Sunny with a few Cloudy Patches

I got off to a late start this morning – having had such a warm sunny day in Salisbury yesterday I was feeling a bit dehydrated and headachey and lay in bed longer than I should have done; decided my toes needed the rest so I didn’t run and started thinking about the trip home and began repacking for the 40th time. GAWD how I am tired of putting things in this bag.

I am tired of travelling and looking forward to being home.  I miss C.  I think I have found my trip duration limit; I think it was about a week ago.

I caught a morning train to Brighton – a reasonably short and straightforward trip. – I had listed the times of departure and the station I needed to change at, but having left later than I had planned on doing, all my times were a bit, well, useless.  So I ask the ticket seller at the station when the next train went and where I needed to change trains. He answered as if it was obvious where I was to change trains and I thought to myself – I’m a tourist, we make the obvious complicated.

Having successfully changed trains and gotten to Brighton with ease, I wandered down to the Information Centre (there was a map posted near the train station, so it was easy to find), got a map and headed to the ocean.

Since the road I chose to go down spat me out right at Brighton Pier, I walked the pier before heading for the beach.

Brighton on a semi-sunny Monday morning in early June is not all that busy; a few stalwart sunbathers and a smattering of beachcombers were all that were about.  I wandered along the beach looking at all the pretty rocks for a couple of hours.  Feeling my  pockets were beginning to weigh me down (I was doing what I always do on beaches - happily collecting rocks) I thought it probably time to see something other than the rocky beach of Brighton.

So I walked in the other direction along the “boardwalk”, passing back past the Pier and past the eyesore that is the West Pier – a tangled and rusted pile of metal beams slowly rusting just off shore – in its day, I imagine, it was as grand as the Brighton Pier (why they didn’t just remove it, I don’t know).  I wandered along for another hour before deciding I should also see something of the town, so I ventured into the heart of the “Cultural Centre” of Brighton to have a look about.

When I was happy with seeing all there was to see in the immediate area, I stood in a park and studied my map – at which point a man materialized at me elbow and asked if I was lost, to which I replied, “No, I’m just trying to decide what to see next.” He preceded to, for the next few minutes, offer me suggestions as to what I could  do while wondering why anyone would want to visit Brighton in the first place “Once you’ve seen this area and the beach, and had a wander around the shops, there’s not much to it.”  Silently, I had to agree with him – which is why I was consulting my map in the first place.

The morning had started out sunny but by 2PM it had clouded over and just going and hanging out on the beach was not as appealing as it might have been.  So I decided I would check out the two churches in search of more photos for my “Faces of the UK “ photo book concept I have been operating under since Oxford.

So I wandered past two churches, conveniently located in opposite directions from each other. Being uninspired by both and weary of the walking I headed back to the train station to make my way – sans schedule to Horley. 

The “Helpful” ticket seller at Horley station when I asked what times the trains ran to get me home said between Brighton and Gatwick Airport they run every 30 minutes and a train to get you from Gatwick to Horley run every 20 minutes from Gatwick – ok, so I’ll just find the first train to Gatwick then get off and hang about for the first train to Horley – simple.

The trick to finding the train you want is knowing where the train you want is ultimately going.  My problem, is 99.9% of the time, I have no idea where the terminus for the train I want is, so I have to ask a helpful train station worker on the platform for help – the trick is being able to find one.

Upon arriving at Gatwick Station, I was unable to locate anyone and just happened to glance over at the display at the next platform to see it listed Horley as one of its call stations.  I sprinted up the stairs, over the overpass and down the stairs just before doors closed and the train pulled away – I felt so Local!

Getting back to the B&B by 4PM I partook in my favourite travel past time, REPACKING! I  nibbled on Bourbon Creams and contemplated dinner – which ended up being back at El Gourmet for the same thing that I had Saturday night, minus the extra leftover olives – though he did send me away with the leftover olives that I didn’t eat while I waited for my main course.

I then returned to my room – unceremoniously and sadly binning the leftover olives on the way wishing there was some way I could bring them home for Cf to sample – to return to my favourite past time for the second to last time – tomorrow morning’s being the final repack. I’m almost home.

The Luck of the Irish

I think I now know where the phrase - “The Luck of the Irish” comes from.  It’s not from leprechauns or rainbows (though any remotely souvenir-related shop is chock a block with the former and since, allegedly, it rains a lot in Ireland one imagines that the latter are fairly prevalent too).

No, the evidence of the Irish Luck stems from one place – the roads in the Republic of Ireland!

There are several types of roads in Ireland – there are the motorways, which the locals must think is the Autobahn, since the speed limit is more like a vain suggestion than a actual limit.  The only two limits on the speed of Irish drivers seem to be 1. their car and 2. their courage (the latter they seem to have in spades – or should that be shamrocks!).

But getting back to the roads, a step down from the motorway is the dual carriageway (highway without the swish on and off ramps, turning across the highway is necessary in places). A step down from these are the one lane, each direction with a bit of a paved shoulder, a step down from that is one lane each way, no shoulder.  There there is the there-is-possibly-one-lane-in-each-direction-but-no-lane-markings-so-you-take-your-chances roads, followed by the there-is-no-way-in-hell-that-this-can-fit-two-cars-I-will-cringe-here-in-the-shrubs-until-you-all-go-away roads.  Followed by something even narrower still – yes, I drove it, I know it exists.

The real marvel of these ever-diminishing widths of roads is the seemingly unrelated LACK of decreasing speed limit!  The posted limit (and bear in mind, posted means it is only a suggested limit) drop from 120Kph on the Motorway, to 110 on the dual carriageway but on the lesser roads you are allowed (but certainly I was FAR from able) to do, wait for it, 100Kph!

No offence, but the Irish must be mental!  As I approached the towns, the speed limit would “drop” to a sedate 50Kph and some times I would have had to SPEED UP to do that!

But the Irish don’t seem at all phased by the narrowness of the roads and hurtle down the roads at top speeds sending terrified tourists they encounter (virtually head on, I might add) diving (or driving) into the bushes and rock walls to avoid car collision damage and imminent death. 

So if you manage to (as someone in Bath, England so succinctly put it - “grow a pair and just do it” – or as I prefer to refer to it as – managing to find the intestinal fortitude to deal with driving in Ireland the other challenge you will need a lot of Irish Luck for is navigating.

Now I had a map and a really good navigator (she was the best and I’d take her anywhere) but still we managed to miss turns.  Invariably, we would head towards a place following signs for our destination and my navigator would say, “there should be a turn in the town” and we assumed, since there had been ample signage for our destination leading up to the town we needed to turn in, there would be an equally useful sign where we needed to turn – alas, we would assume incorrectly.

It seems that the only people who can successfully  find there way anywhere in Ireland are people who have lived there, or ones that have gotten lost getting to their destination on a previous adventure.  Apparently Ireland doesn’t really want tourists at their tourist attractions, since two of the most famous ones that we managed to have time for (the Rock of Cashel and Bru na Boinne) were signed for most of the way and then – sorry, you’re on your own.

Rules of the  road, much like the speed limits, seem to be more like suggestions than actual rules.  Or maybe I should say that the Irish interpretation of a solid white line in the middle of the road is different than what I would interpret it as.  Crossing a solid white line, in Ireland, seems more like a means to and end than a violation of any driving laws.

Having ranted on about the crazy Irish (sorry, I meant to say Lucky Irish) drivers I must also say, that though they seem rather aggressive and “overly enthusiastic” they are willing to partake in a little give and take and will often acknowledge/thank you for getting out of their way – this is done by lifting a hand off the steering wheel in a bit of a wave/hand spasm or, if passing in the same direction, a flick of the hazard lights after they speed past.

Sometimes they will even give way – this is signaled by flashing headlights at the oncoming vehicle as if to say – “I’ll wait here, you come ahead.” Something I managed to pull off a  couple of times myself – I felt so “local”.

In my opinion, to get you safely along the roads in Ireland, you need, in equal parts; courage; patience, and the luck of the Irish.  Maybe this is why Roman Catholicism is so prevalent in Ireland – it helps to firmly believe in a Higher Power to get you safely on your way – “Praise be to God”.