtown Kingston, from where I could take a connecting city bus to Half Way Tree, which is a 15 minute walk from the hostel. Common sense won it from my usual preference to travel as the locals do, and I took an expensive taxi straight to the hostel. The public transport version of the trip, which I undertook in broad daylight when returning to the capital two weeks later, was an interesting experience on its own, but rather not in the dark and with my pockets full of freshly tapped Jamaican dollars. And as for ‘traveling as locals do’ …. Well... there was plenty of that to come.

The next morning I rose early, had a Jamaican breakfast (dumplings, potatoes and bananas all boiled in the same pot, callaloo, and ackee with saltfish), and made my way to the bus stop for Port Antonio. I was the first one to arrive at the virtually empty bus, which meant I had to wait until it filled up. This on its own I didn’t mind, as I had plenty of time and found a source of entertainment in the street theatre that was displayed right in front of me, if it wasn’t for an annoying Australian backpacker who sat down next to me a few minutes later. ‘If you haven’t done as much hiking as I have, I would definitely do the Blue Mountains.’ After some semi-polite nods and hmhms I decided to ignore the bloke and continue to watch the street vendors outside. When the bus finally filled up, and that means it would be hard to squeeze any additional people in, we took off onto an exhilarating trip through the Blue Mountains. Hitting the north coast of the island we subsequently turned east, until the shabby settlement of Port Antonio was in sight.

Puerto Anton, as it was founded by the Spanish, featured as the colourful setting of ‘The Pirate’s Daughter’. This novel, which I had read before traveling to the Caribbean, had involuntarily raised by expectations of the place, and I was slightly disappointed by the complete lack of Georgian architecture in town. Well, it was still a cool destination, especially since I stayed at the Porty hostel. Run by Stefano from Italy, the hostel has a snug location in a middle class Jamaican neighbourhood, about 10 minutes’ walk from the town centre. And as Puerto Anton is a perfectly safe place, also at night, I got a nice impression of how and in what conditions the locals lived. They’re a cheerful bunch, greeting passers-by from their shops and gardens, strolling the streets, and talking to neighbours. It felt all very relaxed.

Taxi driver to me: ‘You all wet. No taxi gonna take you like this man. You can sit in my trunk’ (patting Laura’s ‘leg’) ‘you’re alright. Wanna sit in the back?’

The town and its surroundings made for a perfect start of my holidays. With George and Laura, who I had met on the afternoon of my arrival, we attended a vintage-styled party that night, complete with LPs. The next days featured climbing and wading through the Reach Falls, attempting to catch a few waves in the surf beach of Boston Bay, eating overpriced jerk pork in its birthplace, and chilling out in the Germaican hostel. Incessant rain on the third and last day in Portland must have been a signal from above that it was high time to move on (or was it just coincidence?), and Laura convinced me to join her to the tourist magnet of Ocho Rios.

Random guy at surf beach: ‘I am the mystic man’
Laura: ‘I can’t do this anymore’

‘Ochi’ is a tacky string of hotels and souvenir stalls glued to an admittedly beautiful beach, with the view of the Caribbean Sea habitually obscured by a massive cruise ship. ‘OK, if we stay only 1 night, and 1 night only, I’ll join you to Ochi.’ That was the deal. In the end we stayed two nights. Because, really, Ochi wasn’t too bad.

Me: ‘Could we switch to a room that has some air?’
Hostel: ‘Like a fan? Or AC?’
Me: ‘Maybe a window...?’

The beach was privately owned, required an entrance fee that came with our reservation at the Reggae Hostel, and thus clean and relatively empty. After the rainy activities in Portland, chilling out in front of (and in!) the azure waters felt like a holiday on a holiday. Quite relaxing actually! Moreover, we discovered a side of Ochi which is fervently Jamaican and void of any tourists (as I like it best, hypocrisy all around with my white face). Past the roundabout with the clock tower, you step into another world. All of a sudden the streets are filled with people, vehicles, carts, street vendors, and stray dogs. At a big market all sorts of goods are offered for sale, from tropical fruits and vegetables to cheap clothing and shoes. Music was blasting from giant speakers while schoolgirls in their teens strolled past the stalls. It is the side of Jamaica that reminded me of New Delhi: hot, crowded, and full of sounds and scents. I loved it.

‘You know Tony, this is how we lock doors in the US, so, it’s not my fault that we are locked out. Go fix it.’

And then there was this seaside terrace… obscured from the touristy centre, it wasn’t a place you would coincidentally stumble upon. After intensely studying the LP for quite a while, Laura had spotted a reference to this hidden gem. An oasis of calm, with relaxing music, and a view of the crystal-blue waters void of any cruise ships, this became our favourite spot to watch the sunset (which we, technically, couldn’t see as it was behind the mountains on our back, but still).   

‘Hsssss.... wanna teach me how to swim?’

But, even though it wasn’t as bad as I had feared, after two days I was more than ready to leave Ochi. Especially as the pearl on the north coast was awaiting us: Falmouth! Now it was my time to convince the girl of joining me to this historical town, something she seemed to regret instantly when we were met on arrival by blue banners saying ‘Deutschland sucht ein superstar’. WTF??? Nooooo…! Not in my idyllic Falmouth! Bloody cameras and photographers everywhere, white faces all around me! That was me. Laura, feigning disgust and indignation, but with barely hidden excitement about spotting some supposedly famous German artist, vowed she would never forgive me. I was unimpressed. This was supposed to be a hidden gem, what does this bloody tv show do here?? I still don’t know. What I do know, is that they were gone by the time we got back from the Glistening Waters, which meant we had Falmouth to ourselves again. So despite that ominous start, Falmouth and surroundings is still my favourite.

‘I think in this restaurant you get only served once, and then that’s it.’

We checked in to a shabby hotel which called itself ‘Falmouth Resort’, and spent most of the afternoon at the ‘unintentionally romantic patio at Club Nasz’. It was a decent patio alright, but romantic..? No. When darkness fell it was time to make our way to the Glistening Waters, to which I had been looking forward ever since I read about the phenomenon in the LP. In essence, the algae in the lake, which comprises a combination of fresh and salt water, cause a blueish glow when stirred at night. So you can imagine what it must feel like, swimming in the warm water, under a starlit sky, and seeing your every moment in the water followed by a fluorescent glow. A truly magical experience, which lasted much shorter than I would have liked it to. But Falmouth had more to offer that night, as we sat on the edge of the fountain of the town’s central square a few hours later, drinking our cold beers. The square was filled with street vendors selling jerk chicken and clothes, people hanging out and socialising with their friends, and kids playing in the streets. The night air was warm, our drinks were cold, the atmosphere was .. so peaceful.. so happy… It was a random night in a random town in Jamaica, with people living their everyday lives, and I felt privileged to be part of it, if even so briefly. Whereas in prior destinations we had constantly been offered goods, services, taxis, what not… here we had to ask, for directions, for a ¼ chicken, and people were happy to help. A completely new experience, and an outstanding one on my trip.

‘Tony, when you’re moving back to the Netherlands, that’s it you know.’

But, however amazing Falmouth was, as always, leave at the zenith, and off to the next destination! Here is where our roads split. Laura, who had seemingly infinite time, wanted to go to MoBay, whereas I preferred to spend my remaining week in the south of the island. Quick hug at the transportation centre in MoBay, and I thought never to see this girl again. Well, not quite. A compromise was brokeraged over whatsapp the next day, as I promised to spend at least two nights in Belmont if Laura travelled there and saved Negril for later. Ok, deal. And so it happened.

Laura: ‘My cube is 5 metres high, solid silver, shiny, and... with really sharp edges’

Belmont is quite the nice, relaxing town, especially when staying at Bigga’s. Bigga is, well, a big rasta man, who offers homestays at his yard. To sum it up: hammocks, homemade food, the sea at 2 minutes’ stroll, an awkward German traveller, a Canadian couple with outspoken opinions about flight crew, loads of dogs, laundry and laundry lines, the FT podcast, swimming in the dark, and a balcony perfect to spend warm and musky summer evenings. Yeah, Belmont treated us well…

Laura: ‘Tony you can’t be serious, we JUST had breakfast, how can you buy a pattie NOW, it’s insane, what are you DOING Tony...’
...
‘Ok I’ll have one as well’

And then… Paradise! Another three route taxis down the road was Treasure Beach, hailed as the most relaxing place of Jamaica. It is.

Upon arrival at the place we had booked for the night, our initial impression wasn’t great. The price at 20 USD per person was good, but the cramped, muggy, airless room wasn’t altogether inviting. ‘Don’t you have something else?’ Well yes, the landlady did, but it came at 35 USD per person. Well, let’s have a look at least. It took me less than a split second to decide where to sleep that night after entering the circular upper floor of the little concrete tower. A spacious room, including a private bathroom and kitchen, with a balcony overlooking the sea, and windows everywhere… YES. Two nights please.

Laura: ‘Do we have to do sightseeing today?’
Me: ‘No’
Laura: ‘Good’

And that was Treasure Beach. The Caribbean blue always within earshot, delicious and healthy juices opposite the road, friendly locals, tasty food, hammocks at Andrew’s, boat trips to the Pelican Bar, swimming in the sunset… Paradise. I want to go back.

·       Number of vehicles (buses, route taxis, … ) travelled with: 35+

·       Most hopeless airline: Air Canada Rouge

·       Biggest eye catcher in Jamaica: Laura’s blonde hair

·       Most uncomfortable place to travel in a route taxi: the trunk

·       Waterproof: Tony’s bag

·       Most unattractive sight (1): big, fat guys, munching away bags of popcorn

·       Most unattractive sight (2): the guy in trash bags smearing mud on his face

·       Worst at riddles: Laura

·       Worst at card tricks: Laura

·       Best at reading the LP: undecided

·       Best purchase: spices at Port Antonio market

·       Favourite dog: the black one at Germaican

·       Least favourite dog: the snappy one at Bigga’s

·       Least commercial person: the girl in Port Antonio’s supermarket (‘this till doesn’t work, try another shop’)

·       Hardest to surf: Boston Bay

·       Most limited Jamaican experience: the German stoners at the Germaican hostel

·       Most disappointing party: the ‘beach club’ near Ochi

·       Most obsesses with ‘real life soaps’: Laura

·       Most frequently used word (1): units

·       Most frequently used words (2): that’s it

·       Favourite place: Falmouth

·       Least favourite place: Negril (Negril sucks)

·       Best souvenir: Red Stripe t-shirt

·       Most similar to scrambled eggs: ackee and saltfish

·       Prettiest girl: the Argentine

·       Favourite bar: Good times bar in Falmouth

·       Most overpriced transaction: 10 USD pp for the Peter Tosh mausoleum (we didn’t pay that)

·       Longest 5 minutes: the 25 minute walk up the hill to the artist’s cottage (we didn’t make it)

·       Best Jamaican food: patties

·       Always room for: patties

·       Always time for: patties

·       Worst at keeping keys: ….

·       Most organised backpack: Laura’s

·       Least organised backpack: Tony’s

·       Most remarkable bus ride: Mandeville to Kingston (gospel bus)

·       Not worth leaving Treasure Beach 1 day early for: Mandeville

·       Worth leaving Treasure Beach 1 day early for: nothing really

·       Least eager to work in the rain: Dilly

·       Doesn’t exist: the veggie place ‘next to the atm’

·       Favourite person to travel with: Laura!

Achill Island

‘And with whom are you here?’

‘On my own.’

‘Really? Fair play!’

‘Yeah I like traveling that way, makes you meet people.’

Just at that moment Alex arrived at the pub, and high-fived me on his way to the bar.

‘But please, do continue your story about dairy cows’ I said, taking a sip from my fresh pint of Guinness.

This journey deserves a blog post. I know I have been procrastinating writing stories, and there have been plenty of events that equally much deserve coverage. Such as the weekend in Cape Clear island off the coast of Baltimore, West Cork, with the Adventure Pack. Or my mini-reunion with Johan and Wojtek in Zurich. But this post is about a weekend that is just coming to an end, and although already in bed, I couldn’t supress writing at least the first paragraph of my story. It’s a story about Ireland, about the Atlantic coast. A story about windswept plains and desolate mountains, water and wind. It’s a story about Achill Island.

‘Are you going to the club?’

Alex looked at me. ‘I’m not sure man… I won’t go on my own. What about you?’

We were sitting at bar in the local pub in Keel, teeming with locals and quasi locals, and I had just ordered my fourth pint of Guinness for the evening. In response to Alex’ question I grinned and looked down at my attire. Big hiking shoes, trousers full of mud from my attempts to scramble up the hill through the bog that afternoon, and a white t-shirt that I usually wore underneath my shirts to work. ‘No way man, I can’t go out like this. Besides, I’m wrecked, I’ll hit the sack after this one.’

‘This is Achill man, it doesn’t matter. Look at me!’ I followed his gaze down. Sneakers, tracksuit bottoms… ‘And I slept in this t-shirt last night’. My response was a broad smile, I really came to like this Italian guy with his thick Irish accent. But I stuck to my point, cause, after all, I was pretty tired after an exciting day out and about.

Wind back the clock 16 hours and I just woke up in a bunk bed in Westport. My snoring roommates (long live earplugs) were still asleep, as they were an hour later when I set off towards Achill Island by bike. It had taken the better part of the previous evening to get myself and my hybrid monster to Westport from Dublin, but it was well worth it. The feeling of pulling your bike off the train and cycling away makes you blend into your new environment immediately. You instantly feel local and part of the road you just hit, much more than when boarding a bus or getting in a cab. This feeling of excitement and adventure took hold of me again when I sped away that morning, onto the Greenway, off to Keel. The Greenway is a signposted bike track void of any traffic, mostly made up of fine gravel, and winding its way through the Mayo countryside. The many twists and turns on the track, in combination with the numerous gates I had to open and close (to prevent the cattle and sheep from escaping), made it hard to gain pace, but it didn’t make the journey any less enjoyable. The result really was that when I arrived at Richview hostel at noon, I still had plenty of energy to spare for a good hike that afternoon. And within 5 minutes of meeting him, Alex had already laid out various maps depicting a number of hiking trails in the area. It seemed I had booked the right hostel.

A woman enters the living room.

‘Hello. Hello I am Monica. What is your name? Where do you live? Dublin? Where? Oh Portobello no I don’t know that. Glasnevin, that’s where I’ve been. Already 26 times. I always stay with my friend. But this time she wasn’t there. I’ve been here to Achill 16 times already. 16 times.’  

I look at Alex. ‘Oh hey Monica, how are you?’ He greets her kindly. Time for my hike, I thought, grabbing the maps from the table and escaping through the stairs to my dorm room to change into my hiking gear. On my way down I run into the lady again on the landing. ‘Oh hello my name is Monica, who are you?’ She squints at me. ‘Oh no I just met you downstairs. Are you going out? Don’t go up the mountains, it’s too misty. It’s too misty up the mountains.’ I make my way past her down the stairs and head for the door. The misty mountains are awaiting me, and I can’t wait to plunge in head first.

The wind is howling, and I take refuge behind the ruins of a 200 year old signal tower. I might as well have been acting in a Northface commercial; zipping up my coat, the pockets of my outdoor pants stuffed with maps and biscuits. Sitting on a rock I take my time to take in the spectacular view. The Atlantic Ocean is dotted with tiny islands just off the coast of Mayo, their white sand beaches lit up by rays of sunshine breaking through the clouds. My hike continues over the top of the hill towards the lake that Alex had pointed out on the map, its water segregated from the ocean only by a few yards of land, which are slowly eaten away by the waves. I guess if and when I set my eyes upon this scene again, the lake and the ocean will have become one. I climb back on the hill, where a gale-force wind welcomes me. Below lies sprawling Keel, on a wide plain in between two mountains. The kites of the surfers partaking in the ‘Battle of the lake’ are bobbing in the wind, and sheep dot the commonage separating me from the village. It is a view worth braving the elements for.

‘Would you like some food as well?’

I had just been pondering what to have for dinner, while chatting away to Mary, a juvenile grandmother from Tipperary. The question came from a tall, blonde German kite surfer, who was preparing enough food to feed an orphanage.

‘Well…’

‘I’m asking you.’

Etiquette and good manners and being polite and what not aside, if somebody offers me food, I have to say yes. Otherwise don’t offer me food. And this girl seemed genuine in her offer, not just polite. ‘Yeah sure, thanks!’ Kiki and Elna were pleasant dinner companions, and the food was very tasty. I thanked them extensively for letting me join them, and did the dishes, as they took off in search of wifi. In search of wifi to search for a place along the coast with enough wind to blow their kites, as their day on the lake hadn´t been too fruitful. Try up the mountains, I thought with a wry smile. Plenty of wind there.

The hostel I stayed at acted as a gateway to the past. It seemed that nothing had changed in the past 20 years or so. A fork was stuck into the radio acting as an antenna, and a few dozen tapes with music from the 80´s and 90´s were stacked on the shelves below. There was no TV and no internet. Some comfy couches lined the wall next to a fireplace that was lit in the evening. The open plan kitchen looked a bit grubby even though it was spotlessly clean. The view from the window made clear where the hostel had derived its name from. The place wasn´t advertised anywhere, not on hostelworld, not in the Lonely Planet, not on Tripadvisor. As the more famous hostel in the area was already fully booked, it was pure chance that I came across this name, hidden away somewhere on an outdated Mayo tourism website. When I called the phone number on Thursday, someone did answer it however. ´Sure, I have plenty of beds left. What time will you be arriving? Cycling from Westport are you? Haha good man, well best of luck with that. See you on Saturday.’

The character I haven’t elaborated upon yet is Mary, from Tipperary. In such a peculiar place, and the hostel was very peculiar, you expect to meet peculiar people. Mary was definitely fitting the bill. ‘This is the first time I ever stay in a hostel. The people are so friendly here!’  I explained how hostels often have a social buzz going on, as people who frequent these place are usually looking for some craic and often travelling on their own. ‘Wonderful concept, just wonderful’. Mary was away for the weekend, along with her giant camera, and seemed to be enjoying her stay in Keel tremendously. ‘These locals are so bold you know, they don’t shy away from asking you anything. I’ve been asked whether I was married within the first five minutes of a conversation. So bold!’ But she didn’t seem to mind. When I entered the pub that Saturday evening Mary was happily conversing with two stout Englishmen who had just told her their life stories. The ‘oh Tony good morning, loving day isn’t it’ the next morning suggested that we had known each other for much longer than the mere day it had been.  

That was last weekend, and now it’s Saturday again. Such is the length of time it takes for me to finish a blog post these days. But I guess it was worth it. It’s a weekend worth eternalising.

Weekends in Dublin

Another one of those entertaining weekends in Dublin. My intention to spend more time in Dublin this summer is paying off. It is rewarding me with a mixture of culture, drinks & dinner, great company and sports. It may begin to sound repetitive, my continuous capturing of how well Dublin’s fair city treats me, but that doesn’t constitute a convincing enough argument against narrating it over and over again. Especially when I find myself in the very comfortable and writing-enhancing environment of the local Starbucks unit. It’s a Sunday morning and one of this weekend’s major treats is still to be enjoyed later on this day, as I secured tickets for the GAA semi-final between Kerry and Tyrone! A sold-out Croke Park is always an experience worth attending any game for, even though my understanding of Gaelic Football is limited at best. It won’t be long before Guilherme and I will cross the Liffey and take another deep dive into Irish culture. I expect it to be the cherry on the cake of a very entertaining weekend, which started very well on Friday night. In the company of Peter, Gene, Padraic, Eoin and Diarmaid the evening was kicked off with dinner at Pichet, whereafter we went to the Olimpia theatre to watch a great performance of the musical Once. Amazing! The night ended when the last bar we visited somewhere in South William Street closed, and if it hadn’t been for the football scheduled at noon on Saturday I would still have been asleep. It was a good reason to get out of bed however, and the running around Fairview Park certainly contributed to battling the last traces of my hangover. After the game I took a bath while enjoying a plate of lasagne (reminded me of coffee in the shower in the Gildebroeders) and slept for another two hours. Not overly keen to make it a late night again I nevertheless was in the mood for a pint or two and in the company of Jesus and Xaxi it was drinks in the Workmans club, whereafter we joined some of Xavi’s friends in the Garage bar in Temple Bar. Sensibly I decided to call it a day around midnight, took a Dublin bike home in the pouring rain, and woke up at the very respectable hour of nine o’clock this morning. And there we are, the circle has been completed. My cup is empty, my thoughts drifting to Croke Park. Time to go!

Summer nights

There was certainly a risk involved, planning to spend four consecutive hours in a park in Dublin on a summer evening. Presently, from my seat at the Starbucks in Rathmines, I can see the rain pouring down outside. For now this only complements the snug feeling that my massive cappuccino and the Sunday morning music already initiated. Should we have experienced such a downpour last Thursday however, I can imagine that the word ‘snug’ would have been the last on my mind. But Ana Marija’s determined insistence that it wouldn’t rain that night, based on one out of several conflicting weather forecasts, proved justified. And so the open air cinema in Merrion Square was a success.

At about three quarters of the Grand Budapest Hotel I managed to tear my eyes away from the screen in order to soak up the scene around me. You know, another one of those moments that you ‘step out’ of the situation in order to fully appreciate what is going on. The top floors of the 200-year old Georgian houses lining the square were visible above the trees in Merrion Square, bathing in the yellow glow of the street lights. Darkness had already set (lest we wouldn’t have been able to see the screening) and the sky was a concoction of ominous clouds and streaks of dark night sky. Occasional gusts of wind, met by shivers on my right side, blew the clouds apart before they had a chance to congregate into a decent force. The temperature was still pleasant however, and we were surrounded by a happy crowd of people sitting on blankets, eating their picnics, drinking their non-alcoholic beverages, and collectively enjoying the movie. An oasis of green in the heart of Dublin, on a summer night, enjoying the simple things in life. Such was the realisation, and my gaze drifted back to the screen. It was a movie worth watching after all.

The Aran Islands with the lads

[note: this blog post is best read with the following playlist: i) The Weeknd - Can't feel my face, ii) Calvin Harris & Disciples - How deep is your love and iii) Johnny Cash - Burning ring of fire]

Wow! It was one of those weekends. One of those long weekends where summer is the buzz word and everything seems to come together at the right time. Where plans work out according to plan and brilliant impulses cover gaps in the schedule better than any pre-orchestrated plot could have. It was near midnight last Thursday when the boys arrived in Dublin city centre, and after 685 kilometres on the road, two 8-minute flights, loads of cycling, 105 pints, and one mango smoothie the weekend has just come to an end. It was magical. Let’s reminisce. Let’s re-live. Let’s share the story.

It was an early wake-up Friday morning at 7 o’clock. First of all I am not used to waking up that early on neither week days nor weekends, and secondly I had only had five hours of sleep. As the lads arrived only close to midnight at the hostel the night prior, we were lucky enough to find a bar that still served customers and celebrated the start of what was going to be a marvellous trip with our first round of Guinness. While I had expected some delay on the lads’ behalf the next morning, I nevertheless found myself at the crossroads we were supposed to meet at at eight, waited for 15 minutes, gave out to the culprits when they finally showed up, and set off towards county Clare. First stop: Obama Plaza near Moneygall for some Irish breakfast (sausages, scrambled eggs, pudding) and some confused glances at a huge photograph of the president of the USA holding a picture of his Irish ancestor (who ever convinced him of that?). After another 1.5 hours on the road we were all very keen to get out of the car, some for reasons of the prospect of surfing, others for the lack of room to move / breathe / blink. An Audi A4 is a big enough car, but trust me, with 5 lads our size things get very tight in there.

Conditions in Lahinch were perfect. Rolling waves, sunrays making their way through the clouds, green rolling hills on either side of the bay and loads of surfing. After having ridden a wave all to the end, one was tempted not to waste any time lingering but rather fight its way back to where another great wave could be caught. But every now and again I held off before plunging into the water again. Look around Tony. Breathe in the fresh sea air, taste the salt on your lips, take in all this beauty around you and realise it’s the Atlantic Ocean you are gazing at. Be conscious of your amazing surroundings and enjoy it that little bit extra. Get that additional sense of happiness and gratefulness that comes with realising what you have and how much you should cherish that. And then that next wave is even better. After two tremendous hours and with the tide rising we reluctantly left the water, wondered how to get clean & dry without showers or towels, and squeezed into the car again. The natural wonders of driving along the coast and through the Burren were a treat to the eye, and Paal and I enthusiastically pointed out rewarding views and cool rock formations. The lads in the back, to varying degrees, decided to give their eyes a rest instead, and saved energy for what was going to be a great evening out in Galway City.

Freshly showered and dressed to the nines we first enjoyed a hearty meal (burgers, steak, fish ‘n chips), and then set off to the Quays for some great live music (first downstairs, then upstairs in the club). We switched from Guinness to Hophouse, Boonman proved his French magnet also works in the West of Ireland, and we finished the night only when the club closed and we were ushered out of the premises into the street. With more beers in our bellies and less sleep than the night before, the alarm clock the next morning rang agonisingly early at half seven. In hindsight, as we ended up being 1.5 hours early for our flight at Connemara Airport, we could have extended our night’s rest with what surely would have been a much valued extra hour. But hey, then we wouldn’t have taken a walk around the airport, taken selfies with donkeys, and attempted to build a dam in a river. Loads of fun, and I got away with mixing up the flight itinerary.

With the bulk of our body weight at the wings and a smirking Italian lad next to the pilot, we set off towards Inishmor, where we landed about eight minutes after take-off. Awesome! And much better than being stuck on a ferry for an hour and a half with i) a hangover and ii) a crowd that includes a multitude of American tourists and a hen party or two. The next 24 hours were pure bliss. The weather picked up, from overcast and a few rays of sun to blue skies with only scattered clouds, and we started our stay on the biggest of the Aran Islands with a big lunch (fish ‘n chips, chowders, pizza). As our Dutch origins blended perfectly well with the modus operandi of transport on the island (bikes), we cycled crisscross through fields, past drystone walls, and up hills. 

Highlights were the well preserved remnants of ancient fortresses and the stunning views that came with them. In the evening we watched part of a rugby game, opted for a meal with a price tag that wouldn’t degrade us to poor and penniless before the holidays were over (fast food, burger, chips with cheese), and watched some live music in a local pub. When the four square meters in front of our chairs got congested with a crowd of rather voluminous females, awkwardly balancing on high heels while guzzling away a multitude of alcoholic beverages, I decided to call it a day and catch 8 hours of sleep for a change. The others tried in vain to catch a glimpse of the band through the forest of tightly wrapped flesh but followed me up rather swiftly when the unfeasibility of that endeavour became apparent. Exhausted, well fed and with our thirst quenched, and blissfully happy, I fell asleep in my way too small bed on a rather poor mattress. And we’re only halfway. Boom boom boom.

Sunday was more of Saturday but with even better weather (and less cycling). With a packed lunch we set off towards the most spectacular cliffs and spend three hours walking around, sitting in the sun, admiring the view, eating our lunch (ham, sandwich, cheese), taking pictures, gazing around some more, while creating a mental picture of how astonishingly beautiful Inishmor is. It is a picture that will last a lifetime. After a round of Guiness we were collected by the bus driver, driven to the airport, tjop tjop 8 minute flight, into the car, and off to Birr, county Offaly. Oh no wait. Why don’t we watch the hurling semi-final in a local pub? Galway play Tipperary. If there’s one way to impress those oblivious of Gaelic sports it’s a game of Hurling. Fast, technical yet physical, and completely new to most of the lads, the second half we got to see was an experience well worth postponing our arrival in Birr for. With the locals cheering for every point Galway scored, and the winning goal scored in the very last minute received by joyous celebrations in the snug little pub we found ourselves in, this is a hurling game that I will not easily forget.

Birr on a Sunday evening isn’t bustling. But hey, that’s alright. With a class dinner in the local Indian restaurant (garlic naan, butter chicken, tiger beer) and a round of Guinness we got all we needed to sink into the big soft beds at the Maltings House for a great night’s sleep.

This morning (it’s still Monday now that I write this, after just having dropped off the lads at the airport) we woke up at half seven in order to be present for breakfast at eight. Why so early? Well, because we had a great game of golf scheduled at Castle Barna Golf club. The hostess of the B&B proved why the unit gets a 9.1 rating on Booking as she very kindly served us a super filling and tasty Irish breakfast (eggs, bacon, pudding), which went down very well with the fresh fruit & yoghurt (strawberries, moor berries, apple). With the weather still keeping up we walked a very pretty golf course, had lunch in the sun (burger, bun, chips) and drove back to Dublin. And then, while we had constantly cherished how long the weekend was taking and how much time we still had ahead of us and how it felt like we had been away for two weeks already, suddenly it was over. Bags out of the trunk, hugs at the airport, and that was it. What a trip. It was one of those weekends.

Koen: ‘Hoe heet dat ook alweer waar alles klein is?’

Teun: ‘Madurodam. Voor jou is alles klein’