Giant's Causeway and Glenveagh -- Letterkenny, Ireland

Ger left for work bright and early on Monday morning. I'd woken up an hour or so before to write, drink some coffee and cuddle the nameless cat in the silence. All the healing, settling things.

Coffee... you have zero effect on me, except comfort. You, dear friend, set the stage for relaxation. Which is probably why I can drink you directly before bed and then sleep like a pineapple.  

"It was so good to stay with you," I said goodbye to Ger. "Sorry I wasn't any better at Bingo. Better luck with the next couchsurfers you take. Oh, don't leave just yet -- let me grab Misho," I rushed down the hall.

My Bulgarian stumbled out of bed, bleary-eyed and fluffy-haired and mumbled some sort of barely intelligible thank-you and goodbye to our host. 

"You shouldn't have woken him up," Ger laughed at me as Misho then made his way back to bed. 

I shrugged my shoulders. 

Saying goodbye is the least we could do. 

Late into our final night at Ger's, a young married couple from Utah pulled into the driveway in a rented car. However, since Misho, Ger and myself were drinking whiskey and playing cards, I didn't pay them much mind. Just noticed how odd it was that they politely declined Ger's offers of delicious whiskey. 

Who, in their right mind, would say no when an Irishman offers them whiskey?

"And why do you speak Finnish?" Ger asked Todd, the young married man."I read on your profile that you speak Finnish." 

"I spent two years in Finland. 

"What for?" 

"A mission trip." 

The next morning, when both travelers politely but firmly turned down coffee by saying, "we don't drink coffee," I put all the things together.  No coffee + no alcohol + so young and already married + Utah + two year mission trip in freaking FINLAND =... 

Only religious people would go to one of the wealthiest countries in the world for a mission trip. Gosh. Forget about sending aid to schools in Nepal, let's send Mormonism to Finland. Where they can sit in saunas and ride reindeer in between converting the masses of unbelieving Finns. 

...

Is that unfair? 

...

It's probably unfair. Bourget, you're being unfair and mean. Stop it.

 ...

 

I hate religion so much. And I have a hard time not putting practicing religious people into a box whose edges are defined by what I know about their religion and nothing else. 

Which isn't helpful. In part, because I am NOT an expert in world religions. In part, because there's so much more to a person than how they practice what they believe. And my visceral reaction to religion keeps me from seeing people as whole, complex human beings. Which kills any chance of me actually connecting with them.

These Mormon couchsurfers seem nice. So... be friendly, Bourget. Try to release them from your uneducated stereotypes and preconceptions about Mormonism. Try to find out who they are outside of their religion. Because the nuances that make us unique have nothing to do with religion. 

I would be obsessed with cheese were I Catholic, Mormon or Scientologist. For instance. 

The couchsurfing Mormons turned out to be extremely welcoming, and offered the two spare seats in their rental car to Misho and me.  

"We're going to Giant's Causeway today, you want to join?" 

"Yes. Yes, please." 

A trip to the Causeway that doesn't involve hitching? So much yes. I get to look at all the cars whizzing by and think, "I DON'T NEED ANYTHING FROM ANY OF YOU." 

Which is a very nice feeling. Extraordinary, in fact. 

The very nice Mormons drove us to Giant's Causeway, sometimes on the left side of the road, sometimes on the right. 

"Wrong side of the road, Todd," Jaime's gentle voice would chide her husband every now and then. I admired her calm. If it had been me riding shotgun, and my partner had been driving on the wrong side of the road, my reaction would have been a bit more... animated. 

We arrived at the Causeway about two hours later and unhappily discovered that it cost about ten pounds a person (back in the UK, so back to pounds) simply to park the car. But that once we parked the car, the Causeway itself was free. 

That's how they get around the National Trust. Look at those Irish working the system. 

The National Trust is one of my favorite things in the whole world over. It's an organization in the UK that makes nature free and accessible for everyone. So if people want to make money off of nature in the UK, they have to be sly about it. Which is why they charge you to park at the Giant's Causeway, as they are not legally permitted to charge you for the nature itself. 

Ten pounds is a lot.... I mean, it would be worth it, no questions about it, but... ten pounds is two days worth of food. It's a lot.

'What if you drop us off right before the parking lot and then we can just walk to the Causeway, you can park the car and meet us there?  And we can split the cost for the parked car later?" I asked Todd, trying to brainstorm my way out of the sly parking fee. 

And if we're asked how we got to the Causeway, we can just say that we hitched. No problem. Not like we haven't been doing a lot of that lately, I thought to myself. Because I always plan on the worst happening.

So Todd parked the car while Misho, Jamie and I scampered over to the side entrance for Giant's Causeway. No questions were asked, and we successfully met Todd on the other side of the visitor's center. Which you're only allowed to use if you've paid your ten pound parking fee. You're not even permitted to buy a coffee at the visitor's center without paying your ten pound parking fee. 

Are you kidding me? Come on, Ireland. Calm down. It's a cup of coffee, for Chrissake. Do we need to make some sort of organization that ensures coffee is accessible to everyone along with nature?

The coastal wind was wild, turning my cheeks, nose and ears bright red and making my head ache. 

This. Is not what the doctor ordered for my sinusitis or conjunctivitis. Oof. I hope I don't get sick. Before last year, I didn't really care so much about whether or not I got sick. I had more of an "Eh, it happens," attitude. But now? After being sick with something or other for most of the previous year? 

I'm fucking tired of being under the weather. I want everything to just WORK. At the same time. 

The air was bitingly cold. The blue, grey ocean roared and crashed into the black rocks lining the shore, sending white spray into the wind. 

The boring story is that Giant's Causeway was formed by cooling magma. The more exciting story is that the causeway was built by a giant. An Irish giant named Fionn mac Cumhaill. This fellow was challenged to a fight by a rowdy giant across the North Channel (as is the way with giants), a Scottish bloke named Benandonner. In order for the giants to meet for their proposed brouhaha, Fionn mac Cumhaill constructed the causeway.

Why did the Irish giant have to do all the work? What was Benandonner doing? Kicking back and drinking whiskey?

My favorite version of this legend is that Fionn mac Cumhaill suddenly realized that Benandonner was rather on the large side (to me, this seems like something he should have looked into prior to agreeing to a brouhaha). Hence, Fionn became significantly less enthused about the melee for which he'd just constructed a massive causeway. To get himself out of the fight, Fionn mac Cumhaill's wife simply dressed him up like a baby and tucked him into a cradle. Then when Benandonner came calling, asking for a fight, Fionn mac Cumhaill was nowhere to be found. Just a freakishly hairy "baby".

"And if that's the size of Fionn mac Cumhaill's BABY, the giant himself has got to be enormous!" thought Benandonner. And the Scott promptly turned tail and fled back across the causeway to Scotland, wrecking the passage as he ran so that his opponent could not follow.

Again, this doesn't seem fair. Fionn did all the work and all Benandonner does is tear the damn thing up. 

This legend also explains why there are identical basalt pillars on the other side of the North Channel. 

Even with tourists bustling about, taking seventeen thousand selfies and stuffing coins into crannies for good luck, the Causeway managed to still feel wild. Magical. Other-worldly.

Todd, Jamie, Misho and I finally left the basalt pillars and set off down a trail along the cliff edge.

How is it possible for nature to be this stunning? 

I tied off my Martenitsa on a bit of golden, flowering gorse, making my silent wish and wondering why Northern Ireland's spring couldn't feel a bit more like, you know, spring, and less like, "IT SHALL BE COLD AND MISERABLE FOREVER AND ALWAYS SO GOOD LUCK WITH THAT."

You can only get away with being so abominably cold because you're pretty. 

We made it out of Giant's Causeway without having to pay a cent. For some reason or other, no one ever asked Todd for his ticket. And none of us protested this oversight.

Part of me wants to celebrate not having to spend ten pounds to see nature. The other part of me feels guilty for not supporting the maintenance of said nature and is worried about what my best friend, Park Ranger Janet, will think about me when she reads how I'm always skulking about, not paying for my tickets to nature. 

We drove a short distance to the Carrick-a-Rede Rope Bridge.

We were told that it cost 7 pounds to cross the 66 foot bridge that hung suspended 100 feet above the wild water. But that it cost nothing to walk along the cliff and just look at the bridge.

So that's what we did.

On the drive home, Todd and Jamie told us a bit about the rest of their trip, including the fact that they planned to crash in Dublin's airport the night before their departure.

"Umm... have you ever done that before?"

"No. Why?"

"Because sleeping in airports to save money always seems like a great idea beforehand. And then when you're actually doing it and the day after you do it, you hate yourself. Sleeping in airports is miserable if you're not able to check in. And you won't be able to check in until four hours before your flight. If I were you, I'd hang out at pubs -- they have good music so just order a -- " I paused as I tried to remember a drink Mormons are allowed to imbibe. "Just order a sparkling water or something. And listen to music until the last bus to the airport."

Todd and Jamie dropped us off at the home of our host in Letterkenny at around six that evening.

"Thanks so much for letting us tag along! Enjoy the rest of your trip," I waved to the couple as they sped away.

I'm glad we get to meet a new couchsurfer, I thought as we rang Oliver's doorbell. But I wish we'd just been able to stay with Ger. Since they're so close to each other anyway.

A middle-aged man who did not look like Oliver answered the door. But this hardly threw me, because couchsurfers rarely look anything like their profile photos.

"You're looking for Oliver, aren't you?" not Oliver asked us, eyeballing our bulging backpacks.

"Yes," we nodded sheepishly.

"He's the apartment over there," the man nodded to his left.

"Thanks!" I said as not Oliver closed his door.

We rang real Oliver's doorbell and were greeted by an impressively tall Irishman, who also looked nothing like his couchsurfing photo.

"Want a cup of tea? Coffee?" our new host asked us. After pouring our drinks, Oliver proceeded to tell us all about his trip to Poland for a friend's wedding, his recent birthday party, all his couchsurfing experience (good and bad), and his philosophy on life, the universe and everything.

I tried to chime in occasionally, but was never able to finish a train of thought. So I stopped trying to chime in and just nodded and "mmmhmmm"ed every now and again.

It's like a barrage, I thought, feeling myself withdraw.

"Can we cook dinner for you?" Misho asked, when he had a moment.

"Anything you don't like?" I inserted.

"No fish," Oliver said. "Everything else is fine by me, as they say."

Misho and I walked to the nearby shop. And I missed Ger. With whom I could have conversations and not just hear stories about all the couchsurfers who didn't clean up after themselves.

Oliver is a nice guy. He's kind. He's generous. But holy bananas, he's an exhausting person for someone like me. 

I let Misho do most of the engaging that evening. He was able to talk with Oliver about film, music and video games -- all the topics which completely elude me. I just warmed myself in front of the fire and ate my pasta.

The next day was cold and wet. Our good luck with weather in Ireland appeared to have run its course, and Misho and I were experiencing the real Ireland.

Harmen would be proud. 

Misho and I left Oliver's at ten am to start hitching to Glenveagh National Park, a famous forest just 20 kilometers away. And after standing on the side of the road for an hour and a half, a fellow finally pulled over for us.

"Saw you standing there. Felt so sorry for you that I turned around to pick you up."

"We're glad you did. We were about to just walk back. No one was stopping."

"Where you heading to?"

"Glenveagh National Park."

"Don't know where that is. I'm heading up to Dunfanaghy. Gotta drop off a load of motorcycles. I've got fifty of them I need to get across the border before they put border control between Northern Ireland and the Republic."

"Fifty motorcycles?"

"Yeah, I've got fifty motorcycles and a mustang."

"Gosh. Good luck with that."

"So where will I be dropping you?"

"You can leave us at Termon and we can hitch from there."

He took a picture of us in front of his van before driving off. Probably to prove to his wife and kids that he'd encountered the critically endangered species of "hitchhiker."

We stuck out our thumbs for about half an hour. Then we gave up. And just walked ten kilometers to the park.

What is it with people in the north of the south of Ireland? They're so fucking cold in this area. Cold and mistrustful. 

From beginning to end, it took my Bulgarian and me four hours to travel the twenty kilometers from Letterkenny to Glenveagh.

It was worth it.

We found a bus to take back into Letterkenny, though. There was no way I was going to stand on the side of the road again that day.

Back at Oliver's, our host prepared an Irish dinner of potatoes and sausage and meatballs.

"A warm, square meal. It's not four star, but it's filling, as they say," Oliver tends to end every other sentence with an"as they say." Even though some of the things he says I've an inkling that no one else has, in fact, ever said.

We watched one of the Star Wars films that night. One of the new ones. I'm not sure which.

Which drives my Bulgarian crazy. Not Star Wars. The fact that I never know which one I'm watching.

I'm discovering several methods of driving geeks bananas. Misho is my case study. Methods include: referring to Chewbacca as, "that weird bear thing," and just getting all the films mixed up. Or saying that I prefer the new films to the old ones. Or that I can't even remember if I've seen all the old ones.

I'm surprised Misho and I are still friends. He's a very tolerant human being, my Bulgarian.