Galway is charming. A smaller Irish town on the opposite side of the island from Dublin. But, I am a little ahead of myself. . . .
We flew into Dublin that morning. The flight was short, but the logistics to leave the plane and get through customs was a walk of about a mile through tunnels, buildings, walk-ways, people movers, and escalators.
It reminded me of my first semester at San Jose State. The registration process was a walk through five buildings starting at one end of the campus and ending at the gym on the other. You had to be in good shape to do it . . pushing and shoving, eight deep, throwing the weakest to the side . . . I think it was a survival of the fittest. The passage ways were littered with the n’er do wells who didn’t take PE seriously in high school.
But back to Galway. Now I thought Ireland was a part of the British Empire, so I technically didn’t understand the need for the customs discussion. However, after walking the mile, I really didn’t care. Maybe they were looking for Boris Johnson or Teresa May . . . I hope they find them!
We talked with a very lovely Irish lass who facilitated the trip to the train station. I loved the Irish accent, and that aint no Blarney.
The trip to Galway was strikingly beautiful through ancient countryside and with buildings that were old 200 years ago. The greens and browns of the countryside against the gray aged-granite stone, once piled high as fences or borders or protections from invaders, stood in relief against the dark clouds and Atlantic Ocean in the distance. There was a section that reminded me of Sir. Arthur Conan Doyle’s description of the moors in the Hound of the Baskervilles. Dark and heavy at times, offset by the picturesque images of the grasses, trees, pathways, and bright colored country homes.
Ireland was going to be a beautiful place to spend a week and play some golf!