A Charismatic Encounter
My hope was to turn up enough interesting background information during my trip to Ireland to provide local color for my new book Irish Footsteps. What I didn’t anticipate was meeting a character so rich in wit, whimsical spirit and charisma, I wouldn’t have to resort to fiction to include him in the story.
Just Get There
As it turned out, the hardest part was getting there.
If I had been much younger, I might have seen this as an exciting opportunity to test my navigational skills on foreign soil. However, at the age of 71, it seemed like a daunting task, I hadn’t boarded a plane since before 9/11. Navigating through airports with multiple security checkpoints would be new to me. And it had been more than five decades since I made an international flight.
Doing the Homework
Hopefully wisdom would compensate for the youthful derring-do I seemed to have lost over the years. I would know to be better prepared by doing research before I left the States. Since this would be a story based on my sister’s journey from Sean Ross Abbey in Tipperary County, Ireland to her adoptive home in Missouri, I searched for background information that would help me when I arrived.
Clearing the Hurdles
Once I finally landed on Irish soil, I would need to rent a car and rewire my brain to operate a stick shift on the left side instead of the right. Driving on the left side of the road instead of the right would also pose a challenge. Then there were roundabouts that cropped up like a dizzying array of hurdles to clear. A recurring fear surfaced: Did I bite off more than I could chew?
Jack Eases Anxiety
The only thing keeping me from descending into panic mode was an email from the gentleman whose house I would be staying at. The place was called Stay With Jack. The owner, Jack Sheahan, was gracious enough to respond to my email an hour after I sent it. He provided his phone number and told me to call him if I got lost.
It didn’t take long before I realized Jack would not only be a good host, but someone I could rely upon for information about the history of Ireland as well as the country’s ethos.
As a former journalist, I could appreciate his penchant for considering both sides of a story. In a short period of time, we had somehow transcended our roles as lodger and innkeeper; we were friends.
His guests the day I arrived at his home were from Bulgaria, England and Germany. Jack was so adept at bringing everyone into the conversation, it didn’t seem to matter how limited some were with the English language. It reminded me that when people want to get to know each other, they’ll find a way.
Busing it to Dublin
When I confessed to Jack, I was not a fan of driving on the left side of the road, he suggested I take a bus to my next destination, which was Dublin. In this capacity I could take in the scenery without having to worry about getting lost. And if I needed more time to take in the sights and sounds of Dublin, I could always find a hotel and spend the night.
He offered to drive me to the bus stop in Newcastle West, which was a few minutes away from his home in Ardagh Village. I was more than happy to accept. “Make sure you’re on the big green 300 bus for Killarney-Tralee on your return to Newcastle West,” he instructed.
Where’s the Big Green Bus?
Sounded easy enough. However, once I stepped off the bus at Dublin Centre, I could see that there were signs for bus stops on just about every main street. And none of them were for the big green 300 bus bound for Killarney-Tralee.
I had plenty of time to figure this out. I checked out the Book of Kells at Trinity College, ventured to the Immigration Building and began to feel settled in. But each time I checked the signs for the bus I needed to board for my return trip, I came up empty.
After several minutes of failing to find the right bus stop, I texted Jack, asking him if he could recall a landmark or street that would take me to the correct bus stop.
“Find the Burgh Quay, it should be right there,” he wrote. Ah, sure enough there it was. Content with the knowledge that I knew where I had to be when I was ready to return, I checked on my phone for prices of hotels. To my surprise, none had a vacancy for that night or any until two weeks.
I texted Jack telling him I would need to return the same day and needed a room at his house for the night. “Not to worry,” was his immediate response. “I’ll be here when you return. Just let me know when you board the bus so I can track it until it arrives in Newcastle.”
Jack to the Rescue
Once again, Jack alleviated any anxiety I might have had over whether I had a ride back to his house and a room to sleep in for the night. I told him I would take in more of Dublin and head back on the 6:15 bus.
I headed to the bus stop at around 6 p.m. and waited until 6:30 with no 300 green buses designated for Killarney-Tralee in sight. By 7:15 another group had arrived at the spot where I stood. It was becoming clear there were more people than available seats if the next bus arrived on time.
Finally, a bus that was neither green nor marked for Killarney-Tralee pulled up to the stop designated for the 300 routes. After several minutes the driver emerged with the news that they had no idea where the 6:15 driver was. Now there were several people shouting and pandemonium was beginning to set in. The driver said he would radio back to headquarters, and they would figure out a solution.
I notified Jack that my 6:15 had not only failed to show up, but I wasn’t sure when I would be back that night. “No worries,” was his answer. “They will figure something out. Stay put and let me know when you leave.’
A Long Day’s Journey Into Night
True to his word, they did figure something out. They were able to summon another bus and alter routes so that there were enough seats to accommodate everyone who wanted to depart Dublin. A third bus was ordered to handle passengers along the routes through Limerick and beyond and they made it work.
I fell asleep during this long day’s journey into night and didn’t wake until I heard that beautiful Irish accent that filled the bus like a church organ on Christmas eve. It was Jack at near the stroke of midnight assuring me once again that there was nothing to worry about.
Ah, Ireland. My second home.
