Turas Bóthair! Road Trip through Ireland!

Things were quickly coming together. The bike got sold off. The World Cup bet I made on the Yanks got cashed: 28 Euros!!! My stuff was (almost) consolidated. I even got my haircut. A road trip through the northern part of the island beckoned.The plan was to not get tied down with a plan. I knew the general route: Belfast by Friday night, then north along the coast, over to Donegal, down through Connemara, and a last evening in Galway before heading back to Dublin that next Friday. But sleeping arrangements? I’d figure that and everything else out on the road. After all, that’s what the road’s for, right? Figuring things out?As soon as I could get out of work on Friday, I rushed over to the car rental place. I’d be rolling in a black VW. Manual. Driving on the left side of the road. Shifting with my left hand. Yeah, go ahead and give me the full insurance policy.With little more than a Lonely Planet map and a general sense of the direction “north,” I was off: direction Belfast. Leaving Dublin was a bit trickier than anticipated, prompting the random “roll down the window and ask the couple with the stroller for directions” maneuver. It worked so well the first time, I figured I’d repeat the performance as I entered Belfast.Along the way, I stopped in Lisburn to visit the Hilden brewery, which was nestled in a 200 year old farmhouse outside of the village. Surprisingly, the village wasn’t on my map. My initial plan of driving to the town and looking for signs proved unsuccessful. When I asked for directions, your man said simply “follow me” and drove me right to the front door. I love it when a plan comes together! With keys to the car in hand, I knew I could only make it one, so it had to be good. Thankfully, Hilden didn’t let me down.Arriving in Belfast that evening, I found all hotels booked. Totally sold out. Only one place was open. A bed in a 16 person hostel dorm. Miserable. And that was the last night I ever spent in a hostel.As for Belfast though, that town packs a punch! I didn’t really know what to expect, but I didn’t expect what I got (in a good way). Growing up, there was such a stigma around Belfast. Car bombs. The IRA. Even now, I was told to avoid the areas with the British flags or the sidewalks painted red, white, and blue. There was none of that hostility, at least none that I saw. My main concern lay with my car tagged with Republic of Ireland plates. The concern was unnecessary.I wandered through the busy streets, past the Victorian buildings, and through the narrow alleyways called the Entries. A city vibe permeated the streets, as the area around the Entries teemed with creativity and street art. I didn’t always get this urban feel from Dublin. There was a subtly different cultural atmosphere with the people as well. While the “Nordies” identified with being Irish, they were a bit more proper than those in the Repbulic. A little less easy-going. A little more careful with their curse words.By dusk, I was walking along the Peace Line that ran down West Belfast’s Falls Road and housed the Catholic / Republican population. The giant wall that makes the Peace Line separates the Protestants from the Catholics, the Unionist from the Republicans. Amazingly, it has stood longer than the Berlin Wall. Parts of it are (apparently) still operational, though I felt the atmosphere in the neighborhood rather optimistic and subdued.Murals covered any and all available wall space. Many invoked Palestine, South America, Nelson Mandela, and leaders within the Irish independence movement. I made it to the corner of RPG Avenue and Falls Road: The RPG standing for Rocket Propelled Grenade. Just fifteen years ago, this road offered the best sight lines to launch an attack. Today, I was going to use it for an amazing dinner.That evening I wandered the Entries. A group of Germans made sure I wouldn’t drink alone. Bastian couldn’t believe I wasn’t German, given my accent. I took a certain pride in that. We imbibed at the Duke of York, with it’s overflow of beer and people and goodness reaching across the street and into the graffitied alley. To think that, this too, was once the site of a terrorist bombing...My sleep arrangement for the evening was made through AirBnB. Marco had an extra bedroom and would be hosting me. Your man stayed up until 1 in the morning waiting for me to get home. When I did, he grabbed the whiskey bottles and we set to chatting about everything. I wanted little more than my bed, but couldn’t say no to the Italian hospitality. Or the whiskey. Finally, at 3:00am, it was bedtime. I collapsed in a heap of exhaustion and amazement.