From Cairo to the Connemara: A Sojournal

 Pt3 - 22: BRIEFLY BACK IN THE UK The most memorable moments of the crossing from Dun Laoghaire belonged to the blob of a bloke sitting opposite me who spent the entire two hour trip stuffing Big Macs into his face. He had so many chips poking out of his mouth at one stage he was the living caricature of one of those grotesque joke masks you find in cheap showbags. From Holyhead I took the A5 through places with unpronounceable names like Llanfair-Pwligwyngyll (Lanfair-Piggywiggle?) and Abergwyngregyn (Aber-gwin-greg-in?).   The immediate plan was to swing through Llandudno where Lewis Carroll reputedly groomed the young Alice Liddell by inventing stories about a whimsical wonderland, then swerve south through the Vale of Conwy. Llandudno spectacularly failed to live up to its reputation as a beautiful holiday playground, but the Vale of Conwy was a pretty drive along the Conwy River through chocolate box stone villages called Gollywollywow and Llillypillywilly. I paused...

Pt3-17:  THE EMERALD ISLE 15th September - 4th October The Stena Voyager pulled out of Stranraer at 2:45, precisely on time. It’s more small cruise ship than ferry and, judging by the bright decor and spotless facilities, relatively new. She pitched and rolled a bit on the southerly swell but the passage across the Irish Sea was pretty smooth all things considered. From my warm nest in one of the lounges I watched the smokers huddling on the exposed afterdeck, their hair boogying in what was clearly a stiff breeze. It was hilarious seeing them go through the ritual against all the odds; rotating through 360⁰ with lighters in cupped hands, taking minutes to get a flame to light the fag which then disappeared in seconds as the wind burned it off. They were lucky to get three drags. The Voyager tied off on Belfast dock at 4:35, precisely on time. I nosed the bullet out of the bowels of car deck number 2 into bright sunshine and slipped seamlessly through Belfast on the M2, bound for ...

Pt3 - 16: THE MAWD ON MULL When the road to Oban wasn’t tracing the rim of a loch it hugged the low coastline. So many islands of all shapes and sizes dotted the sparkling sea it may as well have been a lake anyway. I haven’t gazed upon an empty ocean since Durness. And I think I’ve become so blase about the breathtaking scenery it’s almost failing to register. In fact, it occurred to me as the kilometers clicked over that after more than two hundred days on the road the act of travelling has entered another phase. The first month or so it was an exciting novelty then, without us realising, it became a lifestyle. At some point, probably when we chunneled across to England , it evolved into a way of life. It’s a fine distinction tied to the culture you’re embedded in. In non-English speaking societies, and in Muslim countries where the language, customs and daily rituals are so radically different from your native experience, every waking moment is a challenge, every action requires tra...

 Pt3 - 15: ACROSS THE TOP AND DOWN TO SKYE The most serious challenge driving across the very top of Scotland is resisting the urge to stop every 500 meters for a four second pan with the video camera. Rounding every corner and topping every crest drew gasps of wonder. The landscape is simply immense, a hostile and forbidding wilderness of bald moors and looming tors shrouded in shifting mists. The only evidence of human occupation are long abandoned, forlornly exposed stone bothys, now just weathered grey shells defying the relentless wind. On the shores of Loch Eriboll a savage squall swept in. The horizontal rain sounded like gravel hitting the bullet as I battled the wheel to keep her on the road. I pulled over to let it pass and as it did a perfect rainbow appeared, gleaming in the watery light. By the time I reached the western head of the loch the rain had blown right through and the sun beamed down on an exceptionally beautiful coastline, from the sheltered sandy cove imm...

  Pt3 -13: SCOTLAND 29th August - 15th September Glengennet Farm nestles in the verdant Valley of Stinchar near the charming village of Barr a few kilometres inland from the coastal town of Girvan. Vera Dunlop greeted me with a warm “Hello Rawb!” when I arrived late in the afternoon and, quickly dispensing with the formalities, showed me to my well-appointed room. There was enough time before dinner to take in the views from the second floor window.  Through waves in the old glass I watched as the late light bronzed distant hills which seemed to rise like soft buns in the cool air. Across the treetops I could make out a few sheep and a couple of cows silhouetted against the creamy sky. Heroically accepting the need to radically expand the subject of my thesis from just English country pubs to Country Pubs of the UK and Ireland, I brewed tea in the little stainless steel pot and thumbed through the guest information folder for dinner options. In Barr they consisted of The Kin...