I’m on a four hour train, east to west, from one coast to the other side of Ireland. It’s a hot, sunny day, the train is packed and, OK, the a/c is on and working.
Mind you, that was no help when a man with chronic GAPO sat beside me. I thought of holding my breath but he was on the train for two hours.
It’s a holiday weekend so many people are heading to the seaside, like the half dozen guys, all tats and crushed beer cans, in the seats behind me.
They are noisy but not nearly as annoying as the child with the maximum decibel scream, in the booth in front.
The wifi, as usual, isn’t working but I’ve written a new chapter, we’re well into the west and just one hour short of our destination.
I’m looking forward to my first pint in Molloys and then a bite to eat, with my good friend Maria.
Raftery, a 19th century Irish poet, wrote a poem about the road west. Here is a translation.
In Clare of Morris family
I will be the first night
and in the Wall on the side below it
I will begin to drink
to Maghs Woods I shall go
until I shall make a months visit there
two miles close
to the Mouth of the Big Ford.