Slow Travels

You can listen to this if you prefer though it’s got unintended background sounds (dog scratching) and heavy breathing!

I came across this account from Facebook memories so apologies to those of you who might have read it a couple of years ago; I travel even more slowly these days, as I have divested myself of a car, now that I live a couple of minutes walk from the bus stop, and have free travel in Ireland on trains, buses, and even ferries.

I like myself more, as a car free person; environmentally virtuous, walking more, freedom from the responsibility of keeping an elderly vehicle on the road, time to daydream, watch the landscape, or read, catch up with phone messages and occasionally strike up conversations with strangers. I generally lead a slower life as I can’t rush in my car from one place to another…the downside is waiting for buses that sometimes don’t materialise, which can however lead to a certain camaraderie with fellow would-be passengers, or missing the last bus home, which leads to an interesting state of vulnerability, a need for creative thought, and a hopeful trust in life bringing a solution.

‘So here the stories of my slow travels by bus, ferry and train from Ireland to England - it's interesting how the things that go wrong while travelling often open opportunities for unexpected connections with random people, and make up for the stresses of not knowing if you're going to actually arrive at the place where you had hoped to sleep, or whether you will instead be feeling briefly like a homeless person, lying on a bench at the ferryport , or on an empty train station.

These adventures were also an opportunity to realise just how kind people are, perhaps especially when one is an 'elder' woman. I am reminded to trust in the world and in the goodness that abounds, especially when you're in a position of vulnerability .

It reminds me of that Leonard Cohen line about the cracks where the light gets in.

So I set off from home with my rucksack in the back of the car, parked up outside my daughter's house (she was at work and so couldn't drive me to Cork ) posted the keys through her front door and, shouldering my bag, which I had thought quite light until I got half way down the hill into Bandon, I finally made it to the bus stop just in time for the bus to Cork. Settled in my seat I relaxed, having managed the first stage of my journey; leaving the everyday responsibilities of home behind, and looking forward to a day of being transported by bus, and then by ferry, over to Wales; to Fishguard where I would stay the night in Steve's Backpacker hostel.

Wrong!

In Bishopstown, on the ouskirts of Cork city, the bus shudders to a halt and refuses to start again. People begin to get off and make their way to the next bus stop as the driver phones for help, which everyone suspects may be a long time coming. I too get off; thankful that I brought my rucksack on the bus with me, as with sympathy I watch an elderly lady becoming increasingly anxious, as the electrics have stopped working and the boot cannot be opened, so that she cannot access her wheelie bag. Probably she too is going travelling further than the city centre.

A woman going down the steps of the bus in front of me says she knows where one of the citybus stops is and that would be the quickest way in to the bus station, so I thankfully hurry with her through side roads to another main road going into the city where we find such a bus stop and wait, uneasily, hoping a bus will arrive before too long.

And it does, averting disaster, and I am at the bus station in plenty of time for the Waterford Bus. I wait in the long line; two women behind me are talking to each other and at some point one of them asks me about the book I'm carrying, Boy in the World by Niall Williams, so we get into conversation; the one lady is from Kenmare, and the other from Killarney; we're enjoying finding out why we are each getting this bus, and continue our conversation on the bus, as we sit along the front seats.

The driver looks at my ticket which is booked through to Rosslare ferry port and tells me he never gets to Waterford in time for the Rosslare bus, due to traffic in Youghal and in the suburbs of Waterford.

Now I remember that the last time I took this bus, we had almost missed the connection , and wholeheartedly wish I had instead gotten the train to Dublin and then down to Rosslare, which is only an hour longer, and makes for a far less stressful journey.

I mutter that I'll just have to hope for the best, but my heart is full of doom - as my mind races through the chaos that will ensue if I fail to be on the Rosslare bus - a night at the ferry port, and the loss of my hostel booking., as well as maybe needing to pay for a new ferry booking for the morning ferry.

I try to forget my worries and enjoy very much the conversations with my two new friends - one is going dog sitting for 3 weeks; she must be at least in her late seventies but travels all over Ireland and even to Europe looking after people's animals, and has had some hilarious experiences - I'm so impressed by her adventures; which enable me to somehow feel lighter and freer about my present housing situation - my beloved home of over a decade is to be sold and I have received an official notice to quit, and have no idea where I can go, as there is so little rented property available.

My other companion has lived all her life in Kenmare, which used to be my own local town, and so we find many friends in common, especially my friend Vera, who this lady knows very well through her involvement in Community care - so we have much to talk about.

However as we reach Youghal and the bus is caught in endless traffic I decide to be less fatalistic about the possible missed connection in Waterford - afterall I have a ticket booked on what is the same bus line, and there is supposedly 40 minutes between buses which would make you think it was a safe bet to make the connection. - so I ring Bus Eireann outlining my problem and after a lot of waiting while consultations are had I'm told the Rosslare bus will wait but only up to 10 minutes.

Feeling a little encouraged I relax into further hilarious and interesting conversations with my companions, but as we negotiate the outskirts of Dungarvan I notice the bus driver is on the phone, and finishing the call he turns to us, and looking at me he says ‘Sorted’ by which I presume he means my bus transfer, whereupon I relax completely, and watch with a smile as he tells all passengers who now get on the bus that he is going straight to Waterford bus station, and as we get to Waterford he goes a back way in, avoiding most of the traffic, yet still arrives at the bus station fully 20 minutes late, where I see both the bus driver of the Rosslare bus and the bus station manager awaiting our bus; awaiting me. I feel like a Very Important Person briefly, as with great gratitude to my driver (who wouldn’t hear of accepting the fiver I have clutched in my hand) and goodbyes to my new friends, I hurry to get my rucksack and climb aboard the waiting bus to Rosslare.

A quiet and uneventful journey then to Wexford, and on down to the ferry port where I walk across the windswept car park into the terminal building , check in and wait for the bus that takes us on to the ferry. I have a welcome cup of tea , glad that I’ve brought an earl grey tea bag and my trusty keep cup, as there is at least free hot water in the drinks machine, which has sadly replaced the little cafe that used to serve soup and sandwiches. I have bread and butter too, and some brie so I am comforted, now that I am finally here about to board the ferry.

and here the original account ends, so I’m hoping I’m not blurring several journeys into one, as I nearly always take the ferry to go to England, though latterly more often I go from Dublin to Holyhead, a dour place where having stayed in various unsatisfactory lodgings, I have now found a wonderfully comfortable cheap B and B to stay, not far from the ferryport.

It is possible, as I found years ago, to split the sail-rail foot passenger journey with an overnight stay which makes it far more civilised, and its hilarious that the scrawled paper ticket issued at the ferry port, allows you to travel whatever way you like on the railways in the UK - last time I changed my travel plans and got trains from Holyhead to Exeter in the South West of England ,when my ticket actually said I was going to Northampton, in the opposite direction, but apparently in the same travel zone - I reckon you could go where the feck you like on the trains and noone would care - all for 46 euros - its so wonderfully undigital, and relaxed; often I don’t even show my passport; just turn up and give my name at the ferryport.

I once managed to tear up my ticket by mistake while staying overnight in Holyhead, and explained to the ticket collector on the train through Wales, saying I’d lost it, rather than suffer the shame of admitting to having torn it up by mistake; and I did have the evidence of having bought a ticket on my email - he was grand and let me off; but when I changed trains at Chester onto the main-line train from Birmingham, the woman ticket collector was very unpleasant, having no pity for little old me, but thankfully didn’t demand payment there and then, instead stomping off telling me I’d have to pay when I got off in Euston; but actually at Euston there was no ticket barrier, so all was well.

Well back to that long ago ferry, which finally left an hour late, due apparently to mechanical trouble. It was dusk as I stood at the deck rail watching the sea, as Rosslare grew distant, when the young guy standing next to me nudged my arm and pointed, ‘look dolphins’ and we watched as two dolphins arced through the water in front of us; such a joy to see them, all of us on the deck finally becoming aware of the company, dipping and diving in graceful abandon alongside the ferry; and so we talked, he and I of our lives and our reasons for this trip, and our families, until I went in to buy a meal.

Steve from the hostel had volunteered to come fetch me from the ferry, but now we would be docking at least an hour late, which meant about midnight, so when I passed the young guy to whom I’d been chatting earlier in the restaurant, and he stopped and offered to give me a lift, I accepted gratefully, as it felt too late to be expecting Steve from the hostel to be fetching me.

I realised I’d better retrieve my luggage, and the guy on reception had to take me down into the bowels of the ferry, to the car deck, and open the minibus in which all the bags were stored, where we scrabbled around amongst them and finally found my belongings. So instead of waiting for the bus as a humble foot passenger off I went with my new-found friend, a film maker no less, and very good looking , to his amazing black coupe where we then sat for around 45 minutes waiting to drive off the ferry, as the ferry doors wouldn’t open; so that by the time I arrived at the hostel , in great style, Steve was about to go to bed, in his camper van parked outside the hostel, which was housed in a converted methodist church. How glad I was to arrive, and to find he’d given me a large double room, with a bath.

Next morning hanging out in the kitchen with other hostel guests having breakfast was an interesting experience, listening to Steve’s travel tales , and talking to a guy who was making a film in the area, and then given a lift to the station , to catch the little train that rattles through South Wales to Swansea, change; Cardiff, change; and to Bristol,change, and eventually arriving to stay with my mother in Devon.