Yesterday morning, we drove from Galway back to Dublin and hopped a flight to London. At the airport, we rented a car.  The following is Paula’s story:

When we got off the plane at Heathrow, we walked about a mile and a half before we found the Hertz rental kiosk.  It was video only and soon I was talking to an Italian lady named Paola.  She reminded me that I was a Hertz “gold” member (I’d forgotten) but would have to go to the main rental station via shuttle to pick up my car. After watching three Enterprise shuttles stop and load up passengers, a Hertz shuttle finally came along; and after a 20-minute drive, the bus duly deposited us at the Hertz building.  With Linda diligently guarding our luggage, I went to the “gold” counter where you were supposed to be waited on immediately, but there were two obviously impatient businessman types in front of me.  One of the two computers was down and they were moving extremely slowly. I asked one of the two ladies if I should stay there, but she told me I had to go to the main Hertz counter in another building as I had booked my reservation through an auto booking site and not directly with Hertz.  I trooped over to the main counter and was waited on immediately.  I presume the two businessmen at the “gold” office were still fuming.  The young lady at the counter immediately asked how many bags we had.  I told her two big suitcases and two carry-ons.  She said we could not fit all the baggage we had in a compact rental, which I had rented for the low, low price of $391.00 per week.  I told her they would fit fine.  She insisted she could upgrade me to a much nicer, bigger vehicle using diesel (which saves on gas) for the low, low price of an extra 35 pounds per day (about $55.00 daily).  I said no, that was too expensive.  She then said the lowest she could go on that upgrade would be 30 pounds per day.  I said, no, thank you, we would be fine with a compact.  She insisted our baggage would not fit.  I looked at her and said we rented a rather beat-up compact Ford Fiesta in Ireland and drove all over the island with it and our baggage fit fine.  Next, she offered to upgrade me to a bit larger but nicer vehicle for an additional 15 pounds per day.  I said no thank you.  Finally, she gave up and asked me if I wanted additional personal injury insurance for the low, low price of 9 pounds per person per day.  I said no thank you, we would take our chances.  Then she inquired if we wanted emergency roadside assistance for an additional 3 pounds per day.  I turned that down as well.  I also turned down the fuel option, GPS, child seats and a free six-pack in the back seat.  Okay, I’m kidding about the six-pack.  By now, I’d aged appreciably and Linda’s hair was drooping.  Finally, she mumbled something under her breath, gave me the rental agreement and instructed me to bay 203.  We gathered all our luggage and slowly moved toward the bay.  Sitting in 203 was a virtually new Mercedes mini-SUV.  I said “Oh no,” left Linda guarding the luggage once more and went back to the rental counter.  My poor rental agent had disappeared, probably having been dropped through the floor into upgrade-failure hell.   I went up to another rental agent and told her we had rented a small compact and there was a Mercedes sitting in our spot.  She looked at me, her eyes literally bugging out of her face, said “OH NO!”, grabbed my paperwork and frantically begin making phone calls.  After a short time, she hung up, smiled a megawatt smile and said, “No, this is correct, you’ve gotten a free upgrade.  Isn’t that lovely?”  I felt like telling her I didn’t want a free upgrade to a Mercedes, that I was an American and with my limited driving skills, I wanted an old, compact car.  But by this time, I was five years older and Linda’s hair was falling out.

Linda’s comment:  No, it wasn’t.

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The next day, and Paula’s story continues:  Linda’s getting quite tired of me at this point. Being as anal as I am, I find myself wandering along behind her, hanging up her towels and folding her washcloth.  I don’t think she can take much more.  But this morning, I was able to remind her that I am not perfect.  I found myself spritzing face mist on my hair and hair spray on my face.  My face is now frozen.  I think this is better than Botox and I might be on to something.  I told Linda if she will forgive my OCD ways, I’ll cut her in for a piece of the profits when I open my hair/face spray business.  I think it’ll be a hit.

After Dingle, we headed to Galway, stopping at the Cliffs of Moher along the way. The views were spectacular!

In order to save a little time, we took a ferry part of the way.

Once parked on the boat, the man in the jeep next to me leaned out his window and said, “Go see the matchmaker.”

“What?” I asked.  He had a heavy Irish accent, and I thought I must have misunderstood him.

“You and your friend should go to _____ and see the matchmaker.”

I looked at him in disbelief.  Why was a total stranger telling us to go see a matchmaker?

I explained what he’d said to Paula.  “He’s cute,” she said.  Of course, she’d be attracted to him.  He was pulling a horse trailer, and she was an animal fanatic!

A few minutes later, I grabbed our atlas and got out of the car.  “I’m sorry.  I didn’t understand the name of the town.  Can you show me?”  I opened the map.

He smiled and pointed to a town called Lisdoonvarna.  “Ask for John _____.  He has a beard.  You’ll like him.”

It was definitely one of the most bizarre meetings of my life.

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The following day, we explored Galway — a beautiful college town with a lovely shopping district, …

… including a small medieval section, and …

… a river filled with ducks and swans.

The best part of our time in Galway, besides the scenery and a nice dinner at the Park Hotel, where we had the best Bailey’s coffees in Ireland, was the shopping.  It was here that I bought myself a silver Claddaugh ring and several gifts for family and friends.

The worst part of our stay was stubbing my toe on Paula’s steel (actually hard plastic) suitcase on the morning we left to catch a plane for London.  By the afternoon, it had swollen to twice it’s normal size and was extremely painful.  With me limping through the airport, we managed to drop off our rental car and make the flight.

Next stop … Bath, England.

While in Cork, we decided to take a day trip to Kinsale, a seaside village known as the gourmet capital of Ireland.  Having had trouble finding our hotel the day before, we went to the front desk and asked the clerk for directions.  She handed us a typed page, explaining that the Irish often use landmarks (turn right at the statue, turn left at the river, etc.) rather than street signs.  The paper listed directions for three major tourist destinations — Blarney, Kinsale and Cobh.

Feeling confident and prepared, we headed out.  As Paula drove, I navigated once again, carefully reading off the instructions line by line.  Everything was going great until I realized I was looking at the wrong part of the page, and we were heading to Blarney instead of Kinsale.  It was now obvious to both of us that my navigating skills needed work.

Eventually, with the help of directions from several friendly locals, we found the right road and made it to the small coastal town.  As we wandered the streets (there aren’t many of them) we saw a number of restaurants and shops with cute names like Fishy, Fishy …

Poet’s Corner …

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and Granny’s Bottom Drawer.

A few hours later, after a relaxing lunch and stopping at the Tourist Information Center for a detailed map, we returned to the hotel.

Although Kinsale was nice, the best part of our trip to Cork was staying at the Ambassador Hotel and Health Club.  The room was large and comfortable, the food was excellent (the brownie and ice cream dessert was grand!) and the restaurant hostess, Hazel, did a fantastic job of making us (and everyone else) feel welcome. We gave it four stars!

Next stop … Dingle.

The next morning, we took a taxi from our hotel back to the Dublin airport, where we picked up a silver Ford Fiesta at Dooley’s car rental and carefully checked it for scratches.  For ten minutes, we pointed out every speck we could find to the poor agent who finally wrote “marks everywhere” in capital letters across the paperwork and happily sent us on our way.  We were halfway to Cork before we noticed there were 151,000 km on the odometer and a bright red warning light on the dashboard. I looked in the glove box for the owner’s manual.  It was empty.  When I told Paula, she just smiled and said, “It’s all part of the adventure.”

Soon, we stopped at the Rock of Cashel in Tipperary County.  Originally, the home of the kings of Munster, it was developed into a major Christian center in the early 12th century.

What remains of the Rock of Cashel Cathedral

After touring the ruins, we drove on through the countryside.

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Fields of Tipperary 

Paula, who’d driven on the left side of the road on a previous trip to Europe, was behind the wheel.  My job was to navigate.  Taking my duties seriously, I’d written down the directions from Dublin to Cork the night before.  The hotel, which was supposed to be conveniently located as we entered the city, should have been easy to find — that is, if there were street signs.  Unfortunately, there weren’t.

The closer we came to the city center, the more I noticed Paula’s mood begin to change. By the time we reached downtown Cork, she’d gone from cheerful and calm to glaring at me and cursing at the other drivers.  The narrow one-way streets, pedestrians jumping out in front of us and cars stopping in the middle of the road were too much for her.  She started to freak out!  “Call the hotel and find out how to get there!” she yelled.  “I would, but I have no idea where to tell them we are,” I replied.

Spotting two men standing in front of a spicy kebab shop (I know it sounds strange, but it’s true), I told her to stop while I rolled down my window and asked for directions.  “Excuse me.  Do you know where the Ambassador Hotel is?”  One of them approached the car and replied, “No, but there’s a place down the street where you can stay.”  Just then, a truck began honking his horn behind us.  Paula, now at the end of her rope, screamed, “I’ve got to get out of here!”  The car jerked forward as she hit the gas (almost running over the spicy kebab man) and turned the corner up a steep hill.  Once at the top, we saw a sign pointing to our hotel.  At the same time, the red light on the dashboard went off.  It was a miracle!

We spent the rest of the evening in the hotel restaurant and bar, thankful to be alive and convinced someone up above was watching out for us.

We flew out of Houston on a Sunday night.  Fourteen hours later, on Monday afternoon, we arrived in Dublin.  Exhausted, but happy to be there, we checked into our hotel.  After freshening up (not easy after being awake for almost 24 hours), we headed for the nearest pub.  Fortunately, it was only an elevator ride away.  We spent the rest of the day in the hotel lobby at a table near the window — eating, drinking, people-watching, browsing through brochures and trying to stay awake. The highlight of our evening?  Ordering Bailey’s coffees, one of our favorite drinks, in Ireland!

The next morning, refreshed and ready to explore the city, we started our Dublin adventure with a trip to the local Starbucks.  It was only a few steps from the hotel and looked exactly the same as in the U.S.  The only difference?  Paula had to skip her usual Cinnamon Dolce Latte (they’d never heard of it) and settle for a Caramel Machiatto instead.  She didn’t care.  “It’s all good.  We’re in Ireland,” she said.

A short time later, we stopped at the tourist office and bought a hop on/hop off bus ticket.  The double-decker bus was full of tourists, which was obvious from all the foreign accents we heard — mainly English (American and British) and German. Everywhere we looked, there were reminders of home — McDonald’s, Pizza Hut, Subway, Burger King, KFC and Papa John’s — which although comforting also seemed a bit strange.

It didn’t take long for us to notice how friendly the Irish people were.  A prime example was our bus driver, John, who spent thirty minutes pointing out sites and telling jokes like the following:

A chicken goes into a library, walks up to the desk and says to the librarian, in a typical chicken voice, “Book (bock), book, book, book, book.”  The librarian looks at him for a moment, puts a book under the chicken’s wing and he walks out. Ten minutes later, the chicken comes back, returns the book and says, “Book, book, book, book, book.”  She places another book under his wing, and he leaves again. Five minutes pass, the chicken returns with the second book and says, “Book, book, book, book, book.”  The librarian gives him another book and follows him outside, curious as to what’s going on.  She watches the chicken walk into the park and sit down under a tree next to a waiting frog.  The chicken hands the book to the frog, who opens it, looks at a few pages and hands it back to the chicken, saying, “Read it, read it, read it.”

We spent the first three days of our trip to Ireland in Dublin.  During that time, we visited the Guiness Brewery …

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Pouring us a couple of pints.

… Trinity College, the oldest university in the country, and the old Kilmainham Gaol (jail), which housed political prisoners during Ireland’s fight for independence.

Kilmainham Gaol

We ate an amazing dinner at The Church, a restaurant and bar located in a beautiful 18th century building which was the former St. Mary’s Church of Ireland.  We also shopped, walked along the River Liffey and spent our evenings relaxing at the historic Oval Pub and listening to Irish music at the hotel bar, where we were entertained by fiddlers and river dancers.

River Dancers!

Although we enjoyed our stay in Dublin, it was time to see the rest of the country. Tomorrow, we’ll pick up our rental car and drive (on the wrong side of the road) to Cork.  Let’s hope we don’t make the evening news — American women cause thirty car pile up!