Cork to Malin Head (1)

The Prelude

We’re in little boxes. Boxes of time and often of space. We have cubicles in our offices where we carry out various tasks to ensure that we can put food on the table and fuel in our bikes. We sit at desks, we operate machinery, we dig holes, we study. All of this is fairly obvious but what lies beyond the obvious is the fact that we are simply cogs in a much greater machine. In our boxes we have to produce something or justify our existence in some other way in order to survive unto the next day. Like cogs in a machine we are used to routines because this is how we know the world to operate. We work within our boxes according to our routines in order to survive but also to produce wealth, much of which doesn’t ever end up being our own but rather someone else’s. This is the enigma about adventure, perhaps it is even the enigma of motorbiking itself, that adventure (and perhaps motorbiking) is something without routine. It is out of character, it is something we are not used to because the box has been shed, present time and mindsets are all shed and we must live in the moment and adapt as we go. It is living in real time and something most of us crave but often don’t let ourselves do. The important thing about living in real time on a motorbike is that real time is going at 60mph while leaning through a bend and this is also what many crave.

One of the main reasons for my buying my Suzuki Bandit 600 was to engage in some long distance riding. Ever since I had began riding I had been taking my little Honda Innova 125 well outside of its comfort zone in and around the city, going out to the edges of the county where its little engine would huff and puff but always, and I mean always, bring me home. Often it did so on fumes, for it really did seem to have a distaste for petrol, bringing me home from Waterford city one late summer afternoon on just about 3 litres of petrol. Being a Honda it could probably do this forever but really I needed something bigger if I was going to carry on doing this sort of mileage. The plan for the Bandit then was to pack it up for a few days in the summer and to head away through the country for a few days to escape my thesis. Never one to blame myself, I’ll push it instead to my thesis and the concept of time itself to shoulder the blame for me not having the opportunity during our glorious summer to take to the roads in that much of a fashion. Still I did clock up about 4000 miles since June and that’s not half bad. With my thesis completed however I had no reason to not begin planning to take the bike on a bit of a tour and planning began. I mean planning in the sense that something was going on in my head and so did not necessarily involve me taking out a pen and paper although I do recall checking some distances on Google Maps before quickly forgetting them. I had always wanted to go and see the Burren though and then continue on through Galway and into Connemara strapping a tent to the back of the bike and doing the tour as a single overnighter. Logging on to Facebook one night and mentioning it to Gary changed all of that; he said he’d like to join me and I decided that company would be nice so it was now that real planning was going to begin for this was definitely going ahead.

Having completed my thesis I did feel I needed time to relax and take a break from reading and writing and to be honest even writing this is taking a little bit more of an effort than I thought as I read over things, adjust things, and generally give in to a seemingly never ending style twitch that forces me to go back over my last sentence. Oh, wait I must change that last bit. From the day we enter school life changes to become goal orientated - we need to finish that days homework, we need to do well in the Leaving Cert and then I needed to go on and complete my degree before finishing my MA thesis. No I didn’t have an office cubicle but I always had something to aim for, a new goal to achieve and with the ending of the thesis there was now no goal to aim for. This should be relaxing but ultimately you only end up searching for something else to occupy your mind for in my case I felt hamstrung, I felt lazy almost. Now that the bike tour was becoming a reality I had a new goal to aim for, something completely unrelated to what had gone before for this would take me out of my comfort zone, out of my box and into life in real time. This would be an adventure and one that had been some time coming.

Realising that Facebook was surely not the most effective way to plan a motorbike tour, Gary and I met up in the somewhat less than luxurious surroundings of the Main in UCC. Hayfield Manor it may not be but it did have free wifi which was essential for Gary’s meanderings through Google Maps. Initially my own mental plan had just been to travel to Connemara and then come home by, and I quote here, “go out and then come back East and then travel South”. The word vague does spring to mind doesn’t it? I had a desire to travel to one of Cork City’s away games on the bike and due to me mixing up some dates I was convinced that City were playing Finn Harps in Donegal on the weekend that we were thinking of using for this trip. Gary did seem enthusiastic about the roads in Donegal and that enthusiasm was convincing enough to make me want to travel that far which was great considering that I then found out that we (as in City) were playing Finn Harps here at home in Cork. Still, riding up to Donegal was still very much on and with a long weekend coming up a plan was gradually coming to fruition.

An August Weekend in Kerry

Mobile homes are, apparently, the only real and popular manifestation of the Dymaxion house. This was a 1930s idea and design by Buckminster Fuller which tried to float the idea of a mass-produced house on the same level as the mass produced car. He was so convinced that he even declined for a one-off to be made as a showpiece at the Chicago Century of Progress Exhibition in 1933. He wanted it to be mass-produced or not produced at all. And so we have the mobile home, the closest that the world has come to a Dymaxion type utopian dwelling. Mass produced, cheap compared to standard and traditional houses, stand-alone or capable of being in a park with others and of course mobile, they have the ingredients needed. Still, they aren't quite what he had in mind I would imagine although the interiors of both have something of a similarity looking at that picture there.

I hadn't been to the mobile home in Kerry for quite a long time - it had been at least a couple of years since I had spent any substantial amount of time down there and with the August weekend approaching I thought it would be a good time to go and have a look. The bike would be the mode of transport - I had travelled to Kerry on it before and had even visited the mobile home but that main road down to Killarney, and Tralee was nothing if not a little boring. The twisty bits, which really should be fun, are usually spent with me wondering how it could be while stuck behind an old Ford Escort with a man driving it and that man inevitably wearing some sort of a hat and a jacket even if the sun was after being angled to beam down on his car and his alone. He would be convinced that this was his road, and his alone too. After all, he had paid his road tax and although his little Escort had failed the NCT (or had just not bothered to even be examined at all), this gave him the right to go at whatever speed he so wanted to. I don't get this at all, if you want to travel at 20mph then fine but pull in and allow other drivers/riders to go past you safely rather than allowing them to become frustrated and then attempt irrational overtakes while sticking up the middle finger as they wizz by barely missing a tree or a rock on the opposite side of the road. I mean what if there are two Escorts, both going in opposite directions? And what if both of those Escorts are holding up frustrated motorists behind them who then......oh oh....

Accepting the fact that the ride down would be boring, I packed some clothes, a pizza and some waffles,my camera and mp3 player and strapped the tankbag to the bike with bungee cables. The magnets in it are meant to hold it to the steel tank but I reckoned a couple of bungee cords would do no harm in case of a gust of wind or something. My camera was in there! Plus those cords could be used to great effect at hitting that man with the hat in the Escort if his window was open. They'd be like whips, they might make him go quicker.

Despite the warnings, there were no Guards on the road that I could see (and besides I obeyed the speed limit mostly anyway!). I suppose accepting a banal journey kept me extra safe from speeding tickets too. There was one part though where I really enjoyed the bike - outside of Macroom as the road becomes narrow and twisty, I managed to put myself in front of a few cars and with some clear air I could enjoy the road. Then of course I met more cars and that was ended abruptly. Still at least I could take some pictures and as I crossed the border into Kerry that was just what I did. In fact I pulled off the N22 to a church to take a picture, expecting this church to be fairly important and beautiful. It was signposted from the main road by a prope

r road sign...however this was misleading, it wasn't all that important or even aesthetically pleasing. It was set in the Clydagh Valley, just down from the main road and where traffic once used to flow on by.

Now though the road there in the valley, houses on both sides, is full of gravel and used only by the locals who probably appreciate the lack of traffic and noise in their little piece of heaven. Shame that they couldn't make that church a little more inspiring in it's location all the same.

As I exited the valley I noticed again an awful lot of gravel on the roads, something that as a motorcyclist I absolutely hate to see. Not only is this type of road repair illegal but it also smacks of laziness - "ah it's ok, the cars will run over the gravel and flatten it down". No, it doesn't work like that and if you, like I did once or twice in the weekend, run over gravel mid-corner on a bike, then you'll not be happy at all. Unless you're a fan of sitting in a ditch with your bike trashed and somewhere away from you on the road. Thankfully that didn't happen

to me as I saw the gravel but it so easily can. You've probably done it on a little bicycle.

My next stop was to take a few pictures as I went into Rathmore. The place consists of a church, a better looking one than the one pictured above, and a fuel station which

also sells ice-cream. It used to anyway. I had traveled between these rocks for so long in car but never had I stopped to actually look at them and on the bike I had the chance. The road wound it's way around these rocks but it was much too wide for these little bends to be any much fun but perhaps this was just as well. These are views to really take in and to wonder - those rocks just stand there in time. People have died in and around here, people have been born in and around here. These rocky hills and jagged edges have seen it all and will see it all again, almost immune to the effects of time. You have to admire that and reflecting on it does make you feel a little bit less important and a little bit less, well, big. What you can or cannot do matters very little to these inanimate objects of nature. They've seen it all and they'll survive it all longer than you or I. That's unless the NRA come in and blow them up with dynamite to build a road but with no money in the country they probably can't do that. The rocks didn't care to comment on that.

I stopped in Tralee to fill the bike up. It cut out on me in the petrol station as I waited for two cars to move so I could get at the pumps. It started back up again just fine and it didn't have me worried but it is something I will have to sort - carbs need to be balanced and the valves probably need adjusting and then the idle rpm will need setting. That should cure it but really it's no big deal.

As I put the pump into the tank the petrol stopped flowing...it was only allow

ing me €2.40 worth of petrol. I couldn't understand and I was there trying to hold the tankbag away from the filler cap with it's magnets scrambling against me to hold on! Into the shop I went and itturned out he couldn't see me so he stopped the pump. It was probably the helmet bu

t I never got this before. He apologised after and on a bank holiday there was no way I was going to make a big deal about it. Besides I had seen McDonald's and that was looking a little tempting to me so I wanted to park the bike and get in there, or at least think some more about it.

There were busloads, literally, of Spanish, Italian and French kids in and around the McD's but the queue looked fine. I would have hated to be working on this day though, some of the tables were covered, and I mean covered, in cups of Coke or milkshake. The manager of the place, or the franchisee, must have been making substantial donations to all of the religious orders or else had undertaken some sort of big PR exercise in the schools these kids came from because I could see him out the back counting money and then giving up. He was exasperated by it, wouldn't you be after you have just counted to two million? I think I saw him rolling around in the money then although I couldn't be sure. Anyway he got an extra €5 from me when I ordered a double cheeseburger, small fries and a small drink. Nothing special but I thought it would be a good idea to fill the gap and while I had went in meaning to spend no more than €4, a Happy Meal (€4) was out of the question. All of the kids would have laughed at me. I mean they were obviously all watching me!

With a full tank of petrol and the demands of hunger fulfilled, I made my way to Camp,

located West of Tralee on the Dingle Peninsula. Once I got here i

t would be into the mobile home I would go and life would slow dramatically. Without a watch, time would melt away. With no place to be and no deadlines to meet, time

would be meaningless. Hunger could be a guide but better yet I find the sky, the moon and stars to be more entertaining. And you can see all of them down here without a city around to pollute

the darkness.

Arriving was actually a bit of an experience. Through Blennerville and the windmill there and seeing the Slieve Mish mountains unfurl before me as I rode west was one thing. It was another thing to look out at Tralee Bay and see Fenit Rock shrouded in cloud as more white fluff descended from the mountain behind me. I promise that it wasn't as dark as this photo shows where I was, it just seemed that the cloud was quite happy to sit out at sea. However I have another thing to tell - it was a whole other thing altogether to arrive into the campsite and see children absolutely fascinated by the fact that a motorbike was coming in. I suppose thinking back on it now there weren't ever many bikes came to the place at all despite some of the roads on the peninsula being great to ride on. Perhaps most bikes just passed through aiming for Dingle instead. The energy and excitement from these kids was really something to behold and made me think that I would look a right fool if I happened to drop the bike at low speed in front of this lot. The other side of my mind was wondering if I should have brought chocolate bars and humanitarian equipment. It was a bit like arriving in to a place full of kids who had been told the weekly medicine and chocolate delivery was going to finally arrive after the last 5 deliveries failed. I smiled a lot but behind the helmet they probably couldn't see that so had I put on a "sorry kids but the other guy is bringing that stuff, he's just five minutes away" face then they wouldn't have seen.

After arriving and putting the motorbike on it's centre stand I opened the mobile home. Here it was, the Dymaxion House with the Slieve Mish in the background.

The thing was, I had no running water here. Electricity and gas for cooking were not an issue but the pipes had ruptured in the winter frost and we had not had the chance to fix those up yet. And by "we" I mean "Dad". There was some water there in a large container, enough for copious cups of tea and coffee and cooking. And for brushing teeth too. Toilets and showers would have to be done camping style though - over in the communal block that the, er, campers use. The main thing however was that I was now down in Kerry, had a place to sleep, to read and to sit if I wanted to. That pizza I brought though was now of seemingly no use as a good friend of mine came over to me and

informed me dinner was ready for me. I'd only barely gotten off my helmet! That's the thing with friends though, not even having to ask. By the way, it was delicious.Well, Mr Fuller would have been proud of me for at least remembering him!

I was toying around with the idea of leaving on Sunday, basically just staying for one night and going home but the place was after capturing me and it wasn't about to let go to easily. I had to stay another night. And I did. Sunday didn't feel like Sunday at all down there now that I bring it up. At home there is just this general feel about a Sunday - a Sunday just is. It exists and you know it is there but what to do and what to fill it with are two questions that are difficult to answer. It's a timespace normally occupied by a sleep in and then a think about what to do with the rest of it. While there was a sleep-in in Kerry there was no question of what to do with the rest of the day - it didn't matter. I could sit on the dunes and watch the people on the beach or just wait until a sunset occurred or just walk around. The pressure of leisure wasn't there - there was no need to feel that you had to go and do something fun. Although I did end of having fun anyway and it started with a hearty breakfast after a phone call from another good friend of mine. His parents had made sure that extra rashers, sausages and eggs were on the pan. It would have been rude to refuse of course. The funny bit was that the litre of milk I had bought was still pretty much unused!

Brandon had always been in my thoughts for the weekend. The place has always held a special kind of intrigue for me - this small village out on the very west of the northern part of this peninsula, a small harbour with it's back to a violent sea, the spray from the

Atlantic waves almost seeming to fly over Mount Brandon and down to the harbour below. Narrow roads, jagged mountains and wavey seas all around. I had to go.

Before I did though a few of us walked along and I took some pictures of some unusual looking little creatures below sand dunes near a marsh that is home to the bullfrog. So much of a home in fact that mobile home sites were taken away from this particular area in years gone by. It's strange seeing the bays that people had created for themselves, where 30 foot homes of steel

once stood and gazed out.

You wouldn't even know now unless it was pointed out to you so fast does the sand move here and that tough dune grass. It was in that grass that this bumble bee was spotted, gathering up the pollen in the summer heat. And at this point there really was summer heat, it was turning into a beautiful day with a little humidity but then let's face it, we can't have it all out own way. Once I managed to get this picture I knew that there was definately a point in getting some more of the same and it was a coincidence that one of the guys had become a little fascinated by a red bug that was flying around the place and in general making itself an object of fascination to said person. Really it was black but with red dots - impressive all the same. Getting a photo of this was difficult though, the camera wanted to focus on the grass all around the place but that wouldn't make for a great shot at all. Who wants to see grass? It was a group effort to try and get a picture of this red and black bug between holding back blades of grass, suggestions of "macro" this and that and "point it somewhere else" along with various swear words and associated vocabulary of frustrations. It all failed. Nature gave us another chance though and we saw another one crouching peacefully, and alone. The other one was with a friend, a very very close friend it seemed actually. This one was alone and with a steady hand and the camera now cooperating (on auto mode surprisingly) this was what happened. Look to your right!I know I said before that time is not an issue down here but with me being

persuaded to have dinner again I thought I had better be on time for it. And so the time was right to suit up and leave for Brandon. It was, I now know, 15 miles away (25km) but I was confident of getting out there and getting back by 7pm. It had been a few years since I had been out to Brandon but I remember being fascinated with the place. When you stand there and look at the mountain to your west (well it's at your feet really if you turn around!), the next town is in Newfoundland. There are indeed further points west on the peninsula but you'd have to go over to Dingle first and even from that angle Mount Brandon won't allow you too far back up to the north of the peninsula thus preventing a proper ring road around the peninsula. A formidable mountain then. It certainly looked it as I made my way out and took a right at the fork that questions you whether you'd like to go up the Conor Pass and into Dingle or down into Cloghane and eventually Brandon. Unfortunately there was some gravel on the roads even before the bike and I hit the very narrow passes after that fork. As such there wasn't a whole lot of fun on the road but again the scenery made up for this and there was actually some fun to be had on the very narrow bits into Brandon - they were twisty, tangling themselves around trees, rocks and fields with small hump backed bridges bringing you across little streams and rivers. I had to stop a few times, it was too impressive not to take some pictures home. It would be like going into Leonidas, standing at the counter and just looking. Lapidus, the architect you have probably never heard of but whom I would like to quote simply because I have been waiting to use this quote for a long time, said "Say you like ice cream - why have one scoop? Have three". And so I decided to have three and stopped to take a few pictures. More than three I'll have you know. Morris Lapidus would have been proud.

The way you know that this picture was worth taking was because of the straight road. No entrances to it from anywhere, no people around....perfect to open up that throttle. I didn't though simply because this scenery demanded to be looked at and admired. And of course photographed too. This was proper wilderness, and that includes with houses. It's still wilderness even with houses by the way, who's to say the people in them aren't wild? More power to them.

I was left wondering at some points about what happens here in the winter. I mean in the city we had enough problems with ice and snow but what about out here. You complain about rain? Well try looking for a bus shelter here then. Go on call a taxi if you like, you can wait under that bush there. I'd hazard a guess at saying it takes a good while for any service technicians to come out here to sort out electricity if poles fall or if pipes go bang. Even getting an FM radio signal out here is troublesome with all of the mountains. Mobile signal isn't bad though.

I'd say it's all worth it for sights like this though. I would say that though as a person who doesn't have to live here. I can just go off and enjoy this place when the sun shines and return to the city in the rain. I wondered as I passed the turn off for the quay what it was like in the past winter - did families try and pitch together with one person going into Tralee to pick things up for people or are they all so used to things like this that they know how to deal with it in a way a city person doesn't. I carried on past the quay with these thoughts in my mind - I wanted to head to Brandon Point. This road just ends at the top and that is the best way of describing it really. It carries on as a fairly narrow local road but after a little while you begin to travel gently uphill.

Gentle but noticeable. Noticeable also, and alarming for many a person I would say, is the fall

on one side of this road.

It meanders it's way up the side of the base of

Mount Brandon. To be fair that base is pretty much mountain anyway, there's a good incline there and if you fancied rolling in some grass you'd be better off not doing it at the side of the road facing water because you'd probably need to be ready to get wet. Very wet, lungs and all. There is a bush that runs along the road though so it doesn't look this bad but being higher up on the bike means seeing over this and showing off a spectacular view back at the peninsula and the harbour. A clearer day would have given it that little bit of sparkle but there you go, Tralee is way way in the distance there somewhere and Newfoundland is behind that mountain which is behind me. It was nice but I thought the view of the harbour and of the lakes below the Conor Pass was a little nicer at the time.

I couldn't spend the whole night taking pictures though, I had a dinner to get to and 45 minutes to get back. Seeing as I hadn't bother to time myself on the way out I had no idea how long to get back. It was time to pilot the Bandit home.

Off I went, a better of idea of the roads then before and made i

t back in 25 minutes.

Not bad considering that the roads are insanely twisty but blind to the point where you really can't roll on the throttle until you're around the corner. No problems with the rear swinging out here. And yes, again it was delicious.

I felt pretty refreshed from the ride home as I sat down to dinner and then saw the top of the dunes turn orange. My head was clear, my tummy full and my mind ready, so it seemed, to take in a sunset that looked like nothing I had seen for quite a while. And especially not down here. I ran to get my camera, an dark rusty glow emanating from every surface the sun was touching upon before it slipped off under the horizon ready to wake the people of LA up from slumber.

Running up the dunes I could see on the path through the grass, the footprints of people in the sand and the shadows within them. All around them the sand was a strange

orange. I'd say that the

Orange mobile network would have been delighted, not to mention the Tango drink people.

I stood on the edge of the dune, not running down on to the beach in order to get a higher shot and saw the orange disc descend ever so slowly below the Maharees which nature was using as a horizon in this case. Focusing on it was a bit of problem, all of that light hitting the camera ensures that the shutter speed goes up in order to capture the light but not too much light. Too slow and the picture will just be white. The balance is difficult, much like life itself and the sun poses similar problems for our minds. It's all a bit much for the mind to take when you think that this thing sustains the planet, it can't be controlled but yet says hello and goodbye at the same times it always does. You can only do something about it if you are a cloud and you aren't so you can't. Some of that days resident clouds did actually try and do something about it all but they failed - there was no way this sun was being denied it's moment. And neither was I, I was going back to Cork the next day and wouldn't be around for the sun to be given a second chance.

I had intentions of leaving at about 8am to avoid the traffic but my inner guide of sense told me this was a ridiculous idea and made me sleep in till about 9am. After all I had spent the previous night and some of the very early talking with a few friends in their mobile home. Oh, and that pizza came in useful. We tried to cook it in my place, well I did, but the oven wasn't taking the flame. The gas was on but it didn't want to light and I didn't fancy attempting this too many times. I had visions of me seeing a ball of white and that would be the end. Mobile homes take to fire like magnets to steel if you aren't careful. Gas doesn't particularly mind where it sets itself alight and so I turned it all off. We'd cook it in another oven, in another mobile.

With the end of the night approaching I went off to bed, taking a caramel slice with me. It was only a small one, maybe an inch squared but it was delicious. For the associated logic I refer to the Lapidus quotation above. I did finally use that milk in a proper quantity in the morning when I had a bowl of cornflakes, coffee and then engaged in packing the bike after going for a quick wash in the communal toilet/shower area.

I filled up the topbox and made sure everything was in the tankbag for the journey home - the camera was put in here for easy access. I hadn't done this for the trip out to Brandon, instead just leaving the tankbag at home and popping the camera in the topbox but its handy stopping and taking pictures from the saddles without having to unlock a box and stop the engine. I had the intention of doing the trip back to Cork as a non-stop journey, and I did, so why I put the camera in there I do not know. Just in case I suppose. I made it back to Cork in 2 hours which wasn't bad considering there was some traffic on the road and also considering I took a regional road from Macroom to Cork and not the normal N22 main road. I was just sick of being stuck in behind cars and being on straight roads. What I'm saying is there was a possibility of doing the journey slightly quicker!

I was home for lunchtime though all the same. It seemed that using hunger as a time gauge wasn't a bad idea at all.

To see the full collection of photos from the weekend go to: http://pix.ie/fabio/album/383954

JFK (New York) - The Second Part of Our Stay in JFK

Again this was written on my phone, at the time - live, if you will!!!
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I ended up getting that coffee. After waking from my sleep and coming to the conclusion that I’d be getting no more I listened to a few songs on my mp3 player before Donal woke. The conversation didn't exactly flow between us, there wasn't all that much to discuss really. After a while I got up and walked around a little deciding there was no point in me allowing my arse to get sore because it'd be doing a lot of sitting later on. I stumbled upon the chapel in the terminal and went in, partly because I'd never done this in an airport before and partly because I wanted to pray that I would actually get home. I don't remember much of the rest of the walk although it was certainly a mission to find a decent place for breakfast, a feat I failed at (well the airport did really because no place decent was open) but I did see that Donal had some company and seemed to be engaged in conversation. I didn't want to get involved, as ignorant as that may seem (it was morning, you know me and mornings!), so I walked on again looking for a breakfast place and/or preparing myself to go and join this little talk. Airport food really is never the same as normal food. The only food that stays the same is fast food but then 100% pure fat stays the same everywhere really. Maybe it's just that groggy feeling you get after spending a night in the clothes you wore all day, fake air from conditioning machines all around you and eyes tired from lack of sleep. And airport food is generally expensive too for what it is. I was prepared then for a substandard something-or-other for breakfast at a price I would normally raise hell over and I duly made my way to Au Bon Pain, a cafe chain that began in Paris (I could have told you that from the attitude of the woman at the cash register if I hadn't already known).The croissant, breakfast cereal and coffee came to 8 dollars which wasn't too bad but I would have preferred it with a please, a thank you and a smile. The coffee wasn't to my liking either, what was I thinking when pouring hazelnut coffee? Probably not an awful lot, tiredness and all that...a great, and genuine excuse!

I sat down I joined in that conversation between the middle aged black ladies and Donal. Meeting people on the train was never a bother but not so much here at the airport where, as I already said, it seemed to every man for himself. Talking to these ladies was not only interesting but it made the time fly by, they were very interesting characters who didn't like Republicans (a fact that made me want to buy them lunch notwithstanding that my wallet was now very very empty) and one of them was the first black lady to attend Stanford University. Both had indeed been active in the civil rights movements. There really was so much to talk about but their flight to Dubai was being called and off they went. I wasn't happy to see them go for I was only beginning to get into the conversation but at the same time I'd yet to have had any coffee and was finding I'd to make bigger and bigger efforts to stay in tune with them. I suppose it worked out well for both parties time-wise.
I finally ate my breakfast after this before going out to take a stroll around the terminals, wanting to see the old TWA Flight Centre. And I did although I didn't get to go inside or get too close because security had me spotted and rudely told me to leave. There we are with rules again, I was looking at a building not even used as part of the airport any longer and some woman in a hi-viz vest looks at me as if I've 2 heads and says, and I quote, ‘you want to take photos? Well you can’t, you must leave'...'can I ask you a question?'...'you must leave now'...'ok ok I’m leaving'. Honestly the Patriot Act really has given these type of people all the power in the world and it's not as if public opinion would be at your side either for the police will say 'he was acting suspiciously around the airport terminal' and then automatically Al-Qaeda will be sending you on a recruitment form with details of a pension scheme that says something about eternity and virgins. Needless to say then, I left but I got my photos before she caught me. From here I went on to look through some other terminals including the old Pan-Am WorldPort, a circular building with an extended cantilevered roof which extends out to cover the aircraft from rain. Well it used to, but planes are much bigger now and Pan Am are dead with Delta now in that terminal. Looking around it though it's clear it needs to be done up and I felt quite disappointed that it had been left to go the way it had after it once being the showcase of the world's biggest airline. That’s New York for you though, things come and go, changes happen on a whim and while it is certainly better at looking after history than many other cities, it’s often too busy to care - at least to care too much. Last night as we ran around like headless chickens many in the airport seemed not to care an awful lot which was frustrating but then millions go through this airport and mistakes happen to plenty others, they probably get our type quite often so caring too much really just isn’t an option...

Houston/JFK (New York) - The first part of our stay in JFK...

I wrote this on my phone while waiting on our flight in JFK International to get back home to Ireland
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Our packing had, for the first time really, been done on the night before we were due to leave. The taxi was booked for 11am and, because we weren't the greatest fans of Houston as a city to visit, there was no sense of foreboding-I was quite happy to be heading home. They always say, whoever 'they' actually are, that anticipation is the best part of everything and to an extent they were correct. When you queue up at McDonalds, which I have just finished up doing here at JFK airport, you anticipate the meal. You stand there, see the luscious pictures on the menu, you smell that odour emanating from the machine they likely have out back marked as 'universal good food smell' and then when you actually receive the food, it’s a letdown, always is. And so McD's thrives on anticipation but yet so do we as people-it is inescapable. It certainly was for me as the taxi rang my phone as it pulled up outside the hostel.
Bags ready and feeling fresh following a shower, shave and a decent sleep (although not in that order), I sat into the taxi. It was from here that I got a real view of just how huge Houston is, something one can't really do on foot for while you do realise its size, you don't quite grasp it in your mind simply because you can only walk so far before the heat kills you. And the heat will kill you. We drove for a lengthy enough period of time but at no point was the city ever becoming smaller or less dense, it seemed that any countryside was very far away. There you have it, Houston has no real planning or zoning laws, you can pretty much build a giant pasta monster building or something else equally silly, anywhere-it's crazy and has brought about a car centric, sprawling city. We passed huge shopping complexes and other places we may have passed through had they been close but they would only have been so with a car. Sprawl had made this city out of reach to those without wheels. Exiting the taxi was exciting; we were now going to complete the first leg of our journey home soon!

The notice boards were showing that our flight was delayed. I wasn't all that concerned, the excitement of it all was probably papering over these early cracks in what should have been a good, smooth day. Having checked in our bags we went through security which was actually easy enough although even our shoes had to come off and I found this strange next to our train experiences. Having done this we went on, explored the place for a little and went to Wendy’s. This place had been recommended to us for although it was fast-food, it'd be good fast-food and it was too. I’d go back. After eating we proceeded to our gate but then the problems began-another delay was announced followed by yet another delay once we had actually boarded the aircraft itself. Jetblue were lucky they had TV's for every seat and that the Hungarian Grand Prix was on although it's hard to follow races on American TV; there seemed to be an ad break every 4 laps. If there weren't TV's then people would have been very angry but there you are, the American consumer is placated by the great mother known as TV. To be fair I was too. The flight itself, once it got going, was rough. Seats were comfy and there was lots of legroom, although neither could compete with the train, but the air outside was not comfy for it was moving like a Vespa through Milan traffic; at pace and erratic. Turbulence seemed to follow us through the whole flight but we should have expected this for a lot of the delay had been caused by bad weather in the New England area which then held up flights going into and out of New York. There was one moment when I became a little concerned, not quite worried because I knew there was nothing I could do, but I was curious you could say, about my fate and whether I'd be making it to New York. It wasn't something that should have entered my mind, my knowledge of aviation matters should have dispelled the notion but not this time. I was glad to land, more so to catch our flight to Dublin rather than of my unease about turbulence but what both of us didn't realise at this stage was that we were racing time, and time had a head start.

Due to a JetBlue partnership with AerLingus our luggage was due to be put straight through to our Dublin bound flight and so we raced from Terminal 5 to Terminal 4. We walked, at pace through T5, stopping once at the restrooms before carrying to catch the AirTrain to T4. This airport is so big, a train brings you between Terminals and so we made it to the train walking through a new section of T5 which meant we didn't, unfortunately, get to go through Eero Saarinen's architectural marvel, the old TWA Flight Centre which I think is one of the world's most beautiful buildings. What we did see though was an information screen informing us that our flight was on final call. Not knowing the vastness of the building, we sprinted to the departures area. Nowhere could we see an Aer Lingus check-in desk and their separate ticket desk was closed. Seeing an electronic check-in machine, we typed ourselves in but boarding was finished, or so it said. Practically grabbing a slight man with an airline uniform on, we asked him, desperately pleaded really, if there was still a way for us to make the flight. He explained there was no point in even approaching security and while we thanked him for his help, help we rushed out of him, we went and approached security anyway. Without a boarding pass though, there was no way the lady was leaving us pass. He was right and we both knew it really but at the time it seemed right to at least try. Frustration was well on its way to taking hold though, manifesting itself when Donal smacked the Aer Lingus desk with a slap he should be proud of. I was too busy trying to understand why a 24 hour airline had a ticket desk open for just about 6 hours a day, a thought the couple we met there who had also had a connection botched were probably thinking also. While trying to comprehend this I was also riling myself up for the biggest fight (I was going to say argument but that's way too light really) of my life.

I picked up the phone to ring Aer Lingus but yet again machines were at the other end of the line and when finally the phone did ring I received a message to say the centre was closed till 8am.The phone would have taken a lot of abuse had this not been an airport for even though my anger was out there, I didn't want to have to explain this to the police. At this point confusion still reigned, we were stuck, lost in a nowhere with no idea of when our time in limbo would finally come to an end. After an encounter with two friendly chocolate shop assistants we were pointed to the general information desk and given some reassuring news. They both were of the opinion that we'd be put on the next flight, which would be the day after, but at least we'd not be charged although when I mentioned weather as the factor in the delay, they were sketchier. All the same, we were better informed now and Donal had used one of their mobile phones to call home. It was here that we began to get our heads together and for that we were really thankful. The information desk enlightened us further while a JetBlue assistant, after heading back to T5, told us our bags were in JFK thus confirming to us that it was impossible for us to have made the Aer Lingus flight no matter what we had done-the original delays had killed us and we hadn't even known. On the plus side she was pretty certain we'd be put straight on the next Aer Lingus flight with no extra charge. Hearing this was a big relief but nothing can really account for having to spend a night here in limbo-I'm typing this on my phone looking out to a rather empty space but even still one person is asleep ten feet from me and plenty more are around the corner. Shops are closed, some food places are still open, lights are all on, life goes on. The place is and yet isn’t, part of the real world. It’s built to pass through, not to spend time in and that's not right. You should enjoy every moment although that's not to say I enjoyed every moment of today and when we speak with Aer Lingus tomorrow it may not be a happy moment either but we live in hope.

Sleeping on a floor is hardly ever a good idea but when it is an airport floor it is probably even worse. In saying that however, when you do it, you know you have little enough choice. Seats are at a premium, especially those you can stretch out on and at times it becomes almost like hunting wild animals. You pace up and down the terminal, remembering where you last saw decent seats, keeping your eyes peeled for any that may be free and wondering suspiciously if that person with the massive wheeled carry-on bag is going to grab that free seat first. Correct me if I'm wrong but there doesn't seem to be a lot of solidarity between travellers in an airport, it’s every man for himself, or woman. Perhaps this is caused by the fact that, as I said before, the airport is a transitional place with no real permanence. I eyed up seats last night and found some without leaving the seat I was scanning from. It was a bench seat, cushioned (you get into remarkable detail when you actually have to rely on these things for a night's sleep) with a few tables by it. Donal took the bench as he became sleepy and when I finally needed to nod off I took my bag and went off into a corner, on the floor. It didn't seem too dusty so at least my clothes wouldn't be destroyed but it was a little cold and not too comfortable. Having rested my head on a bag full of jeans with headphones on I gradually drifted into a sleep. I woke up an hour or so later. When I woke I was cold, it was like I had slept in a fridge, so I got up and saw a free bench with some chairs on which my legs could stretch out. Looking back now I’d hit the jackpot but then my sleep was light, unenduring and basically crap so I just moved a little and tried again. I think I got another hour but when it gets to sleep hours of such a low figure it really doesn't matter because your eyes will be burning in the morning and your head will feel like lead. And yes my eyes are burning and my head does feel like lead. I know I can't shower until tomorrow and even brushing my teeth will be hard-my toothbrush and toothpaste is in my checked-in luggage bag. Donal has a little mouthwash for us both, if we both go easy on it. A decent home cooked meal has been deferred and I'm feeling hungry, I need breakfast. I don't know though if coffee is a good idea for should I wake up now or try for more sleep? Surviving in an airport is all about strategy and this could be a vital call but even though that'll keep my mind occupied for a while, one thing will keep my mind occupied for hours to come-I should be at home, but am instead in an airport thousands of miles from home. Coffee it is I think.

I ended up getting that coffee. After waking from my sleep and coming to the conclusion that I’d be getting no more I listened to a few songs on my mp3 player before Donal woke. The conversation didn't exactly flow between us, there wasn't all that much to discuss really. After a while I got up and walked around a little deciding there was no point in me allowing my arse to get sore because it'd be doing a lot of sitting later on. I stumbled upon the chapel in the terminal and went in, partly because I'd never done this in an airport before and partly because I wanted to pray that I would actually get home. I don't remember much of the rest of the walk although it was certainly a mission to find a decent place for breakfast, a feat I failed at (well the airport did really because no place decent was open) but I did see that Donal had some company and seemed to be engaged in conversation. I didn't want to get involved, as ignorant as that may seem (it was morning, you know me and mornings!), so I walked on again looking for a breakfast place and/or preparing myself to go and join this little talk. Airport food really is never the same as normal food. The only food that stays the same is fast food but then 100% pure fat stays the same everywhere really. Maybe it's just that groggy feeling you get after spending a night in the clothes you wore all day, fake air from conditioning machines all around you and eyes tired from lack of sleep. And airport food is generally expensive too for what it is. I was prepared then for a substandard something-or-other for breakfast at a price I would normally raise hell over and I duly made my way to Au Bon Pain, a cafe chain that began in Paris (I could have told you that from the attitude of the woman at the cash register if I hadn't already known).The croissant, breakfast cereal and coffee came to 8 dollars which wasn't too bad but I would have preferred it with a please, a thank you and a smile. The coffee wasn't to my liking either, what was I thinking when pouring hazelnut coffee? Probably not an awful lot, tiredness and all that...a great, and genuine excuse!

I sat down I joined in that conversation between the middle aged black ladies and Donal. Meeting people on the train was never a bother but not so much here at the airport where, as I already said, it seemed to every man for himself. Talking to these ladies was not only interesting but it made the time fly by, they were very interesting characters who didn't like Republicans (a fact that made me want to buy them lunch notwithstanding that my wallet was now very very empty) and one of them was the first black lady to attend Stanford University. Both had indeed been active in the civil rights movements. There really was so much to talk about but their flight to Dubai was being called and off they went. I wasn't happy to see them go for I was only beginning to get into the conversation but at the same time I'd yet to have had any coffee and was finding I'd to make bigger and bigger efforts to stay in tune with them. I suppose it worked out well for both parties time-wise.
I finally ate my breakfast after this before going out to take a stroll around the terminals, wanting to see the old TWA Flight Centre. And I did although I didn't get to go inside or get too close because security had me spotted and rudely told me to leave. There we are with rules again, I was looking at a building not even used as part of the airport any longer and some woman in a hi-viz vest looks at me as if I've 2 heads and says, and I quote, ‘you want to take photos? Well you can’t, you must leave'...'can I ask you a question?'...'you must leave now'...'ok ok I’m leaving'. Honestly the Patriot Act really has given these type of people all the power in the world and it's not as if public opinion would be at your side either for the police will say 'he was acting suspiciously around the airport terminal' and then automatically Al-Qaeda will be sending you on a recruitment form with details of a pension scheme that says something about eternity and virgins. Needless to say then, I left but I got my photos before she caught me. From here I went on to look through some other terminals including the old Pan-Am WorldPort, a circular building with an extended cantilevered roof which extends out to cover the aircraft from rain. Well it used to, but planes are much bigger now and Pan Am are dead with Delta now in that terminal. Looking around it though it's clear it needs to be done up and I felt quite disappointed that it had been left to go the way it had after it once being the showcase of the world's biggest airline. That’s New York for you though, things come and go, changes happen on a whim and while it is certainly better at looking after history than many other cities, it’s often too busy to care - at least to care too much. Last night as we ran around like headless chickens many in the airport seemed not to care an awful lot which was frustrating but then millions go through this airport and mistakes happen to plenty others, they probably get our type quite often so caring too much really just isn’t an option...

Day Twenty - Boone, North Carolina

The contrast between life in New York and that in Boone really is almost immeasurable when I look at pictures of both parts of the trip. In New York the camera worked overtime keeping up with my snap-happy fingers, framing and committing to memory almost any sight of note. It was, looking back with 20/20 vision here, a race to keep up with the city itself. In Boone there was no race track, never mind a race in and of itself which is why when I look back at the twentieth day spent in the United States, I have but a handful of pictures. It’s not that we didn’t do very much, well actually it is, but it is the type of things done that I suppose didn’t really merit a picture but rather were best committed to my own memory so that when such menial things were done at home I would remember how these things felt when done so many thousands of miles away. Throwing a Frisbee in North Carolina isn’t all that different to throwing a Frisbee in Cork or Kerry but I did think about this while engaging in some frantic throwing and the odd dive that dyed my shorts a shade of green over the cream and grey excuse it had for a pattern. The Frisbee is the same, the throw is the same, the wind is the same annoying one that makes a fool out of you by pushing the disc toward you before then, just as you have committed to a hyperbolic lunge/dive, pulls it back and lands it three feet opposite to where you’re knee fell to the ground from 4 feet up. Fecking wind. Even the scenery was similar, lovely as it was, for let’s face facts here, Ireland is not known as the Emerald Isle for the colour of some of its seaweed. The difference was in the distance.

Yet again the day had started off in a lazy fashion, no one really got up early which suited me for you already know how I feel about getting up. In fact you already know the painfully slow workings of my mind in the morning and my solidarity with people of the same mentality. Another difference between Boone and the earlier parts of the trip was the amount of sport-type activites which we engaged in. The day before we had gone hiking and squeezed in a trip to the Mast General Store which is, apparently, one of Boone’s more famous gifts to the world, or at least to the US (which according to a recent survery IS the world). With the hiking all of us tagged along so we had a full Honda Civic on the go (5 seats for 5 people) but today wasn’t in anyway planned. I’m not saying the hiking was but the sentiment for it had been laid down the previous day, the Frisbeeing was completely off the cuff though. Allison stayed in the apartment and Jessica was……..actually where was Jessica? It was only when we were leaving the apartment, Frisbee in tow, that it dawned on me that Jessica was clearly not around. If I had been paying attention to conversation the previous night I would have known she wouldn’t be but clearly I had heard and not listened, a phrase I am borrowing for this from my own mother whom I so frequently “didn’t listen” to when younger and, taking a wild guess here, also at present. She was going out to a festival with her Dad, something I had been told about before that conversation the previous night but which I had confined to the back of my memory because I was too entwined with the view of the Blue Ridge Mountains out of the car window as we passed the fair site where she was going with her Dad. It was a Scottish festival and her roots go all the way back to that bonnie land so she was going to the festival this Saturday with her father, it all made sense now. I also remembered that she had said that we could meet her father that morning if we were awake. I was asleep. The kind of asleep where you are in the bed, blanket warmed from sleeping there all night, blanket on top of you, pillows under your head and thoughts of “ah, no pressure to get up, this is much too comfy yet”. Refer to my explanation about how my mind works at this early hour of the morning in order to fully fit in with this line of thought…read it twice if you are one of those early risers who just loves the mornings and thinks everyone else will if you rub into their faces just how awake and happy you are at 7am. Twice for you. As I was lying there I could hear Jessica’s father come in the door and felt that I should really get out of bed and introduce myself for I guessed that the chances of him bursting into the bedroom to do likewise would be slim at best. I moved in the bed a little wondering how long he would stay and I could hear that he was mispronouncing Donal’s name. Donal was yet again to be “Don-Al” not “Dough-Nal”. You’d understand it more if Donal had actually written out his name and handed it to Jessica’s father by way of introduction but he didn’t, he said it out and all that had to happen was a repeat of what Donal had actually spoke. If I found it strange, which I did, I can only imagine how Don-Al felt – this was the second person of any note who had managed to get it all wrong. Poor fella was all alone in facing this onslaught on his name too, although I could hear Jessica chirp in with a correction but I was thinking that this could get particularly awkward and maybe if I was there it might not be so difficult. There was no way I could make the shower without passing the living area and thus having to stop and chat…there was no way I could make it really. The blanket was lovely and warm anyway and he’d be leaving soon too. Logic told me this would be a first and last impression for Jessica’s father (when would I ever see him again?!) and weren’t Americans very demanding when it comes to first impressions? Surely my hair, tossed and coming out in all directions wouldn’t be a nice sight. The excuses rolled on until I heard the door close and a small bit of guilt crept in. The thought of some nice morning coffee, with the vanilla flavour (both natural and artificial) got rid of that. I should have gotten up though.

Suzanne, Donal and I drove down to the university playing fields which seemed to be much like UCC’s Farm (not for animals despite the name, for sports…although Gaelic football is played there so perhaps there is a connection with animals). Suzanne explained that the car park we were leaving the car, and my camera in, is where you have to park as a first year student due to parking restrictions on the main campus at the other side of the town. A bus, the Appal Cart, would bring you to the college for free. Not that I really looked into it, although I probably should have, the Appal Cart actually was a town wide bus service and was free. Imagine the number 2 being free into Patrick’s Street (and yes it does go there but only after 7pm)? The sun was shining, it was a lovely day as we stepped from the car and walked down towards the fields. There didn’t seem to be any particular layout to it but we walked, crossed a small river with an ornate and roofed bridge and set out to throw the disc around the place, and hopefully catch it too. As we walked across the cut grass I thought that a football would be a much better idea, we could kick it around, run, pass, curl it around. There was a girl around, friend or not, so obviously you’d have to look as macho as possible and I reckoned a football would allow the machismo to be better showed. Still the Frisbee throwing was fun, I hadn’t done it in quite while and the surroundings were perfect for it. There was a relatively steep hill on one side, the car park over some fields on the other…actually we were in a bit of a bowl as there was hills on all sides really, some closer than others and this made it into quite a picturesque place. Perhaps the hills were also a reason for the lack of any real breeze and with the sun taking its toll I took off my shirt so that I wouldn’t have to wear a virtual damp sponge. I could also get a bit of a tan as well I thought because I didn’t want to be labelled with the usual “farmers tan” tag that a lot of Irish people receive when they come back from holidays. Thinking about that now perhaps it’s just an item of begrudgery because you have been on holidays and they haven’t and for that, they (whoever “they” are) must find some fault with you. Best to be one step ahead of those people. Actually it’s best to ignore them really but…

Anyway we threw the Frisbee around and the wind did indeed sometimes make a lot of fun out of all of us, except for Suzanne it seemed, for Donal and I were both having to run and try to catch or slap our hands together expecting there to a disc in between when what was actually happening was the Gods of Frisbee were having a laugh at watching the disc fall to the ground a few feet ahead of the clapping hands. This necessitated some diving, or at least I thought it did. There was a few reasons behind this line of thinking, one being that if I couldn’t play football then I should at least be allowed to dive around a little and also it felt good to jump through the air and cool down for about half second before landing when it became apparent that I now had double the sweat on my brow than when I started out. It was good fun all the same but eventually we began to ask each other the time, always an indicator of an activity going stale. It’s funny how it’s done really, no one wants to push anyone else to stop but at the same time a signal is being sent to people. When the time came we all stopped and sat on the grass after asking each other were we hungry, which was a valid question seeing as we hadn’t eaten since breakfast and was also useful at calming any remaining embers of enthusiasm for throwing the Frisbee. Sitting on the grass with no top on was a little strange for the grass was almost spiky and not soft like it is at home. I suppose with less rain grass is like this, it’s normally soaked back home so the mud bath you inevitably end of sitting in at some point is bound to be soft. Suzanne then started to use a blade of grass to emit a shrieking sound much like a bird call. It was brilliant, a great party piece if there had been a party on at the time but even still I wanted to know how it was done. And this was my downfall of course for I couldn’t do it. I tried and I tried and when Donal managed to do it I had to try harder but it wasn’t happening. I was sitting there wrapping grass ornately around my thumb trying to do a shrieking noise. Eventually I managed to get it, a few times as well just to prove that it wasn’t a fluke but all the same it wasn’t easy and after a few goes I decided to leave it go…quit while you’re ahead and all of that.

Despite having grass very near our mouths we remained quite hungry as you can imagine and we made our way to a peculiar place called Cook Out. I had heard Suzanne talk about this place before in conjunction with bbq-ed food and other such tasty delights and was quite looking forward to see what fare they had on offer. The only problem was that there was really no way to see what fare was indeed on offer. You see the principle behind Cook Out, as indicated by the name really, is that they cook the food and you take it out. Cook Out. Actually sorry that doesn’t make sense, it only does when you think of this place as providing the cooking service for the BBQ you want to have In the garden but for which you couldn’t be bothered heating the coals up for. Handy really, but then it takes the fun out of the BBQ too, especially if it is a gas one from which you can compete with your friends in a “how high can the flame go” contest by smacking oily meat on the grill and watching the flame go high. We queued up for our food seeing that orders were being taken at a booth and the food being taken from that same booth. Donal went first after quickly examining the menu and then I went myself after spending a bit of time going through all of the forty variations they have of milkshakes. Forty! I think I settled for the Oreo chocolate chip although with that many flavours on offer I am sure that I could have asked for an oxtail flavoured milkshake. Think about that when you feel like binging on food. George W Bush always had a way of leaning on his podium as he spoke with one arm and I did the same myself at this booth, the guy on the inside noting my Cork accent, as I leant and ordered my meal. Suzanne went next and after we paid we headed back to the apartment. Everything was set out nice and tidily on what looked like disposable versions of the TV dinner trays you’d normally see in 1950s TV shows. I must say, this detracted somewhat from the feeling of eating BBQ outdoors; the fact that we were eating this indoors was also a probable factor too. Cook Out was an interesting little place though, set in a very motor-centric area of Boone where there were essentially no footpaths! If you wanted Cook Out without a car you’d need to cross a 4 lane road first, a busy four lane road.

In a way then Cook Out boiled down what America is synonymous for, the car and personal transport over public transport and walking and the link between the car and food. This link has been there since the 1950s but in Cook Out you didn’t even have the option of sitting in, you had to take the food away with you (although I would have liked to have seen what would have happened if I had sat outside the one story building and eaten there in the little car park). There was a drive-thru option of course, there’s a drive-thru option for everything over there including dry-cleaning , but there was also the other non-drive thru booth in case you felt like parking the car ten feet away and taking a leisurely stroll to the order window. I thought it nice of them to give some people at least an introduction to walking.

The food itself was actually quite good and the milkshake was well worth whatever I paid for it which really wasn’t much I don’t think. Maybe the Frisbee made up for the fat intake…it must have, especially when coupled with that ten foot walk to the order booth.

Day Nineteen - Boone, North Carolina

The previous day hadn't been easy on anyone, Suzanne and Allison had driven for 6 hours up and back from Raleigh, while myself and Donal had competed in our own Olympic sprint event to reach the train from DC to Raleigh before strapping ourselves in for the 3 hour drive from Raleigh to Boone. Not to say that that drive was anything but fantastic, it was a little taste of the Great American Road Trip, in an American made car (though it was a Honda) with possibly the most hospitable American people ever to grace that nation. It has always been a dream of mine to see America through my own eyes - don't find that too confusing, I did see New York et al with my own eyes, I didn't borrow anyone else's, but I would like to some day go exactly where my eyes look, whenever I want to. That's a garbled explanation if I ever came across one but what I am trying to say is that, while the train down to Raleigh was very comfortable and public transport in the cities so far was more than adequate, there'd be nothing quite like seeing the next road sign and just following it. I'm on two wheels myself, a proud biker but even if it was done on four wheels it would be a dream. Even getting a little taste of that on the Interstate for a few hours was fantastic. In that sense then the drive to Boone was more than a drive, it was a preview of a dream, a dream that one day I hope to fulfill but really the stay in Boone was about more than this for staying with friends, mobile friends (meaning they had a car for they call mobiles "cell phones" in the US) , meant that I had more choice in what I wanted to see and where I wanted to go. This freedom, a freedom within the freedom of the great travel already undertaken, was supposed to still be years off, only within reach when I myself would be in control of the bike or the car. And that freedom involves getting out of bed at whatever time you want, in a room that, at least temporarily, you can call your own. Upon waking in Boone, this was just what I had.

I looked around the room, it wasn't huge by any means but a decent size nonetheless and reminded me of a bedroom in my Nan's house. I had the only bed in there and didn't have to worry about any other people waking up in a bed opposite mine with red eyes but the most upbeat morning mood ever. Nevin and mornings don't really go together, I can do mornings but generally I am a night owl and getting up in hostels, was, I found, a tiresome enough process for if others were in the room you had to keep quiet and if those people were awake then it was quite possible that they could see your liathroidí when you drop the towel to put on the shorts after your shower. You had to think and plan everything as if it was a military operation but here in Boone I could easily go around the room naked admiring my fine body in the mirror; I'm not sure which I am more unsure about, my "fine" body (ahem) or there being a mirror in the room! Well I can always say that I have been naked in North Carolina, which is nice.

It takes me a while to actually get out of bed after waking and when I eventually did put my feet on the ground I took my clothes and towel and went for a shower. Looking back on it now I'm surprised at how little time it took to do this for normally I have to talk myself into getting out of bed, I have to reason with myself. "Nevin, it's 9:30am, you set the alarm for 8am, isn't an hour and a half enough of a lie-in?"...."hmmm...but it's half nine now so what's another half hour, at least that would round it up and I'd be more prepared for actually getting up". Honestly this is a real example of the thoughts that go through my head on a typical morning. I'm surprised they can be so diplomatic actually because my general reaction to people in the morning is one of contempt or at best a sort of begrudging observation that they are alive.

"Good morning Nevin, how are you on this beautiful summers day?"
"Well I was much better, wrapped up in my bad mood, than before you decided to barge in with your morning sunshine and good mood, now why don't you go and have tea with a hippy?"

You can be sure that if you say good morning to me at too early a time, or in the wrong way, then this is the response that is going through my mind only waiting to come out from between my lips. I blame it on Mother Nature, it's too early in the morning for blame anyway, besides blaming people for being nice and happy, in which case the earlier the better. The rule does bend a little though for if the other person says "good morning" in a noticeably moody way (the deep voice and rubbing of the eyes normally gives it away I find, seeing as that is how I am) then I will generally acknowledge them nicely (though with a deep voice and rubbing of the eyes) and develop a "morning respect" for them for you know that they feel just like you do. Remember algebra rules? Two minuses make a plus.
When I entered the sitting area where Donal slept seeing as he had fallen in love with the sofa contraption in there I bid him a grudging good morning, received one back and when Suzanne and Allison came along, a similar repetore was followed. I could tell that they weren't going to be regaling to me, stories of them hopping out of bed at 5am in order to eat their cereal as the sun rose up and that wasn't it great to be alive. While it is harder to tell if a female should be offered morning respect, seeing as they don't really get the deep voice thing us male gets, they seemed slightly less chirpy than they had the night before and were still in sleeping attire. Thus morning respect was given and few enough words were exchanged as we ate cereal. Suzanne put coffee on and despite being less chirpy and slower to reply to things than she had been the night before, she made a considerable effort to make sure I had enough milk (and knowing where to get it) for the cereal and went to the trouble of putting coffee on, coffee with vanilla extract (natural and artificial flavours said the packet, always good to use a mixture of man and nature) no less. At this point I was wondering should I add some kindling to the fire and get the day going by cracking the morning silence, something my still cobwebbed brain was telling me not to do but if I was to do this I'd need a topic. The vanilla coffee, having never seen it back home, was one, so I latched on to that but quickly retreated after mentioning it realising that it would be better if I just drank the coffee appreciatively and having let the caffeine take effect, guage whether I, or anyone else, was ready to converse. It was as I drank the coffee, at the table near the door, that my mind thought back on my nights sleep. I had actually slept on the sofa and Donal on the more solid couch but having woken at the very early hours I removed myself to the bedroom I was given due to my side feeling a little sore. A supporting pole going across the centre of the sofa was stabbing into my hips, as I remembered, the coffee duly doing it's role, but I also remembered that before I moved, I had debated the merits of doing so in my mind. It's probable that I tried to either put a cushion underneath me or else take an angle grinder to the culprit of my discomfort...anything to avoid me having to get out from under the blanket. And to think I had ensured everyone in the house the night before that the mighty Nevin would not fall asleep on the sofa, this coffee was unearthing too much! But it did taste really good.

Today we'd be going on a trail, up the mountains, something I thought I'd only ever get to do if I came over with a license to drive or ride a bike but it's funny what life throws up at times. I donned my Cork City jersey, thinking it'd be a good idea to wear that in order for it to wick any sweat away from my skin (what with it being a football shirt and made to do that sort of thing) and was out the door and into the front seat of the Civic. I was feeling a little bit guilty about taking the front seat all of the time even at this early stage but seeing as we ended up going along some of the Blue Ridge Trailway, it was a joy and I imagined myself going through it on a bike, two wheels transverse beneath me, leaning the weight of man and machine into the sweeping bends and straightening it up to enjoy the magnificent views we were now looking out at. Land and more land, green with tall trees rising and falling until the eye could no longer see. The clouds tipped the top of the trees as it became a blur near the horizon, this was truly amazing. Obviously to be out and about in this, to be physically in touch with this awe-inspiring exhibit of nature was an experience to behold and stepping from the car we all, quite gingerly began our walk up through the Tanawha Trail.

I say gingerly at least for myself here. Suzanne had done this trail before as I am sure Allison and Jessica had also but I was determined to keep up with the pace despite not knowing what was ahead of me. Now it would have been foolish had I just jumped to the front and taken over the walk but the path had already accounted for such foolishness by being only wide enough for one person to go through at a time...so I suppose we were much like a human train and being stuck in the middle of this train I noticed that the girls were wearing sandals. This seemed a little strange because back in the apartment Donal and I had been told that we'd need to wear some sturdy footwear. When I hear "sturdy footwear" normally I think of those hiking boots that come into Lidl or Aldi every Springtime when the Aldi or Lidl bosses think we are all in the mood for climbing mountains with their brochures ordained with pictures of happy couples gazing admirably at Austrain or German hills (because they love hiking over there apparently). Unfortunately I hadn't packed, or come to think of it, every bought, this kind of footwear despite sometimes thinking that I might do. And so I went along the trail in my Adidas runners, the blue, white and red ones that had been admired a year earlier in no less a place than Times Square. By a young black man. No higher praise for stand-out runners really but they were never made for a path like this, dry mud, the odd wet section, slippy moss covered rocks and bushes on either side that you had to become intimately acquainted with whenever another group of people decided to walk in the opposite direction to us. I mean had they not thought of just waiting at the top until we could all go down in an orderly fashion or did they think the trail was another embodiment of the Interstate!

We didn't reach the top as such, which I will say now was a little disappointing, but that was through no one's fault but the weather's. Clouds were moving in, we could no longer actually see the top that I had so wanted to reach and some of the path was becoming a little slippy from the odd drops of rain that were falling. Still the view was amazing as we sat on a massive rock on a jagged rise. I looked out in front of me as I sat, legs folded, on this massive chunk of rock as Donal continued his impression of a Southern gay guy which was, at this stage, becoming annoying. They seemed like hills but size is perceptive and when everything around is huge then even the biggest of things doesn't manage to stand out and so these mountains were hills for hills never stand out for being hills alone. The lines graduating towards the horizon were shaped as hills, with their gentle curves but there was just so many of them and all covered with a deep, rich, green blanket of pine trees which actually allowed you to see just how massive these hills were, rolling through the land. Turning around showed me just how high up I was and just how deceptive these hills were when I looked over the edge and saw the top of trees way below me. Looking back at it now what a contrast this height was from the height experienced standing at the top of the Empire State Building in that massive metropolis known as New York City. I wasn't afriad of either one but the sense of awe was certainly different as in New York I gazed over miles and miles of bright lights and a city still alive deep in the night while here in the mountains of North Carolina I could see the Blue Ridge Parkway but no other sign of civilization, it certainly made you feel very very small and humble. Well it did for me anyway, I can't speak for Donal's southern gay persona!

Our next stop in the Honda Civic was at Mass General Store, a chain of Western style traditional shops which sell lots of sweets and jeans and cowboy hats. It was impressive it must be said. Going into the shop I was delighted that I didn't have any kids because if I did then this would have been the perfect place from which to ring the bank manager to allow him prior notice of the emptying of my account in return for tons of sweets. Admittedly I have a bit of a sweet tooth myself but I kept myself back from buying too much, limiting myself to some chocolate covered something-or-others. Chocolate bars just aren't the same in America, they're too oily rather than milky, but I was willing to give these treats a try and later on that night I was glad I did for sitting down to watch a movie they turned out to be fantastic!