Henry’s Big Adventure
“Come on Henry!” I shouted, “My work here is done, it’s time to go on a road-trip!” Henry sat in a fug of unspent motor oil, still in half slumber, his side-mirrors twitching as he dreamed of running free down endless roads with a sexy lady Toyota at his side.“Henry!” “Wake up!” Henry grumbled back to life and reluctantly let me take control to back out of the car park. He’s always grumpy when he wakes up. So we were off. Off to far and distant lands, new countries, new cultures. Well at least one new country. Kind of. We were off to the far and distant land of Northern Ireland. Only six hours driving to go….
Things started off well, as we set off towards Galway – our first target. I know these roads like the back of my hand by now. Except that some-one had decided to add a giant pot-hole just in my way…… Split-second decision whether to swerve into potential oncoming traffic or hope it’s just a trick of the light and nah it’s not really that big. Anyway Henry’s used to potholes – the country roads around here are full of them. As the left tyre hit a shock-wave reverberated up through the car, jolting my wrists, then my shoulders before bouncing my brain against my skull. I think maybe I blacked out for a milli-second. Or perhaps I just had my eyes squeezed shut in anticipation. Upon opening my eyes and realizing I was still on the road I kept firm pressure on the steering wheel, afraid it might come off in my hands should I lift them. I’m sure I must have a flat tyre -or at least a broken one of those axle thingies…. But Henry kept on rolling. He’s tough like that. Or perhaps its one of those slow occurring injuries…one of those thought-everything-was-ok-but-really-its-worse-than-I-could-imagine injuries. I had a vision of me at the side of the road attempting to change a tyre. Surfboard, tent and hot-water bottle strewn around me on the road after I’ve dug out the “wheel stuff”, and me sitting amidst it all trying to figure out how to put together the joe. I mean the jack. I think that’s what its called. Its not that I don’t have faith that I could actually change a tyre, it’s just that there’s always been a useful man around to do it – robbing me of my mechanical independence.
The vision stuck with me as I drove the next half an hour to Galway, analysing every bump, every squeak. Does the left side of the car feel lower than usual? Is the steering wheel veering to the left? Is that smoke I smell?
Apparently not. Hurrah. I stopped in at a gas station, and checked the air pressure just to be safe. That’s one thing I can do on my own. Then, although I really didn’t want to, I bought some chocolate to keep me awake for the next 5 hours. Bleeurgh! Chocolate! Hate the stuff. But safety first I always say.
The hours dragged on as I drove further north towards Sligo, stopping briefly in Bundoran to try and find a toilet with no avail. I amused myself with the strange place names I passed, saying them out loud and giggling. Tobercurry (hehee) Tubber (Hee hee hee) Crazy Irish. Or crazy English actually as they replaced the Gaelic names with phonetically similar English words. Hey, ever noticed how hard it is to find a toilet when you really need one? I considered stopping at a rest stop and running into the undergrowth but you never know who or what is lurking in undergrowth so I settled for another gas station – I had to buy some more chocolate anyway – for safety reasons. I noticed on paying that the woman at the counter had a strange accent – I must be getting close….
I kept an eye on the number plates around to see if I could tell when I crossed the border and saw nothing out of the ordinary – perhaps a couple of Northern plates here and there. Then I came to a roundabout in Lifford. I drove up to the roundabout surrounded by Irish plates, and somehow, emerged on the other side surrounded by Northern Irish ones. So much so that I feared I had ventured into the wrong side of town. I didn’t see one other Irish plate. I felt outnumbered – what if they gang up on me and don’t let me into the next lane? But it turns out Northern Irish drivers are as polite as their Irish counterparts.
I hadn’t really considered the implications of coming to Northern Ireland and the fact that it is actually another country. The radio station changed and I was forced to listen to horrible English clubbing music. The road signs changed and I was forced to think in miles instead of kms. My phone provider changed and I was forced to figure out frustrating country codes. The road signs changed and began to look surprisingly familiar…. I think maybe the English have been to NZ too. Even the money changed and I suddenly realized I had a wallet full of useless euros that I had saved for this trip. So two more stops, one to get real money, one to get some food and then it was straight home to my destination for the day, the coastal town of Portstewart, Derry.
I had intended to camp but once I figured out how to use my phone, I found out every place I tried was closed for the season. So seven hours after leaving Doolin, I now find myself at the warm homely accommodation that is Rick’s Independent Causeway Hostel. Henry’s sleeping, and I think it’s now time for me to go to bed too. Tomorrow we visit the Giants Causeway.
Tags: 1
Em
About time!!!!!
We would never have pot holes here….
Hope you remember to check for snake warning signs when attempting stealth toilet stops in rest areas….
If only we had Angineers like you here in Ireland. Oh and if only most of the coutry wasnt bog-land. that would help too.