Day one - Part 3, Gort to Sligo

The helpful fellow at the Hertz desk advised me that I would probably run into a diversion in Gort. There was something about that name which struck fear into me. Gort. Sounded like something very medieval - you know, dirt paths, ox carts, village idiots - that sort of thing. Add flooding and it couldn't possibly be good.

Just as Flannery at the Hertz counter had predicted, there was a wee sign in Ulster orange diverting traffic from the (relatively) modern N18 to the blood-curtling N66. (On the map, the N66 is colored orange - not a good sign). It was on the N66 that I came to understand why all rental cars in Ireland have bits missing from their left sides. Imagine driving on a road that varies from 12 to 16 feet wide with opposing traffic (and those breathing on your bumper) all trying to maintain 100 kph. Now, factor in that straightaways are no more than 100 yards long and that the edges of the road have been nibbled away from years of terrified tourists trying to avoid the mammoth tour buses, finally throw in the patches of N66 where the road has given way to erosion from the recent floods and you have a general idea of what things were like.

By the time I reached the N6, which would eventually take me back to N18, for which I had grown strangely nostalgic, the clock was screaming that I had already been up in excess of 24 hours. This explains why I made a left turn into the right lane causing a car full of locals to lose that rosy-cheeked look and start talking to Jesus. No bother, though, I missed them by many, many millimeters and I was off on the N6 and they were off to buy new underwear at the closest Dunnes Store.

In Craugwell, about halfway along the N6 between the N66 and my rejoin point on the N18, I pulled off at a service station to give my fellow motorists and my beleaguered gastro-intestinal system a break. At the counter inside the store stood a beautiful young woman with flowing red hair and a thick Irish accent - straight out of central casting. I only noticed because I felt guilt over what I was about to do to her undoubtedly inadequate facilities. Without going into detail, let's just say that I have made a mental note to never again consume a giant bag of trail mix on a trans-Atlantic flight. Still feeling guilt (but otherwise marvelous), I quickly exited the store after buying about four Euro worth of drinks I didn't want. I made a swift egress from the parking lot, but not before hearing a biker gassing up his Honda Valkyrie complain that he had run into some black ice as he traveled the path I had just covered. Ohhh, THAT's what that was. Fun times.

After experiencing the lovely little diversion through the Irish countryside, I finally rejoined the N18 just outside Galway for my continued journey north. The N18 turned into the N17 which took me another 80 km or so into County Sligo. Still not completely trusting the Brit in the box, I reluctantly followed her advice through Sligo town onto the N4, then shortly thereafter the N15.

Here's a fun fact: Addresses in Ireland are more "casual" than we in the U.S. are used to. That is, they don't really feel compelled to use house numbers, which of course, doesn't work that well with GPS. The address of the B&B where I was to end up was "Glach-a-Mara Bed and Breakfast, Moneygold, Grange, County Sligo". That's it. So, I drove to Moneygold, Grange, County Sligo...several times. I drove there from the south. I drove there from the north. I repeated. Finally, remembering the Texaco station in Grange, I landed there, shut off the engine, went inside to get a drink, then stood next to the Opel and had a smoke.

At that moment, I had a hunch. I whipped out my handy iPhone (still in airplane mode, but with wifi turned on) and hunted for a signal. Sure enough, the Texaco had a wifi connection and it was wide open. So, I went to the Glach's website and snagged the phone number, then put into use my second Ebay purchase - the Irish cell phone provider's SIM card that was in one of my inventory phones at my side. I called the number, but no answer. I waited 5 minutes, called again and still no answer. It was 1:30p local time (8:30a Houston time, now in my 27th hour).

I had another smoke and then decided to look at the website again to see if there was another number. It was at this point that I discovered the names of the proprietors - Christina and Tom McGarry. McGarry - like my paternal Grandmother's name. Her people are supposed to be from County Leitrim, the next county over from County Sligo. Could they be family? Hmmm.

No time to consider geneological possibilities - my Irish cell phone rang. It was Christina! She gladly told me that I was close and that they were only 3km from Grange, but if I went too far, I'd end up in Cliffony and they were only 3 km from there, too. She advised that I give it one more try and if I couldn't find the place in the next 4 minutes, call back and she'd come get me.

I did manage to find the Glach on my own, but not before passing it one more time and ending up in Cliffony. See, this is an example of the "casual" address. Sure, they're only 3 km from each town, but 3 km from which part of the town? The beginning? The Texaco station? The church? Oh, sure, I found a B&B. Then another. Then another. The whole friggin' country is lousy with B&Bs! Turns out (ha ha) that theirs was the one B&B on the N15 without a sign. Sweet.

Christina warmly greeted me, showed me to my room and even brought me a proper afternoon tea setup. I told her that I was going to lie down for a nap. As I lay there, brain still rattling from the events of the previous 28 hours, I drifted off to sleep thinking that I now understood the writing of Dr. Hunter S. Thompson.