Budapest

It is Saturday, a quarter past eleven in the morning. I wake up in a dorm room in Budapest. My mouth is gut dry and feels like a dead rodent has been stored in there for a considerable period of time, my body feels battered as if I barely survived a rugby debut in the Heineken Cup final. I find myself in the upper unit of a bunk bed and am instantly relieved that I didn’t topple out while sleeping. My right upper leg prominently displays a long drawn, deep bruise, red contrasting the white background of bare skin, throbbing awkwardly. My head doesn’t feel much better. Raymon, already awake and in considerably better shape, accuses me of having blown my nose in his shirt last night before going to sleep, among many other things. The nuisance I had been to Karine was at least at par – although she didn’t seem to mind as much. About 700 Euros in Hungarian Forint is scattered throughout my bag. Slowly memories start drifting in. What happened?! I blame Air Lingus and Irish stag parties.

Our trainee-reunion to Budapest had been scheduled for months and was eagerly anticipated as the date drew closer. Everyone would fly from the Netherlands whereas I would fly from Ireland – the other foreign-placed were too far away to make the journey for the weekend. My flight was neatly scheduled to arrive circa half an hour later than the main throng, just enough for David and Raymon to promise to wait for me so that we could take a joint cab to the city centre. Unfortunately, at the time that they had landed and I was supposed to have touched Hungarian soil as well, I found myself still at Dublin airport. The reason? Just after having taken my seat 3 hours earlier we were informed by the pilot that air traffic control wouldn’t allow us to depart for five minutes. And another five. And another. After half an hour we were finally given the go-ahead, but now the plane gave in. Despite various engineers pulling their best tricks the “technical problem” couldn’t be solved and two hours after we had boarded we were ordered out of the airplane and back into the departure hall. Another 45 minutes later and we were guided onto a unit that was supposed to fly to Barcelona but wasn’t in the end. Random story but at least we could leave! As the Barcelona flight was destined for at least 1.5 times our number of passengers, the previous seating got messed up, and I found myself in the middle of a group of 30-odd Northern Irish on their way to Hungary to celebrate a stag party. Sitting right next to two chatty and considerably drunk lads I had to make a choice; get up and seek another seat in order to catch some sleep, or join in and make the best of a lousy start of what should be a great weekend. When I was asked by “Cham” –the least drunk of the two- whether I would like to join in the celebrations, I gave in. Cham had bought a large bottle of gin and a number of smaller 7-up bottles at the airport, along with three big plastic cups from some coffee bar. Before reaching Budapest the bottle was empty, the better part of its content shared between the three of us, and I had become the best of friends with the two lads beside me. I wasn’t quite aware yet of how drunk I was, as gin and 7up make a drink as smooth as lemonade. Well, the air hostesses were aware of that. So aware that they issued a “verbal warning” and threatened a follow-up with police on the ground. Luckily the reception on arrival was grumpy ground force rather than angry policemen and I bade my new friends farewell only to make my way to the taxi stand. Oh wait, money. I had no idea of the exchange rate so picked a random figure on the ATM screen, not aware that 200,000 Forint translated to about 700 Euro, way more than I would ever spend on such a weekend and quite the amount to be carrying in your pockets when roaming the streets of Budapest at midnight. Anyway, I stuffed the banknotes in my pockets, caused a scene at the taxi stand because I thought I was being ripped off, and was driven to the hostel where David welcomed me and took me to the others who were enjoying their drinks in a bar around the corner. Hugs and slaps on the shoulder and a new drink in my hand signified officially the beginning of a new day –as it was just after midnight- and really and truly the beginning of an eventful night. Too bad I can’t remember too much of it.

The next day featured strolls through what is, after four visits, without a doubt one of my most favourite cities in the world. Being together with what are in theory colleagues but in essence very much friends was delightful and I enjoyed their presence tremendously. A visit to the parliament, sipping from drinks and eating Goulash out in the sun, roaming through gorgeous streets that breathe history, and of course catching up with all the stories and experiences that everyone had to share made for a fantastic Saturday. Dinner was organised in one of the city’s many hidden secrets; a cool venue with looks and atmosphere that were definitely superior to the quality of its food. Luckily Lian had the best meal she had ever had, making up for some other people’s lesser experiences. While not many people were in the party mood after an eventful Friday night and a full day of city-strolling, the club we ended up in was so thrilling that even the most reluctant of us were instantly convinced that this was something that couldn’t be missed out on. Budapest features many apartment blocks that have a square courtyard, surrounded by about five stories of rugged but classy exterior with wood panelled shutters and arched windows. Well, this club was located in one such courtyard, albeit with a roof placed on top of it, generating the experience that you’re outside as well as indoors at the same time. The music was excellent, the crowd featuring fewer scumbags than outside, and the vibe in our group enticing to say the least, with enthusiastic dancing drawing the eyes of many a square-faced local. Again the clock hit five when the day ended and my Sunday was largely spent on sleeping and strolling through gorgeous Budapest, having said goodbye to the others early in the afternoon, as the time left until my flight departed didn’t quite allow me to join in the afternoon activity to visit the spa. Well, I knew what I was missing out on. The return flight went a whole lot smoother than the way there and it didn’t take long for me to fall asleep when I finally touched my pillow at ten pm that evening. Budapest, you were quite exhausting, but totally worth the trip. Exquisite company and a gorgeous venue; it doesn’t get much better than that. Thanks all for a wonderful weekend!!

Dingle

Expectations were high, especially after the bliss & beauty of county Donegal. Dingle is often said to be (one of) Ireland’s prettiest place(s), where the ocean dominates the land and Irish is the lingua franca. To be honest, it was an enjoyable trip. But we have plenty of proof by now that the weather is quite the decisive factor in Ireland. In the west, it rains a lot. As it did last weekend.

 The trip was to be car-less. Like the Wexford – New Ross – Waterford trip. We would take the train to Tralee and from there cycle to Dingle Town on day one, doing the Slea Head drive on day two, and back to Tralee and indeed to Dublin on day three. The first challenge already presented itself when we tried to book train tickets two days in advance. No designated bike spaces available for the way back. We decided to risk it, bearing in mind that the backup option –taking the 4:30 am train on Tuesday morning- wasn’t wholly appealing. Ah well, a bit of uncertainty only adds to the adventure, doesn’t it?

Overbooked trains weren’t the only challenge to deal with however, as the humid, sticky weather on Saturday appeared to have quite the restrictive effect on Bo’s ability to climb mountains on her brand new Giant. And even though she was grand keeping up on Sunday through the pouring rain, the Connor Pass on the way back was deemed too much of an obstacle that she opted for the bus from Dingle back to Tralee. The Lonely Planet, though generally a reliable guide, wasn’t confidence inspiring as it described the pass as “very narrow and very steep”. Also the guy working in the hostel in Dingle wasn’t helping, answering Bo’s concerns about being afraid of the Connor Pass by stating that the pass “is indeed something to be scared of”. As the weather had only grown worse this made Monday morning a decent work-out for me, battering through the rain, ascending the Connor Pass, and pounding on relentlessly on the descent in an effort to reach Tralee before Bo did – whose bus had left an hour after my take-off. The quasi-nonchalant text message I sent upon arrival said it all: “Mooi. Ik ben al in Tralee. Pasje was prima te doen” (Good, I’m already in Tralee, the pass wasn’t too hard).  

Dingle Town itself is quite the treat, with a handful of cosy pubs and many a restaurant with fresh seafood. One of the most remarkably moments occurred in Dick Mack, a store-turned-pub, where random people would start singing every so often, with the entire crowd joining in, returning to their respective conversations afterwards as if nothing had happened. Touristy but definitely Irish as well, Dingle Town is!

The loop on Sunday offered some nice but foggy views from Europe’s westernmost point, where the remnants of some thousands-year old castles can be found. The audio-video show that we watched at the remnants of the Dunbeg Promontory Fort fits in perfectly with earlier shows at the butter museum in Cork and at the rock of Cashel in Cashel. Mismatched wooden chairs, a big white wall with a projector aimed at it, a squeaky sound system, an amateur movie shot in the early nineties, and a proud hostess guiding us to the “cinema room”. This particular movie was about a lady, let’s call her Ann, who worked as a archaeologist at the ancient site. Movie begins. Camera isn’t held steady. Ann is recorded, pretending to be reading a history book. “This is Ann. She works as an archaeologist at the Promontory Fort”. Ann looks up at the camera, piercing eyes through her black rimmed glasses. Just a few seconds too long to make it awkward. Ah well, you get the picture. As the ruins had been adversely affected by last autumn’s storms we couldn’t actually visit the fortress itself, “but you can walk down the path and look at it from afar”. Well, we did walk down the path and gazed down at some stones that could hardly be discerned as being different from the dry stone walls covering the grassy hills around us. With some red tape, indicating we couldn’t go further. Time to get on the bike again!

 The views over the Blasket Islands from Slea Head were inspiring though, in spite of the wind that was increasingly picking up and preceding the heavy showers that accompanied us over the last quarter of the journey. That night we enjoyed a well-deserved rich meal at what is arguably the best fish restaurant in Dingle Town, where only the day’s catch is served and where chips are banned from the menu. Great value!

 So after a weekend of singing songs in the pub, cycling through wind and rain, lovely fish dishes and the always appreciated daily Guinness, the challenge was to get back to Dublin, with our bikes. Well, the first challenge was for Bo to get her bike on the bus she was taking to Tralee, which the bus company officially doesn’t oblige itself to if the bus is too full. Well, the bus was quite full. But here I start recognising a favourable trend among the Irish that I get more and more appreciative of. Rather than the Dutch, who generally stick to the rules blindly, I find the Irish bending the rules a bit if they can help out others. This pragmatic attitude generally gets things done if you try hard enough by just being kind and assertive. Also here Bo got herself and her bike on the bus, foregoing the additional charge the bus company usually charges. Back in Tralee I had arranged for the hostel where we stayed the first night to let me have a shower there for a fiver, another example of hospitality and pragmatism. And subsequently, off to the train station. We knew there weren’t any trains that had two bike spaces left available, but nonetheless we had to try, how else to get back home? As we assumed the person selling tickets would be a guy, Bo went up to the counter while I guarded our bikes just around the corner. As Bo took uncomfortably long I decided to have a look about 10 minutes later, only to find her looking for later trains on her phone. “She’s very surly. She says there’s no bike spaces and I have to look for other options” Bo complained. Wrong strategy. Instead of the jovial old man we had expected behind the counter, I spotted a stern looking girl, about my age. “Why don’t you look after the bikes for a while?” Bo nodded. Five minutes later the initially unyielding girl was heading off towards the platform where the train would arrive, talked to a few people including the ticket collector, walked back with resolute, determined steps, took place behind the counter again, and told me it had been arranged for. Bending the rules a little, but you need to have them on your side! Our relief for being able to board the first train back –and a direct train even, what a luxury!- was only slightly diminished by the outrageous price of €149 for the two of us and our two bikes, coming down at 68 cents per minute on board. Ah well, it only adds to the story, and you can’t have it all!

Back in Dublin I can conclude that my new Giant has proved himself a reliable partner, having withstood a few rides through the Wicklow Mountains and around Dingle peninsula without the slightest hint of discomfort. Dingle is a lovely little village, and the surrounding country side is gorgeous, but we have to go back some time, when the sun is shining!