Cobwebs on the Dublin Bus

I am now ensconced in Ardmore Castle up in Cong, about four hours outside of Dublin and now, only now, have had the nerve to pen it all down to you. (If I stop and start or my penmanship has little or no continuity, you will know I am in the midst of a massive breakdown and drinking a lot) I am wandering around this massive suite "solo" as HCN had an emergency call the morning after we arrived, his wife having had an apparent heart attack. I am actually trapped up here in this unbelievably posh suite overlooking Lake Corrib in Cong, with a full bar which supplies the inhabitant with an incredible array of liquor... including brands I’ve never heard of before and since I’ve plenty of time on my hands I intend to peruse and sample the whole bloody lot in due course!!! I’ve walked the rose gardens more times than I wish to remember and dined at night in a window table reserved especially for me, eating quite delectable French cuisine and listening to an overly plump Irish woman pounding the keys of a grand piano in a more than bad rendition of "that musical masterpiece" by Maurice Jarre, the score from Dr. Zhivago. This apparently is her entire repertoire and it is now my third evening of listening to this rip-off to "Over the Waves," (the old World War II song, which I recall singing on my parent’s verandah when I was just a wee babe) and am trying desperately to drain out the sound by planning in my head a grand escape from Ardmore Castle. Due to my pacing up and down, the Oriental carpet in the suite which had a distinctive, vividly coloured Oriental pattern of cranes, is now a mass of something quite unfamiliar in pattern, colour and texture.

Here’s how it all eventuated up until now... believe it or not! As expected, I staggered onto the ferry, with the days of the QEII in my imaginative mind, and immediately took to a reserved, minute cabin no bigger than a sardine tin where, much to my surprise and horror, was already occupied by a rather burly, intoxicated male busily pulling off his pants, apparently, ready to plonk his overly large carcass on the bottom bunk for the whole crossing. Not at all concerned with my sharing it with him. After making a grand fuss, to no one in particular, I decided to spend the entire overnight crossing on top deck, in freezing weather, watching masses of people throwing up-- not just over the rails, but simply everywhere. Several times I was fortunately quick enough to get my black foxes out of the way before the inevitable happened, or I would have arrived in Dublin with a coat of fur intermingled with vomit! A charming way to start my adventure.

On disembarking I found myself huddled in my chic attire, sitting in the indescribable cold of the Dublin docks trying to figure out what to do next as HCN had not appeared to greet and whisk me away. After almost two hours later and everyone having departed, I was sitting forlornly on my suitcases, almost in tears when an old man in uniform came up, kind enough to realize I was a damsel in distress and asked in his thick Irish brogue if he could help. There was nothing left but to call HCN’s house. I was hesitant in case Mrs. HCN might answer but this kind man seemed my only way out. I asked him kindly to call and find out where the bloody hell he was, clearly specifying if a woman answered to hang up the phone immediately. He nodded in comprehension and exhausted, tired, and cold I followed him into the dingy office while he dialed HCN’s home number, my black foxes dragging behind me! "Tere’s a young missus here who wants to talk with you," he stated politely and handed over the receiver which, to my complete horror, had Mrs. Nash on the other end. I was totally taken aback and could have strangled him. She was overly pleasant, saying she had heard so much about me and was looking forward to meeting me. Then, without taking a breath, came out with "Are you in love with my husband?" I nearly fainted right there, but managed to compose myself sufficiently to reply, "Certainly not, we’re just good friends. Your husband, knowing I was coming to Ireland kindly offered to drive me up to Ardmore Castle where he’d suggested I stay for a few days." What else could I have said? "I’ve never been to Ireland before and as your husband hasn’t arrived to meet me, I was wondering what I should do?"-- pitiful pearl was I. She told me not to be concerned, she’d find him and to "quietly relax until he comes." There must have been a mix up for it isn’t like him to avoid ‘obligations’. Enjoy the surroundings until he arrives." Then she hung up with a loud click. My ear was still ringing when I placed the receiver down in a daze. I stared at the old man as if I were about to kill him but he kept smiling at me as if he’d done a great favour and was delighted to have helped. I gave him five dollars. My first three hours in Ireland and I’d already talked to Mrs. Nash! Another hour passed and I was getting really pissed off. The trip had started deadly wrong and I could only foresee ongoing disaster. Then I saw the beige Masseratti pull up and for a moment all was forgotten. HCN was flustered and upset, he’d been waiting at the wrong ferry terminal, the one coming in from Wales. I had to tell him I’d spoken to his wife which caused a major anxiety attack from him, but as we drove out of Dublin we stopped at several pubs along the way and began to relax. We tried to laugh it off and by the time we reached Ardmore Castle’s gates we had almost dismissed the whole disastrous incident. He or both of us would face the consequences later. The stoic castle stood like something made out of gingerbread, a kind of pseudo medieval castle in its magnificent, lush surroundings, holding guard over a massive lake in the middle of nowhere.

I was not as impressed as HCN would have liked as I was not very smitten with lakes, whether big or small. I never understand the thrill of people "boating" on a lake. I am a sea person, and when I want to go boating, I want to go out, none of that circling round the goldfish instead of sharks. And splendid though it was, Ardmore Castle seemed quite pretentious. We diplomatically had separate suites overlooking the lake on the same floor and after dinner, very stiff, very proper in a very uptight, opulent dining room, he asked me to his suite. It was more ghastly and uncomfortable than our last two encounters in New York, me staying awake all night, pretending to be asleep, lying there listening to him light one cigarette after another. I occasionally felt his hand stroking my arm which gave me a horrid case of goose bumps. I got up at 4:00 and hurried to my own suite in order just to breathe. After breakfast, (including a couple of bloody marys) we strolled in the rose gardens again, laughing and joking about what had taken place the day before, which at the time, had seemed such a nightmare. Our moment of relaxed gaiety was to be short lived, for as we headed back towards the entrance, a bellboy came rushing toward us informing HCN he had an urgent call. Mrs. Nash had taken a heart attack and his children were already at the hospital. He had to head back immediately. I walked him to his car. It was raining hard. He kissed me on the cheek, said good-bye, then took off fast tooting his horn as I turned back towards the "Castle" entrance using his umbrella as the rain began to pour down in buckets. Some beginning of a soap opera, eh?