Off Landsend, England, Enroute to Southampton

4 September 2012 The waters are very calm here as we pass from the Irish Sea into the English Channel. Not quite like glass—the last time I saw that was in the middle of the Indian Ocean 3 years ago—but certainly calm compared to a week ago in the middle of the North Atlantic. For most of the stay in Ireland, the weather was like the North Atlantic: blustery.

We sailed into Galway Harbor on Friday morning, the 31st, and could barely see the shore for the fog and drizzle. Given that the last full day in the North Atlantic had been fairly calm and somewhat sunny, I had hoped that Ireland would greet us with untypical Irish weather. Didn’t happen.

Because we were anchored in the harbor, the only way to shore was by tender, which means a small boat used to carry passengers from a ship to the dock. Tendering is much less expensive for SAS than tying up would be, and in a time of austerity, cost savings is critical. So the Explorer’s lifeboats became our taxis, ferrying 450 or so of us across the choppy waters of Galway Harbor to firm ground. The process was surprisingly efficient and had the added benefit of assuring us that the lifeboats can handle a full load and stay afloat. They’re tight as a drum when buttoned up—steerage-class comfort, but very seaworthy.

Jim, Shamim, and I left the dock lugging our suitcases and 2 golf bags and went looking for the Budget car rental office. Galway is a small city—really more like a large seaside village—so finding the office on the city square was easy. Renting the car was decidedly more difficult. The Budget agent was a round, bald man who behaved more like a fortress guard than a customer-service rep. We later referred to him as “the Bulgarian Irishman,” an almost stereotypically humorless fellow who grunted monosyllables (“No!”) in answer to most of our questions. He tried every scare tactic he could to badger us into buying additional insurance in spite of my assuring him that I had a letter from the credit card company guaranteeing coverage. And he told us that buying a full tank of fuel at the start of a rental was “the Irish way,” something we found 3 days later was really only the Bulgarian’s way. Apologies to Bulgarians. We didn’t buy the insurance. But we did buy the fuel, and Budget reimbursed us yesterday when we turned the car into Budget in Dublin with a full tank.

Because we didn’t want to pay extra for an additional driver, I was the designated driver for our travels around Ireland. Ireland, of course, is a left-hand drive country. I’ve had some experience driving on the “wrong” side in Australia, the UK, and, many years ago, on a family trip through Ireland. But readjusting to left-side driving always takes time. The advantage, of course, is that seeing cars coming toward you on the right side of the road tends to focus all your attention on the matter at hand. So, at least for myself, I’m a far safer driver—or, at least, a far more attentive driver—in a country like Ireland than I am on the much more dangerous streets and roads of Chicago.

I talk to myself while driving on the left:

“Ok, making a right turn. That’s like a left turn. Wait for oncoming traffic. Turn into the far lane . . . the FAR lane!”

“It’s a roundabout. Traffic from the right has the right. Get to the inside. Look for the exit at the 3 o’clock position. Stay LEFT!”

I’m sure it was nerve-racking for Jim and Shamim, but they didn’t let on . . . much.

On Friday, Jim and I dropped Shamim off in a small seaside village in Conamara, where she spent the day browsing and shopping, and he and I continued 15 minutes more to the Conamara Golf Club. The course sits right on the shores of the Atlantic and looks precisely what the pictures and TV images of links courses are supposed to look like: rolling hills, completely treeless—in fact, even bush-less—a few traps, narrow fairways, and lots and lost of thick, impenetrable heather. I became intimate with the heather. The winds were blowing constantly off the ocean at 20 to 25 mph, making downwind shots sail far beyond the distance they go on a windless range, making upwind shots die as if they’d run into a steel wall, and making cross-wind shots do gyrations that should be impossible. The course was fun, long, and challenging on a windless, sunny day.

On Friday, it simply was a challenge. An unforgettable introduction to Irish golf. But Saturday made Friday seem like a stroll around an Executive par-3. After spending Friday night in a wonderful bed-and-breakfast outside the village of Colbur—and an equally wonderful meal-with-Guiness at a local pub—we drove north to the town of Innishcrone, where Enniscrone Golf Course has been carved out of the sand dunes of the Irish coast. Enniscrone is certainly the most challenging course I’ve played, with narrow fairways weaving between the heather-covered dunes to greens scooped out far below or high above. And many of the greens are hidden from view until in range of an approach shot. At Enniscrone, though, the course’s challenges paled compared to the weather’s.

We teed off on the first hole into the teeth of a wind that was blowing at least 30 miles an hour. By the time we finished the front 9 holes, the wind had picked up to 50. And on the 12th hole, the rains began. The water was really little more than thick fog, but when accelerated by 50 mph winds, the droplets were horizontal needles that penetrated even our raingear. By the time we slogged up the 18th fairway (no, of course we didn’t consider stopping!), Jim and I and all our gear were soaked to the skin and metal. It was both the most memorable and most awful round of golf—if it could be called that—I’ve played. Jim’s 60-year-old caddie, whose been bagging for many years at Enniscrone, agreed. I have no idea what I shot.

That night, we dried out in the village of Innishcrone. Shamim and Jim talked me into taking a seaweed bath followed by a massage. The seaweed bath is just that: a claw-footed tub, circa 1910, filled with hot water and kelp. The kelp oozes whatever nutrients it’s supposed to ooze, filling the water with a brownish-orange goo that’s supposed to rejuvenate muscles and skin. But climbing into the weed-filled tub is a little like I imagine it would be to step into a tub of warm jello that had not yet congealed: slimy, slippery, gooey. I expected something to come crawling out of the waving leaves of kelp. But I have to admit the bath felt terrific, and the massage afterward was even better. I felt human again by the time we went to dinner at Gilroy’s.

We spent Saturday night at a B&B named Coel Na Mare—something by the sea—where the owner, Jim, offered to toss our wet clothes into the dryer. Good thing because, in the humid Irish air, the clothes would still be hanging and dripping a couple days later.

Sunday was much better. The winds were calm, and even the sun came out by afternoon. Jim and I played our final round of Irish golf at Rosse’s Point, just outside of Sligo, while Shamim walked around the city trying to find museums and art shops that remained open on the Sabbath—not easy to do in a Catholic country. Again, the course was challenging and beautiful. When we weren’t hitting shots, we could look out at the mouth of the river where a local yacht club was holding some sort of sailing event—lots of red and white sails—and where several hearty souls, clad in what must have been very think wet suits, were surfing. It was another memorable day.

Sunday evening, we arrived at Coopershill, a country estate that the owners, Simon and Cristine, open to guests from April to October each year. Jim and Shamim had stayed there during two previous visits to Ireland, and it’s become one of their favorite spots to spend a day or two. It’s easy to see why. The house, a three-story block of gray Georgian stucco and brick, was built in 1774 by an ancestor of Simon. It sits in the middle of a working farm that grows fruits, vegetables, and deer. The deer, of course, become venison in Irish and British kitchens.

To say Coopershill is magnificent would be a gross understatement. But better than the house was the hospitality of the owners, whose sole focus, it seems, is in making us forget that we’re paying customers. I felt like a guest in Simon’s and Cristine’s home. Simon prepared gin and tonics, served in a large sitting room warmed by a fire in the massive fireplace. Cristine prepared a perfect meal—in my case, duck—that was served by two extraordinarily efficient staff members who scurried among the four tables of guests (9 of us all together) in the dining room lined with paintings of O’Haras and Coopers dating back to the 18th Century. And after dinner, we retreated again to the sitting room for after-dinner glasses of scotch—Balvenie single-malt. “Civilized” doesn’t even begin to describe the evening.

The next morning, after my third Irish breakfast in a row—eggs, sausage, porridge, freshly baked breads, and home-grown jellies—we left Coopershill, regrettably, and drove the 3 hours back to Dublin, where the MV Explorer was docked among the freighters and the ferries. We turned the car in and told the Dublin Budget office manager the tale of her Galway counterpart. She was appropriately chagrined and said she’d “have a word” with the Bulgarian. More important, I was credited for the fuel charges and the 2,000-Euro no-insurance assurance.

After turning in the car, the three of us went across the street to Fagin’s Pub for a last Guinness or two. Fagin’s, it turns out, is a well-known spot that has been frequented by Liam Neesen, Colin Farrell, and Bill & Hillary Clinton, whose pictures line one of the pub walls. The ambiance of the place was a perfect end to the Irish weekend . . . punctuated by a couple of Guinneses and a shared dish of fish ‘n chips. I’m not a beer drinker, but a pint of Guinness in an Irish pub beats even a cold tanqueray and tonic on a summer night.

We departed Dublin last night at 8pm. I had one class today, a lively intercultural communication session where the students didn’t want to stop sharing their stories of reveling in the Irish culture. Tomorrow at 8am, we arrive in Southampton. I’ve decided to stay away from London and, instead, employ my newly refined left-hand-drive skills around the SE England countryside. We’ll see how that works out.