Connemara and Fishing

"Just follow my line, you'll be fine!"

"Er, ok. Sounds good."

They call it a battle roll when you manage to roll your kayak in a real situation on the river, not a relatively safe practice roll. My first battle roll commenced about 30 seconds after I supposedly followed couch-surf-host-Macca's-housemate-Claire's line down the rapids. It consisted of me frantically slamming my paddle on the bottom until I flopped on the breathing side of the river, just in time to swallow the next rapid. I think there's a name for that one, the shallow river boyscout roll or something.

But sweet. That worked.

Claire and I sat in the eddy in absurd January Connemara sunshine. How the heck did I get here? I pinched myself, sitting in a free kayak in a free wetsuit getting a free whitewater primer for few other reasons than chance. Rounded, recently glaciated peaks drained down to a beautiful fjord in a very familiar way. Sheep ran amok over the hillsides.

"Alright! This next one is going to be similar but a little longer. "
 "Right... let's do it!"

Next one really was longer. No battle rolls, just some frantic paddling -- "just keep paddling!" -- and eventually spit out into calm waters once more. There's a nice rhythm to it, the cycles of action and pause reflecting my travel life perfectly.

For now, I sit in calm Galway waters before blasting down to rapids to Dublin to London then Oxford, for a short calm before rapids spit me all the way to Marrakesh.

Morocco.

Then perhaps no longer rapids, but waves.


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Hitch hiking is like fishing. You've really got to be standing in just the right spot, and your bait needs to suit your target.  Timing and appearance is everything. And patience is the fundamental virtue.

I have been sternly quizzed on decadent American politics, learned about how Antony the truck driver met his wife in a Limerick nightclub, and gripped my seat as we passed "slow" cars at 100 miles per hour while chatting about Brian's expected child. New-agey physical therapists spoke calmly about life in the woods outside Killarney, and compassionate mothers told stories of their husbands' young adventures thumbing around France. It took farmer Sean five sentences to comprehend Riley was my first name. All were appreciated, and quite a bit more memorable than the bus. Not to mention cheaper.

You can't manufacture moments of genuine human contact.  But you can put yourself in the right position. Kinda like fishing for experience. 

Carrauntoohil and the Aran Islands

Carrauntoohil.

What the heck is that?

     The taxi driver said that we could take the Heavenly Gates Route if we wanted. "You know why they call it the Heavenly Gates? One slip -- bam! Done for!" he roared as we hurtled along misty roads into blackening morning clouds over the McGillycuddy Reeks. Gah, this had the potential to be hell. Just keep moving, layer up, you don't get too cold, right?  But this was looking a little bit wet and/or cold for the brazilian behind me in blue jeans.

     The rain fell hard as we set up Jack the rad Brit's camp for the next night in a rocky plot of land jealously guarded by fluffy sheep, staring quizzically at all the stuff we plopped on the mushy ground. Then quizzically at the Brazilian in blue jeans. Then back at us.

    Three hours later we gained the summit ridge in ripping winds. The air cleared, and Jack the rad Brit and I looked out over a dusting of Irish peaks standing far above the ocean. My shoes were soaked from the scramble up the wet gully of a route. The sun poked through for a miraculous second, and we saw a gorgeous valley from the Ring of Kerry below. We turned up the mountain and in a half hour were standing on the icy rocks of the summit, with the impossible clarity of the county Kerry in view. Killarney sat at the edge of a distant lake, my treasured hostel tucked away safe in a downtown lane, pleasantly out of mind in the mindlessness of a summit. Beautiful. I pulled my several hoods up tighter against the frigid blasts of wind, we took the summit selfies, and took off before a pack of clouds engulfed the highest point in Ireland. Carrauntoohil.



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The Aran Islands.

I am amazed monks lived places like this. A little amazed people do now. Most folks here still speak Gaelic fluently, even.

We went to Inis Mor. It's seriously a barren, flat island constantly battered by the raging north pacific. Lucy-the-ridiculous-connection-back-to-Los-Angeles and I took a bumpy ferry over from Galway, and spent the luckiest sunny day meandering a few miles back from the end of the island over ancient stone forts (predating the Celts… thus 2000-2500 yrs ago) and absurd stone walls pixelating the countryside into innumerable enclosures.

I mean, how did they get out there, and get supplies to come in consistently? Our day, the ocean was angry. There were waves tossing water with the wind up sea cliffs at least 300 feet tall as we ran forward for pictures and ran back for fear of being tossed over by the wind. You don't just sail that stuff often. Good on 'em, and the five Romans buried near the churches. Romans, here on this rock on the end of Ireland. They even had to create soil by layering sand and seaweed until it became workable for small plants of potatoes, and grassy for cattle grazing.

One doesn't exactly have to be an intrepid monk to get out there these days, thankfully. Lucy and I took pictures and talked the day away, and didn't see a soul on the supposedly touristy island for hours. In the end, we hitched part of the way back to catch the only ferry out that day, thankful for the time amongst the rocks and sun and quiet island life. There's no life like island life, even here off western Ireland.


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I hope you're all doing well, friends and family. I think of you often, and am trying to do well myself. Adjusting to life on the road did not come as simply as I had thought, but the tires are turning smoother now -- especially if I caught them with my thumb between Cork and Limerick! The rhythm of this life of movement is developing, and I'm slowing down after years and years in school and work. Peace!

Riley

Ireland

I turned around in my seat, and grabbed the 5 Guinness placed on the bar, and passed them out around the group. We'd been playing in the key of A for three straight hours, and I am not sure which number beer this was. Hal the fiddle player gave me a nod, and everyone burst out into some incomprehensionable joke about an old man in a flatcap who had just walked in to escape the dreary weather.

Ireland.

Cork, Ireland.

Apparently, I've got some old Haggerty family here in Cork. None of them made it to the bluegrass session at the Quarter Room, half-seven on Sunday night. Instead, I was following Hal and the rest of the Old Valley String Band. By that point, my mandolin chop was starting to lose some precision, but that's the way the music is meant to go sometimes. "Ah, maybe one last tune lads," and off we went into the key of A for another half-hour. Another Guinness, or two?, the I-IV-I-V sinking into my bones, more flatcaped old men enter, and we all sputtered to a random stop on the V. It's time to end. And "pay" for the drinks? Riley, you'll learn, when we play we don't pay.

I found my way home in the dark and rain, back to John the couchsurf host, thinking about the traditional music sessions I'd sat in earlier that day in more corners of more pubs, and the brilliant weather out on the coast from the day before, as me and the Brazilians created our own sneaking hike through farmers' wet fields and over fences. Travel is an absurd density of experience, but I needed to chill down. Too much backpack train bus road time. Time to get out of go-mode, the only mode you can get away with in Oxford, the kind of mode that sacrifices a patient pace I've come to both respect and hunger.

So today, tapping this out on an old iPod touch, wandering little back neighborhoods in the sun, finding this great cathedral to sit in and tap. Tap tap tap.