Oliver had warned Misho and me about the difficulties of hitching from Letterkenny to Coleraine. In great detail.
"People in Northern Ireland are suspicious. And you've seen the roads yourself. You've seen the roads over there. Very dangerous, as they say. No room to pull over. You can hitch to Derry and then take a bus to Coleraine, that's my advice for you. I gave the same advice to other couchsurfers, I did, but they just went off and done their own thing, as they say. Couldn't get a lift. Finally, they had to find a bus back to Letterkenny. "Oliver," they said, "we didn't take your advice and now we've got no place to stay. Can we come back and stay with you another night?" "Sure," I said, because I'm on couchsurfing to help people. I'm not a four star hotel, but I give a square meal, some tea, a warm fire, a roof over your head. What more do you need, as they say?"
"Not much."
I said.
Normally, I wouldn't allow myself to be so influenced by advice, but after our abysmal experience hitching the day before, Oliver's warning seemed credible. And I... err... did not want to end up back at his apartment saying, "Can we come back to stay with you for another night?" So after a hearty breakfast of bacon, eggs and potatoes, Misho and I shouldered our rucksacks and walked down to the Aldi.
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| I can't stress enough that Oliver was a very kind fellow. Just too much for me, personally. |
We picked up some essentials (peanut butter, chocolate and cheese) and then set off out of town. But on the sidewalk just outside of Aldi, we spotted two perfect bananas.
Just sitting there.
Chillin' on the pavement.
"I FOUND MY BANANAS!" I hollered in delight.
"This," I put the bananas into my BANANA bag to hang out with the peanut butter and chocolate, "Is going to be a good day."
It took another twenty minutes of lumbering along with Fat Ellie before we found a spot that seemed workable. I let go of Fat Ellie's straps and she plummeted to the sidewalk, where I gazed at her with loving resentment.
How. HOW are you so fucking heavy?
Misho dropped his backpack to the ground. It landed with a far less resounding thump.
As all backpacks are animals of some sort (because it makes me laugh to think of carrying animals around), I've started referring to Misho's backpack as the "Armadillo." Because it's all round and compact and Misho meticulously rolls up all his clothes into tiny balls when packing his armadillo. I tease him for this, and he always comes up with some plausible excuse for his aberrant behavior.
But I think my Bulgarian baker just likes to roll things into tiny balls.
I had very low hopes of being picked up. In fact, I was already working out how long it would take Misho and me to walk back to the bus stop when a Polish chap pulled over. A Polish chap with an unpronounceable name who went far out of his way to drop us off at a good location in Derry. And hopped out of the car to give us proper hugs before he drove off.
"What just happened?" I beamed. Shocked. So unbelievably happy. Chocked full of the warm fuzzies which occur when someone goes out of their way to make your day a little easier.
And when a complete stranger with absolutely no agenda goes out of his way?
It doesn't just make me happy. It makes me hopeful.
Misho and I spent a couple of hours walking around Derry. The city was beautiful, full of old buildings, narrow alleys and publicly inebriated hooligans. There was also a bridge, the Peace Bridge, where Misho and I sat and relished the silence.
Which I sorely needed, after the two day barrage of "as they say."
These are the moments I remember that I am, in fact, an introvert. I need my own space. Especially my own headspace. Which can become difficult when constantly living in the homes of others.
Misho and I took the four o'clock bus to Coleraine, and then strolled over to the McDonald's where we were to meet our host for the next two days, an Australian woman named Sarah.
Thus, for the second time in my nearly twenty-eight years, I found myself ordering something at McDonald's. The first time was in Venice in 2011 when I needed wifi to contact a couchsurfing host.
I bought an espresso. And I hated myself.
Waiting for Sarah in Coleraine, I ordered a cappuccino. And I hated myself a little for actually liking it.
Misho sent Sarah a quick text, just letting our know that we'd arrived a tad early and were hanging out inside the McDonald's. Which was lucky, as Sarah had also arrived early and was waiting outside in her car.
"I hate waiting," the gregarious redhead said. "I was so afraid that you were going to be late and I was going to have to wait."
I like this woman already.
We drove for a few minutes through the countryside before pulling into a long driveway leading up to what looked like a freaking mansion. Two balls of fluff ran towards the car, one black, one white, both barking ferociously.
"I keep trying to run them over," Sarah complained, "but it never works."
Sarah has been traveling the world for over a year, using housesitting websites to get around. And she takes couchsurfers to keep her company.
Bless her.
Our Australian host gave us the tour of the mansion. The kitchen, the two lounges (one with a pool table), the bedrooms and the bar. Each room was decked out with gorgeous furniture, artwork, rugs.
How am I here right now?
Then Sarah said, "Right, who wants to come with me to get the garbage bin?"
"We can both go," I shrugged my shoulders. I had the strange feeling that even getting the garbage bin with Sarah would be an adventure.Which was confirmed when we had to load into the car and drive down to the main road to retrieve said bin.
"Right, Misho, since you were last, you get to sit in the back," Sarah directed. I laughed and Misho moved the back of the car. Sarah lifted the rear window and handed Misho the garbage bin.
"Okay, now just hold on."
So Misho held on to the bin as Sarah drove back to her house.
"I like when surfers come on Sundays so I can use them to bring back the bin," she smiled. Then glared at the fluff balls when they attacked again.
I would get so tired of dogs like that SO quickly.
"Right, now the horses," Sarah flew through her house sitting duties. "I've got to bring in Seven and clean her feet. She's such a bitch."
"Oh, I can help with that!" I exclaimed, ecstatic to finally feel useful.
So Sarah let me borrow some work boots and I trudged through the mud to get to Seven.
And Sarah was right. Some horses are just bitches. And Seven is a prime example of a bitchy mare.
But it was so lovely to feel like I could competently do something helpful. I could lift the feet, pick them out, brush them off. Lead Seven into her stall.
And it was nostalgic to smell like horse poo again.
As a teenage horse girl in a family who practiced alternative medicine, I think I grew up smelling like a mixture of horse poo and peppermint oil.
No wonder I didn't have many friends.
Sarah cooked us dinner that night. And it was wonderful. And then we all piled into a king size bed in one of the many rooms upstairs and watched "Hunt for the Wilderpeople." And it was wonderful.
"Would it be okay if we just stayed here tomorrow?" I asked Sarah as we started to gameplan the next day. "We've been moving around so much lately... and we're really tired. It would be amazing if we could just rest here."
"Of course you can," she said. "And if you bring the bitch in before I come home from work, then we'll have time to visit Dark Hedges and go to Portrush for cake."
"That. Sounds perfect. Yes."
So Misho and I relaxed the next morning. And it was exactly what we needed.
This trip to Ireland has been such an incredible experience. But it's been hard work. Like, really hard work. I'm exhausted. Days like this are so necessary for me. Days where I can just stay on the couch and write and drink coffee and disappear inside a monstrous duvet.
When Sarah returned from work, she drove us to Dark Hedges, as promised.
"It's my favorite place in Northern Ireland," she told us. "You'll see why."
And we did.
Planted by the Stuarts in the in the 18th century to impress visitors (um, mission accomplished), these beech trees are now two hundred years old. And gnarled and magical and epic.
Then Sarah drove us to the coast for the last bit of daylight.
"And now, cake," she said as we loaded into the car.
This woman makes the best adventures. Ocean, beautiful trees, CAKE.
"It's only five pounds. Such good value. For a huge piece of cake!"
When Sarah said huge, I dismissed it as "European huge." Which is usually equivalent to an "American normal."
But the size of my slice of scrumptious cake made even American huge look barely average.
We took the cake to go (mine wouldn't even fit in a takeaway box) and drove back to the mansion just outside of Coleraine. Where Sarah made Misho and me some delectable sweet potato soup. And we shared stories and laughed and ate soup and cake.
And it was good. It was all so good.
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