FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 7
With bags repacked, stuffed, zipped, we asked at the front desk which bus to take to Burgh Quay, where we would catch the bus to Cork.
The bus stop is about half a miles from the hotel, and we dragged our bags behind us, huffing as we went. My arm felt like it was stretching, but the real challenge began when we tried to get the luggage up the steps onto the busy public bus. The bus driver was not happy with the time it took us, and insisted we store the bags in a rack near the front. Problem was, we couldn’t lift them. A chivalrous gentleman volunteered, soon regretting his choice and swearing as he swung the first bag up. Chloe and I put the second one up, and then retired to the upper level of the bus to plan our exit strategy.
With a plan in place, we got off the bus without a hitch. Unfortunately it was the wrong stop.
Now we stood, with our monster bags, in the center of bustling downtown. We called an Uber, which in Ireland is simply a cab. The driver gave us a bit of a break on the cost. We had twenty minutes before the bus left and decided to go to a Starbucks a block away for coffee and to use the internet.
PANIC!
Once I was seated with my coffee, and feeling pleased that we actually had extra time, I looked up to see Chloe in a panic.
“What is it?” I asked.
“I left my bag on the bus. My modelling bag.”
Well, that bag, in addition to having her high heels, her new fitbit watch, her turmeric latte mix and her satin elephant pillow, had her wallet with all her money.
Holding onto hope, I looked for the number for Dublin public transport, and once we were seated on the bus to Cork, I called. First the main number, then the local stop numbers, then the lost and found.
Amazingly, someone turned in her bag!
I explained to the man on the phone that we couldn’t personally pick it up because we were on the bus to Cork, and I soon learned from a call to a courier that it was too late to be picked up that day. The courier couldn’t bring it over the weekend, either, and so it would have to wait until Monday. When I called the man at the bus station back he assured me the bag, with wallet, was safe. It would be transferred to the main Lost and Found office where the courier could get it Monday.
Whew, all was well, but what drama. It left us both feeling very grumpy and we stayed that way the entire three and a half hour ride.
CORK TO WEST CORK
Cork is a quaint, colorful, university city with a river running through it. As we pulled up to the bus stop, we spotted a middle-aged women in thick glasses, squinting toward the bus. It was Fiona. I imagined she would be thin, and angular; Chloe thought she would have dark hair. Neither of us were right. She has light brown, curly hair, and an average, but strong body. Awkwardly, we greeted her.
She walked ahead of us toward her car, talking away as if she had known us forever. Our bags fit easily into her small, white Skoda, a fact that continued to baffle me.
Chloe took the back seat. The car smelled strongly of wet dog, and was covered in hair and dust. I worried my worst fear might be realized…five and a half weeks in a dirty, broken down, out of the way place in the middle of nowhere in Ireland.
Fiona talked, on and on and on, with warmth and kindness. Story after story, and by the time we reached Ballinatona and her house, a couple hours later — she took the scenic route — we knew all about her family, the town, and lots of local history. Landmarks and landscape features were pointed out, where we should turn, which towns we should return to for visits, you name it, she told us.
ARRIVING AT FIONA’S HOUSE
Her home is grey stone, two-story, decorated with antiques, interesting objects from her travels, rugs from Turkey, paintings by her talented daughter, photos of family, and shelves of books. Fiona recently retired from work as a researcher in contagious virology. She raised her two kids, now grown, on her own in Newcastle, UK. Her daughter lives in London, I think, where she is a criminal investigator; and her son runs a vineyard near Sonoma, California. The furnishings in her home contain their family history, photos of years of love and drama and laughter, a full and social life. And I am relieved to say, the house was immaculate.
Saffi, the most beautiful golden retriever in the world, greeted us. She is big, light-honey colored, with black eyes, and like all dogs, happy.
Fiona had fixed vegetable ragout for Chloe and a fish ragout for her and me. It was quickly apparent that Fiona is an incredibly generous person. She had cleaned and cooked for us. Did I say lucky? We were so lucky.
After dinner, we went out into the quiet, deep darkness of West Cork to feed Olive’s, Fiona’s best friend’s, dogs…all four of them. Many years ago, Olive, whose husband grew up near here, lived with Fiona and her children while Olive attended medical school. She and Fiona are like family, and Saffi is related to Olive’s dogs.
It was a long day, and loaded with new information. Chloe and I were exhausted when we finally got to bed after midnight. Fiona had me sleep in her bedroom, and she slept on a small bed in a small room at the end of the hall.
