From Fairies to Ferrys, from Wicklow to Wales

With rain blowing sideways in the yellow fog just before dawn, I am standing at the bus stop with everything I own balanced or hanging off my body.  This type of travel can be tedious and exhausting, but just interesting enough to make it worthwhile.  If I turn too quick I may knock into someone, or trip over a leprechaun.  Then I am at another bus stop waiting for the ONLY  bus I can find that may go to the port. This bus is for people taking a ferry from the other company (the British one) and I am taking the cheaper Irish ferry.  The bus driver declares bluntly that no, he doesn't go to the Irish ferry.  I ask to pay, I ask if it is a far walk and finally he waves me on without answering my question or taking any money.  Then I am wandering in the rain along the eery and foggy ports.  The docks are grey and industrial; full of deisel, asphalt and rubber fumes.  There are tanks full of Guiness being loaded and cars lined up ready to board the ferries.  I am the only one on foot. 


After sorting through tickets and luggage, myself and a few others are escorted to a giant garage-like opening in the ship.  There are cars parked and workers gesturing and alarms are sounding in the hollow belly of the ship.  I feel as though an action movie scene could start at any moment with Denzel Washington slipping behind an SUV while men in black suits flee down the stairs, guns drawn.  This is not a romantic or sophisticated way to enter.  We climb iron steps onto our floor of the ferry.

The ferry is actually very nice and has the feel of a casino with checkered floors and red swivel seats anchored to the floor around marble top tables. There are windows looking out at the sea- much better than a plane. There is a cafe to buy snacks or plates of warm breakfast food that you can bring back to your table.

On the journey, I am amused.  The empty chairs that swivel with each dip and sway of the ship.  Its as though ghost children are sitting in them and swingin their legs. It is also silly to see the people walk around drunkenly. Women dressed with skirts and nylons, waiters in collared shirts, stumbling down the aisles, holding onto chairs unsure of their footing as the vessel rocks on the sea. Their steps are slow and carefull then quick and clumsy as gravity pulls them off center.  The humor seems lost to everyone.  I recall being children in a bouncy house where the floor gives and you fall around.  This is a pleasure, I think to myslef, that as children we sought out. Finally an older gentlemenn in a navy suit crashes into a chair grinning.  And then hastily veers into the wall. He smiles, I smile and we share the humour. 

ON THE TRAIN THROUGH WALES

First time on the train and it is nice. The trains in this area are a little grungy and definitely not high class, but the seats are comfortable and the views extraordinary.  The first people on the train are rural and working class. They are rugged, have poor teeth and very thick British accents. However, I soon find out that they are a genuine and nice people. 

A man pushes another man aboard on a wheel chair and they sit in the open space at the front of my car.  The man in the wheelchair is clearly mentally disabled. "Hellllooo" the man in the wheelchair exclaims to a woman sitting a few seats back. She replies back without hesitation. "Hello". "Where are you going?" he asks and she answers. "Do you have a car?" he asks her. She answers, "No" and smiles  "Hellllow" he says to her husband. " Are you rich?" "No" he answers. He proceeds to say hello to every new person and they all answer without signs of discomfort. He asks another woman if she is rich and she says, "No, but you are rich. Rich with love".  Then another woman goes up to the man in the wheelchair and gives him a little stuffed donkey she had pulled from her stuff. I sat in awe of the generosity and friendly attitude everyone displayed in the presence of this man.

From my window I have scenes of sheep grazing, rocky beaches and darling little towns with buildings so quaint I swear they are right off of a miniature train set. Each town has a castle, each castle a flag.  The train route dips in and out of Wales. Sometimes a stop is in England and sometimes in Wales.  A woman boards in Chester, England and we proceed to discuss many things on the rest of the ride.  The Welch, I discover, feel more connected to the Irish and Scottish and are a more superstitious people. The English consider themselves more proper and have had quarrels with the Welsh for centuries.   I find out from this woman that in Chester (in England) there is still a law that has never been overturned that says that it is legal to shoot a Welsh man with a bow and arrow at dusk.  But any other time, and any other weapon is not allowed.

6 hours later, I arrive in Bristol.  The big city rushes in and the countryside blows away like barrels of hay.