My backpack was heavy.
I was cursing the weight.
What the heck is in here that weighs so much? I knew I had packed too many clothes and in the mean time I had acquired a new pair of hiking shoes AND Doc Marten sandals, plus a funky pair of sloth overalls I could not pass up from my fave store in Edinburgh. I had my small camera bag on my front clinging like a baby sloth to its mother, and my trusty Osprey 65 litre was stuffed FULL.
Never again will I travel with so much - I had literally worn two sets of clothes thus far.
Not sure why I thought I needed ‘going out clothes’. Where was I going to go?
I did actually deposit myself in a pub in Limerick to listen to a group of young musicians belt out Irish folk music. I made an effort to put on clothes that didn’t smell. So I guess that counts.
Walking to the bus to get myself across Dublin to collect my rental car pick-up was relying on pure luck to get me into the right bus (and maybe a train?). I had searched Google maps for public transport options from my accommodation and was again cursing the rain. I had started to wonder if my new look was “drowned rat”. Never-the-less I trudged over to the bus stop which was fortunately 200m down the road.
But, I waited and waited and waited for a bus to come.
Nothing.
So I walked a couple of kilometers to a major intersection in the hope of finding a bus - by now, ANY bus.
I joined three over-joyed looking Dubliners under the bus shelter and started to manifest the right bus in my mind.
“Something something something something heavy” an older woman to my left muttered rapidly to me.
Did she speak English? Was she speaking to me?
“Sorry?” I responded, “are you talking to me"?”
“Yer bag on yer back looks mighty heavy” - the words fell out of her mouth with rapidity.
“Oh - well it looks heavier than it is” I lied, “but I do wish I hadn’t brought so much stuff that I will never use on this trip”.
“Where are ye off te?” she enquired
“I’m going to collect a rental car and then will go to County Clare but I’m not sure if this is the right bus”.
She investigated my exact destination and what the ‘right bus’ might be, then told me to get the bus from this stop which would take me to Heuston Station and from there I could jump on the light rail (they call this the luas).
“I thought I could perhaps just walk?”
“Ah nuuuuu!” She exclaimed “tiz a very long walk; ye be needing the train fe sure (“to be sure” - I added in my brain voice); “annits reening mad, ye be gettin’ fair soaked”.
I agreed, it was somewhat ludicrous to walk but I was already soaked so figured a bit more of a drowning would make no difference.
“Look here; I cen pay fe ye on me card - I get one free; ye be comin’ on wit me”.
Ok - I had been acquired by a Good Samaritan granny. “It’s ok thanks I have money!”
But no she would not hear of it and insisted. Not being one to deny someone of such moments of do-goodism, I graciously succumbed and allowed myself to be taken care of.
The bus came - eventually - and she sternly explained to the driver that she was covering my fare. He glared at me over his gold rimmed huge square glasses, and mumbled his agreement that indeed I should be taken care of (did they think I was a homeless bum??).
And so, we stood there side by slide, clinging onto the cold metal hand rails as the double decker bus lurched its way down a rolling hill. She looked up at me and smiled - and told me to make sure I got on the train from Heuston and NOT to walk.
“Yes Grandma” I thought. I will.
The bus pulled over to our stop; we tumbled out into the weather.
“Okee - so ye know where te get the train - just arind the corner there; I’m going to me daughters.
Bye now”.
And off she went - all five foot of her and a bulging shopping bag - across the wet road into a bleak Dublin day.