Planes, Trains, and Ferryboats: Getting to Galway

Warning: This blog contain an angry tirade against RyanAir. The ultra cheap airline prides itself on low fares and being on time, but that’s all they have to brag about considering their customer service, treatment of passengers, and general demeanor lack charm or accountability. So be warned, I’m not a RyanAir fan. Read RuinAir for a lengthier account.

Miriam and I booked through RyanAir to head out to Dublin from London Gatwick for £20 return. We were pleasantly surprised to make it to the airport on time after a delay on the motorway. Following a swift check-in and an unobtrusive security screening, we found ourselves alongside the masses waiting for the gate information.

The cheaper airlines love to keep you waiting in the exterior lounge for the gate number to pop up on a miniature screen. Once it does, keep your elbows at the quick and nimble position so you can fight off the hoards of people running to your gate. RyanAir might be the only airline that drives respectable looking businessmen to the great lengths of tripping children in order to secure an aisle seat. But in typical travel fashion, you simply hurry up to wait. We eventually make it to the plane, find a seat, and resist the temptation of buying lottery tickets or overpriced Fanta.

We were greeted by mists of rain as we descended into Dublin, but better yet, we were also greeted by our Irish friend Sarah. We spent the evening at her abode in Swords, a suburb north of Dublin, catching up on all the gossip and events since we last saw each other.

Considering Miriam and I had already “done Dublin” as tourists, we decided to explore another region of this beautiful island. We hopped a bus from the city centre to Heuston Station (€1.30), where we decided to head to Galway. Nothing like last minute decisions in the rain.

Three hours and €44 later we found ourselves in the City of Galway, one of the larger cities in Ireland, though it seems much smaller than that. We were advised by some friends that this was the place for traditional music and a good pint of equally traditional Guinness. Galway was even ranked 14^th best tourist destination in Europe, ahead of Paris, London, and Rome.

A quick search on hostelworld.com led us to The Sleepzone Hostel and we couldn’t have made a better choice. For 14 euros a night, we had an all-female dorm room (six beds) with a surprisingly clean ensuite shower. There was free internet and tea/coffee in the a.m., along with a helpful, friendly staff. It’s no wonder this place was ranked best hostel in Ireland.

Head out to Quay Street (pronounced “key”) to find a row of restaurants and pubs. This tourist area is like the Temple Bar of Galway, yet it’s somewhat cheaper and better quality than the Dublin version. We stopped into Fat Freddy’s Bistro for a bite to eat, dined by candlelight, and managed to rack up a bill under 20 euros.

Once on Quay, you just have to listen to find the right pub to pick. The sounds to look out for come in the form of flutes and bagpipes, cheers and stomping feet. We wandered into the Spanish Arch Hotel and the room was bouncing with energy. The band Alalé was performing and they can be summed up in a word: incredible.

The mix of traditional Irish harmonies with some Spanish fusion made the room erupt in applause for this local band. It was the kind of performance you’d expect to pay for, but the only money I spent was on a pint of Guinness (the dark stuff always makes you feel a little more Irish). This band makes you want to abandon all sense of propriety and jump around the bar with a grin plastered on your face. The fast paced music just screamed with energy, so much in fact, we went back the next night. These four guys know how to play and they made the trip to Galway entirely worth it.

And thank goodness for the Galway experience, because by the time we made it back to the Dublin airport two minutes after RyanAir closed its check in, we were deeply considering if the trip had been worth it. They closed five minutes early and pleading with a snotty woman wearing a RyanAir badge didn’t help us check in. Instead, we were directed to the sales desk where they claimed no flights to England were available that day. The next best thing? A €75 flight to London the next day at noon. We scratched that option and hunted down an internet connection.

Skyscanner.net gave us more options and less attitude than the help desk, though everything under €225 was the following day. With time running out (literally… those internet kiosks are pay by the minute), we booked a flight to Birmingham for 6 a.m. We can blame the Dublin bus system for being unreliable. We can blame RyanAir for closing the check-in desk early. We can blame ourselves for not allotting more time to get there. But in the end, the blame game doesn’t matter when you have to spend 15 hours in the airport.

Needless to say, we survived, though not without a heightened addiction to caffeine. We bought overpriced airport food, read some books, watched TV, slept for an hour on a Starbucks chair, and even had a book and a magazine stolen from the bagel place. But now I can consider myself a true and tested tourist, as all avid travelers need to spend at least one night in an airport.

Living on the Edge: Inis Mór

I was on the edge of the world – peering over jagged cliffs into the churning blue ocean. Looking across the distance I could see the horizon crash into the water. The sun lost its spherical form and just blended with the bright sky. It’d be blinding save for $6 sunglasses.

Inis Mór, the largest of the Aran Islands in the very west of Ireland, conjured thoughts of the sublime. Stepping on the 1,000 BC rock made me lose my sense of time and space. I have never been anywhere more dramatic or thought-provoking than the cliffs of Inis Mór.

The ferry ride from Galway to the Aran Islands (€18) was hilarious to say the least. Sitting on the back of the 150-seat cruiser, the waves jumped up while on the choppy waters, giving Miriam and I an impromptu salt-water shower. Between fits of giggles, we stumbled toward the inner cabin for the remainder of the ride.

Once you disembark, lines of tour buses will be waiting to tempt you. I suggest you take one—because we didn’t and we should have. Instead, we set off on foot, grabbing a sandwich to take along at the one and only grocery store on the island.

On our hunt for a picturesque spot to eat, we were passed by warp speed minibuses, most signaling that they’d pick us up. But we found some flat rocks overlooking the Atlantic, so we picnicked in the Irish wind.

We kept to the trek and hiked a hill or two, until a tour bus had the decency to stop for us. He offered a ride to the fort and cliffs (€5), which were miles away. Our driver—along with most people we encountered on the island—was so nice, I need a new word for nice. Once we were dropped off at the fort, he organized a ride back to the port for us.

The short hike to the top of Dún Aengus is lined with Bronze Age walls, with jagged remnants on the ground below (caution: do not attempt to wear flip flops on this journey!). Through the stone wall opening, the drama unfolds. We were nearly knocked over by the gusts of wind making its presence known. When I saw the view from atop, I couldn’t help but exhale in absolute awe.

After the photos are snapped and the video captured, sit on the cliff and soak in the sun (if you’re so lucky to have it shine). It could take minutes or hours, but take the time to take it all in: the view, the trip, the life around you.

On the way back to the ferry, we couldn’t help but grin. Joe Gill drove us in his minibus and answered questions about the island (population: 800, average house price: €250,000, major industry: tourism). This time around we selected the interior ferry seats, being we had just dried off from the last venture.

The arandirect ferry was pleasant, but let me recommend any other company so you can take a 7:30 p.m. return instead of the 5 p.m. – you’ll need as much of the day as possible on the island if it is only a day trip. There seems to be enough to do if you desire an overnight stay – with plenty of bed and breakfasts or hostels dotted around the island. A 45-minute bus ride took us back to the city centre from the Rossaveal Port (€6) by 7 p.m. Expect a fully loaded coach on that last service back to civilization.

Inis Mór provided me with much needed perspective and a brilliant photo-op. I’ll always remember those crashing waves, the staggering cliffs, and stepping up to the edge of the world and smiling.

Getting to the Root of It All: The Drive with My Dad

If you can hire a car and manage stickshift on the other side of the road, take a few days to tour around England. There’s more to see on this island than London and I was lucky enough to have my dad here in March to show me. Being that I can’t hire a car, manage stickshift, or drive on the other side of the road, it was a good thing he got here.

My first stop on the tour with the pop was Hereford, about two hours from Oxford. His cousin Tony lives there with wife Sandra, and they showed us a wonderful time. Situated on the River Wye, which seems to wind all along the area, Hereford was a lovely stop on the driving adventure.

We headed a few miles out of town to The Green Man for drinks and dinner. Sitting in a place that pre-dates America certainly brings some historical perspective to the table, as this restaurant/inn dates back to 1485. A few Stowford Press Ciders later our food arrived and tasted of pure perfection. The menu was laden with delicious options, but I’ve got to recommend the chicken kiev.

The next morning we woke up to the best English breakfast I’ve ever had, but unless you know Tony and Sandra, don’t expect to get one. We left the house fairly early to head to York, a few hours away in north Yorkshire.

The Marriott on the edge of town near the racecourse was a welcomed sight, as it had been awhile since I could partake in the plush comforts of a nice hotel. Hitting up hostels is all good fun, but traveling with the rents means better quality, and the Marriott spells quality. In other words, I could leave the shower shoes at home.

York is a truly trendy spot in northern England, with hipster restaurants and pubs dotting the streets of this walled city. We took in a pint at a pub along the river and then found one of many Indian restaurants in the city centre. The Akash Tandoori provided a decent meal and good service, and it was one of the more traditional curry houses opposed to some of the modern establishments in the area that lack charm.

No trip to York is complete without a visit to the York Minister, as it's the largest Gothic cathedral in northern Europe. When my brother was there as a kid, he was sure to apologize to a security guard about the fire that destroyed the place in 741.

From York we took to the road and found ourselves in my dad’s old stomping grounds, a village named Wetwang (seriously). Driving along the Yorkshire Wolds and discovering this village of his past made the trip worthwhile. He escaped to this country landscape to spend the summers with his grandmother as a child.

We then stopped over in Hull so I could meet my great aunt. Molly, my paternal grandfather’s sister, is fantastic. We chatted up a storm about past, present, and future family affairs. We then crossed the Humber Bridge to meet up with another one of his cousins, David, at The Whistle and Flute pub. A cider and a good chat later we set off again.

Our last stop on the journey landed us in Lincoln, a place my mom spent several weeks studying Tennyson as a graduate student at the Tennyson Research Centre. As recommended by my Frommer’s Guide to England, we booked into the White Hart Hotel. Full of history, this hotel saw the likes of Churchill, Eisenhower, and Margaret Thatcher. Of course, history doesn’t always translate to comfort. The halls were like mazes and the beds were like boards. For about 160 pounds, the only redeeming feature of this hotel was the view of the cathedral.

On the very appropriately named Steep Hill Street, you’ll find Browns Pie Shop, a cozy, atmospheric restaurant. Think of a pie filling and it’ll be there, but I’m not talking typical dessert pies, these are proper pies you can only find in northern England. I dove into a fisherman’s pie, stuffed with salmon and halibut, in a creamy parsley sauce, and topped with a layer of mashed potatoes. My dad tried out something different and went for the venison and blackcurrent pie, with a crusty top keeping in the piping hot mixture. And if you need to work off the pie, just hike up the hill back to the cathedral… it’s sure to give you a full cardio work out.

We braved the rain soaked motorway and made it back to London the next day. It was a great trip to connect to my roots and see the country where my roots were planted. Even if you don’t have family in the area, looking beyond London can only bring you a smile, as this land is diverse and charming. Start practicing that stickshift and whole other side of the road thing ASAP.

Stay Tuned: Upcoming Blogs

After a blogging respite, I'll be back in travel action soon. Stay tuned for the following updates, to be completed in the next few weeks after I get back from a Euro adventure!

• Hereford, York, Lincoln
• Budapest
• Munich
• Black Forest/Bavaria
  

Cancellation Chaos: AA's Struggle

An early morning phone call beckoned me back to New Mexico last week. A bit of bad news (that could have been a lot worse) forced me to forgo convenience and find the first flight out of London. A quick scan of lastminute.com led me to American Airlines, where I purchased a return flight for under a grand.

Little did I know when I turned the corner at customs in Dallas I’d be greeted by a slew of flight cancellations. That’s right… I got caught in the middle of the worst string of airline delays and cancellations in the past decade. So I did what any other delayed passenger would do: ran up to a service desk and demanded I get on the next flight out of there.

Typical, that I would come all the way from London and couldn’t even get to the other side of the state— as I was shooting for El Paso for the final destination. The line started to bulk up, but luckily I made it to the front of the queue before the hoards of angry travelers could trample me.

Amid a few tears and desperate pleas, I explained my situation. Two ardent customer service reps worked to get me on a flight to El Paso that evening, via Phoenix. American Airlines has been getting a lot of flack these past weeks, as well they should, what with the cancellation of over 1,000 flights and the displacement of 250,000 passengers. But I want to extend a thank you to AA for getting me where I needed to go. I’m sure had I been traveling the next day, I would be raging right now instead of applauding, but as luck will have it, I made it to El Paso.

I would suggest, for future reference, American Airlines should inspect their planes when told to do so. Also, they should inform passengers why their flights were canceled; it wasn't until a day later while watching CNN did I discover AA's entire fleet of MD-80s were grounded— and I’m guessing not for bad behavior.

It seems to be a bad time to travel, between the terminal 5 chaos at Heathrow and this recent burst of incompetence. There’s not much I can recommend for those flying these days, except to expect delays, confusion, and frustration. Bring a good book when you fly, because you’re in for a long wait and I’m not talking about the flight.