I really should post more regularly, but have you ever been utterly paralyzed by an inability to make a decision? Or maybe more appropriately said as *any* decision?
Because that’s been me during this leg of my adventure.
I think that’s fortunately in my rearview mirror, but it has been absolutely debilitating since arriving back after the cruise.
It started in Barcelona where I woke up on my only fully day there and said to myself “okay Taylor, let’s take until noon and plan out the next couple weeks.”
I got the 12 part right.
Just not the right time of day.
Part of the problem is that I’ve become a groupie for My Morning Jacket and I’ll be seeing them later this month in London, Manchester, Antwerp, and Utrecht, thus giving me certain dates by which I have to be in certain places which goes against the whole premise of flying by the seat of my pants for this journey. Another part of the problem is that I only have around 25 days or so remaining to spend in the Schengen Area, and I’m not planning on still being here when my clock resets in July.
So I finally determined that, despite the name of this blog, I had to bite the bullet and just fly to both 1) not waste days traveling by train from Barcelona back up to the UK or Ireland and 2) not waste money also in the process of seeing days tick off my visa.
And so that’s why I finally booked a plane ticket for Dublin at midnight, well past my noon deadline.
Yes, it wasted a day. Yes, I never left my room after having breakfast. Yes, it sucked.
But it’s ended up being okay.
I do find it interesting that I went from Barcelona, a constitutionally-protected autonomous community that has sought to gain its outright independence from Spain, to Ireland, a place obviously with its own history of discontentment concerning its freedom from a centralized government. I didn’t plan it that way, as it was merely convenient that 1) I could get a cheap flight there and 2) while not part of the UK, the Republic of Ireland isn’t in the Schengen Area and thus wouldn’t count against the precious days I have remaining.
But it was interesting nonetheless.
Not only did flying late at night yield a cheaper ticket, it also provided me the chance to make up for lost time and do what I was going to do on my wasted Monday on Tuesday instead.
And so off I took, in shorts and a t-shirt for the first time in Europe as it was quite a pleasant mid-spring day in the capital of Catalunya.
The start of my walking tour started at Plaça de Catalunya, the connection of old and new Barcelona, and it really is a magnificent place to take in this great city. From the moment I took off from the cruise terminal a couple days prior, you could tell that this city had a really cool vibe. Chill, but strong.
And that was evident in this grand square, which was highlighted for me by the powerful symbol of the independence these folks want. Dedicated to Francesc Macià who declared freedom from Spain in 1931, it’s a symbolic representation of the incomplete work, a rallying place for Catalans to meet at to declare “visca Catalunya!” Long live Catalunya!
The feeling I got as I wandered the streets wasn’t necessarily one of a rebellious spirit, though I’m sure it’s there deep inside Catalans, but it was more one of a tangible pride. I can’t really describe *why* I perceived this, but it certainly was there.
The stroll continued towards the very impressive Barcelona Cathedral, past the old haunts of one Pablo Picasso, deeper into the old town down narrow streets — which let me just say right here, I think every town should have narrow streets where cars can’t go. They’re amazing.
Anyways, the cathedral from the outside (I didn’t go inside) is one of the more impressive ones I’ve seen thus far, and from there the walk took me down even more narrow thoroughfares, even older lanes.
After briefly spilling out into another sizable square where on one side sits the Barcelona government and on the other the seat of Catalunya authority, the adventure took me to another one of my favorite things: Roman ruins.
There is a marker in the ground noting where the Romans founded the town of Barcino, and just around the corner from there are decently-preserved remains of the Temple of Augustus. The quite tall columns date back to the first century BC, and I’m just always so inspired by human ingenuity whenever I see something so old still standing, even if not in its complete form.
After going back to the hotel to retrieve my luggage after a very full day on my feet, I took the metro out to the airport (public transportation is also amazing) and hung out for my 11 pm flight to Dublin.
I paid extra for the front row which on Aer Lingus also ensured an empty middle seat, and the three hour or so flight to Dublin couldn’t have been any more comfortable. It also couldn’t have been any more affordable. Even with the extra money forked out for comfort, it was still way less by more than half of what the cost for the train from Barcelona to Paris alone would have cost.
My midnight decision was perfect.
But some things were about to become a little imperfect.
I bought new shoes for the cruise. They were the same shoes I walked miles in across European towns in the winter, just new so I wouldn’t look too lacking in class on the ship.
Turns out they SUCKED.
By the time I got to the airport hotel in Dublin, I had developed the most ginormous blood blister on my right heel where the inside sole had started to come detached. From walking on it weird due to the pain before I realized what was going on, I also screwed up my balky ankle as I am want to do.
Thankfully I had a really nice Airbnb, so I decided to just chill for most of the time I was slated to stay in Dublin.
Was it disappointing? Yes, sure. But I knew it would be wiser to do that than to risk making things worse.
It also turns out that it wasn’t the worst thing ever because I booked way too many days in Dublin. I didn’t feel like I missed out on anything I wanted to see once I finally ventured out some, so in hindsight it was a blessing, allowing me to heal up some for my time away from the capital where the action really is.
I mean really y’all, the Temple Bar area might as well be Broadway in downtown Nashville. Just in cooler looking buildings.
One thing about Ireland I was worried about is the lack of a train network compared to the other places I’ve been to, but it ended up being just good enough for me to get out and have some real authentic Irish experiences.
My first stop was in Kilkenny for a couple of nights, and this instantly became one of my favorite stops yet. Definitely in the top 5.
I arrived at the small 10-room hotel in the middle of town, greeted by the owner and her dog, and she was absolutely delightful. She reminded me of my Airbnb host in Nice, as she seemed genuinely concerned that I had a good time while staying in her community. She had plenty of suggestions for things to see, places to eat, and pubs at which to drink.
If you are ever in Kilkenny, and you should be, then please do stay with Yvonne at Butler Court.
I spent the first afternoon in town exploring the first proper, proper castle I’ve seen yet — the appropriately named Kilkenny Castle. It was gorgeous, with stunning grounds surrounding the building, including a lovely public park at the front. I enjoyed just having a seat on a bench, trying to imagine myself in this castle’s heyday and what that must have been like.
That evening I went to Kytelers Inn for dinner, and it was then that I truly felt like I was in Ireland.
For a pre-meal drink I ordered a neat Jameson, and I was immediately chastised by the bartender. “Are you sure?” he asked in his perfect Irish accent. “There are thousands of Irish whiskeys you can have, and you choose the one you can get at home?”
Point well-taken.
And so began my Irish whiskey tasting.
I asked him to surprise me but make it be not the most expensive thing they had, and so for the rest of the evening I enjoyed a very delightful and also appropriately named Irishman in my glass.
When I ordered my food, I had to dish it back at him.
“Can I order the fish and chips or are you going to yell at me for that, too?”
He laughed, gave me a big smack on the back, and grinned.
“Good lad, good lad. Of course you can have that.”
The live music started shortly after I was done eating, and this turned my Monday night into the moment that best resembles what I thought I would be doing every night in my idealized version of this adventure.
Yes, it’s a bit of a touristy town, and there were plenty of other Americans there that night. But as the trad music was played, you could also see the locals who probably do this every Monday night. Though it also seemed like maybe it was a special edition of this particular weekly ritual, as a whole section of the open area in front of the bar area in this perfect timber and stone building were dressed in all black as if perhaps they had been at a funeral earlier before coming here to celebrate a life hopefully well-lived in ways only the Irish can.
It was in the music that I put a finger on the small but distinct differences between the Catalans and the Irish.
Even though, at least in the Republic of Ireland if not the entire island, the aspiration of freedom has been attained unlike in Barcelona, there is still more of a sense of defiance in these folks. Definitely much more of a rebellious spirit. But not one based in anger.
No, instead it feels based in a deep, deep pride for who they are.
Some say the devil is dead, the devil is dead, the devil is dead
Some say the devil is dead and buried in Killarney
More say he rose again, more say he rose again
More say he rose again and joined the British army
This was one of the tunes that the three very talented musicians played, and it absolutely got the locals going. Look it up. It’s a catch, upbeat tune. But you can’t argue what the song is rooted in.
A long, arduous fight that has led to where they are today.
I didn’t want the night to end.
From Kilkenny I ventured to the aforementioned Killarney, a voyage that required three different changes on the railways, but it was worth it because Killarney was also a lovely place.
Even more touristy than Kilkenny, it reminded me of an Irish version of somewhere like Gatlinburg. Not so over the top like Pigeon Forge, but still obviously a place meant to welcome visitors in a way that keeps them comfortable. Not quite as authentic, but still plenty nice.
I stayed at Murphys, a lovely place that had rooms upstairs with a lively pub on the ground floor. And while I definitely enjoyed my evenings here, it certainly wasn’t quite the same as the nights in Kilkenny.
And that’s fine.
One thing I haven’t done since the early days of this trip was take advantage of a day tour to somewhere nearby as I did with the great trip from Bath to Stonehenge. With the train system not being as extensive, this seemed like the perfect place for me to do that again.
Unfortunately, both trips ended up being major disappointments.
The day trip from Killarney was out to the Dingle Peninsula, and this wasn’t horribly awful but the weather ended up being pretty miserable, with a thick fog off the coast robbing us of many of the grand views of the Atlantic we were supposed to have, and the tour guide was nowhere near as informative as the one I had on the trip to Stonehenge.
The stop for lunch in Dingle was nice, if crowded as a cruise ship had dropped anchor off the coast and its passengers had tendered into the small town creating a pretty chaotic scene of coaches going all over the place which I fond out is not a regular occurrence at all.
The trip out to the Cliffs of Moher would be even worse.
From Killarney I went to Limerick, mainly for two reasons: easy to get to on train and there was a tour from there to another scenic part of the coast.
The tour company could do absolutely nothing about the weather. And honestly the weather didn’t bother me much. Yes, I would have loved to have seen the cliffs. It looks like an amazing thing to see. But much like when I’ve been in the mountains and had low clouds roll in, there’s something inherently magical about that mystical experience.
And so I really enjoyed standing there along the barriers they’ve created, hearing that the Atlantic was raging underneath us, with only a sliver of the dramatic coastline visible every so often as the fog rolled in, pushed inland by an ocean breeze.
And I was able to get a magnet so I know what it should have looked like.
But that’s literally the only positive I can tell you about this experience.
The bus was huge and packed. The tour guide was inexperienced to say the least and seemed to only be able to point out cattle on the side of the road. And we only went to two of the five places called for on the itinerary with no explanation provided for why we didn’t visit the others.
I’m glad I got a trip out to the Cliffs of Moher, but otherwise it felt like a monumental waste of money.
All in all, however, Ireland is second to Italy for favorite countries that I’ve visited so far. Something about the place really spoke to me, so much so that I stayed up until 4 am one night while in Dublin, hoping I could trace back my family ancestry to Ireland.
But I’ll save that night of indecision for the next entry.
This trip is about to become really, really special I think.
Rails to Ride 