The Adventure Granny

I am on my way to upper Michigan for a short visit. It takes three planes each way because there are small towns at the beginning and end of the trip. Right now I am in Los Angeles, waiting for the flight to Chicago.

The airport in San Luis Obispo stops checking passengers a half hour before the flight leaves. I don’t know of other airports that do that but I could be wrong. This means that even though I live very close and the airport is very small I still have to get there quite early. In the past the screeners also checked every single bag. I’m happy to say that is no longer the case. Perhaps there were too many TSA employees in those early days.

Our flight arrived early so we had to wait a bit before we could get off the plane. Then we had to board shuttle buses to get to a larger terminal, in my case terminal 4. The walk to my gate was very short from there, for which I am grateful. So far so good.

I did have a scare. I went to the bathroom and as I set my wallet on top of the toilet paper holder I said to myself “Do not forget that”. But I forgot it. I was down the hall looking at scones when I realized I did not have my wallet with me. I raced back to the restroom and knocked on the door of the toilet I used. I didn’t understand the response the first time, when I told the occupant I had probably left my wallet in there. I tried again and got no response. I waited outside interminably - this woman was having issues - and finally I knocked and said very loudly that I had left my wallet on top of the toilet paper holder and would she please put it on the floor under the door. And she did! It was there. I now have it safely zipped inside my carry-on instead of in my pants pockets. A little more inconvenient but far safer.

I went into the hospital (Western General in Edinburgh) Wednesday evening, as an emergency. Internal bleeding. While I was in there I was unable to go online, but eventually I found the strength to keep a journal of sorts. Here it is:

22 May 2008

The waiting is, of course, the worst thing here in hospital. When I get taken off for Xrays the actual X-ray time is very short. They are in and out and done and that’s that. But waiting for the guy to show up with the wheelchair to get me there, that’s different.

And waiting to find out the next step. That’s been tough. It seems that there is a main doctor but he consults with specialists as needed and the two of them eventually let me know what the next step will be. The different doctors and nurses have asked me the same questions, have done the same things, pressing here and there and asking what hurts, again and again. I suppose in a way it’s good because somebody might pick up on something that another did not.

Last night I slept almost not at all. I could not get comfortable initially, and when i finally found some comfort a nurse would show up to take my blood pressure. Many many times they took the pressure. They have machines they can set to do it automatically but the machines do not record it, from what I see. Then in the early morning they took blood from me, stealing it from my left hand. Later, quite a bit later, someone came back for more blood because, she said, the earlier sample
“clotted”. I am not sure if this means they didn’t get it to the lab on time or what but they did get more blood from that hand, although it took a bit more work the second time. Dehydration – not-good veins. A few hours after that take the gastroenterologist requested yet more blood and the nurse struggled manfully through the same hand, then my right inner elbow and back to the hand and no good. She called in a specialist, a doctor who had more experience, and the doctor took blood from my foot. It wasn’t too bad.

Everyone here has been very nice. And I am seeing and feeling the difference in approach between this system and the American. There has been no hunting for money from me, for instance. There has instead been an intent to find the cause and to fix it, period. I could have given them a false name, even, because nobody has asked for any ID. They also did a heart test, I think because of my irregular heartbeat. It was normal.

The doctors have been quite different in approach. They are hesitant and
careful about everything they do, saying “will that be all right?” to
make sure I am okay with whatever procedure it is. And then they
apologize for touching me or seeing a part of me not normally seen. All
very careful and so very not arrogant. At first I thought they were
unsure of themselves but it seems more a cultural difference.

The nurses and patients joke with each other. They can go to quite some
length at times, and it can be pretty funny. Accusing an older woman of
being a troublemaker and saying they have to watch her or she’ll escape
and they’ll have to send out the dogs, for example.

People tend to smile when i tell them I am from California. One said,
“So you woke up one day and said to yourself, ‘I’m sick of all the sunny
weather. I’m going to Edinburgh so I can get cold and wet.’” Many of
them joke about the weather here.

I am in ward 26, a “medical” ward. As opposed to “surgical” or
“urology”. There are flowers in varying stages of health on the
windowsill and there is a variety of chairs here that we can use when we
aren’t sacked out in bed. The beds are typical hospital, small,
adjustable. I have adjusted the hell out of mine.

Bear with me. This is stream-of-consciousness stuff. I am not trying to
tell a straightforward story. Perhaps because I told the story to the
doctors and nurses over and over and I’m tired of it.

One of the nurses asked me if I found it different here from an American
hospital. I said yes, and she said, “more utilitarian”. I said “By
‘utilitarian’ you mean…” and she replied “without frills”.

I thought about that. It’s true, of course, there are no frills, yet my
memories of hospitals in the states have not been so much of those
frills. My memories have been of the kind of care I received. Whether
there is a television on the wall ( there are none here) or internet
access (not here) or patient telephone (also not here) have been rather
insignificant when I was sick. There is no getting around the fact that
when you are here you don’t want to be and therefore it is hard to take
pleasure in anything frill-like.

8:09 pm

It’s over 24 hours since we arrived at this hospital, Western General.
Here’s a bit how it went:

When we arrived at the desk the woman there told me to go to a room
across the hall and pick up the phone. It would be automatically
answered and eventually I would describe my symptoms to a nurse and if
it were worth an emergency visit I would get an appointment. So I did. I
talked to one person, gave the symptoms, and that one sent me on to the
nurse, and the nurse expressed concern at the symptoms and said she’d
get me an appointment. Which she did. She said she’d fax over the
appointment to the desk and I could tell them it’s coming.

From this I gather that entry into the emergency clinic depends on a
first review by telephone, probably with someone at NHS Central, not at
this particular hospital (one of the questions they asked was where I
was). My appointment was very soon, so we sat in the waiting room for a
bit, until a very nice-looking doctor called my name. Cathy and I went
to his office, nothing like an American office, rather like a receiving
area, a largish room with an exam portion and a desk portion and empty
floor. He went into more detail with the questions and did an exam (TMI
here). He sent me back to the waiting room to wait for someone to bring
me to where they would take my blood.

I was in this neverland waiting area for quite some time. They put a
wrist band on me and gave me a bed to sit on but did not ask that I
change. It was all up in the air then. Eventually the doc – a different
doc, quite young, perhaps a specialist of sorts – said some of the blood
work was done and it didn’t look too bad but things like this tend not
to show up immediately so they’d like me to spend the night, “if that’s
okay with you”. I didn’t see any other move being smart so I said yes.
After waiting a longish time more, I was finally moved into the
receiving area for acute patients. I got a bed for real and thus began
the many blood pressure checks, going on into the night.

For some reason they decorated my other wrist with a wrist band as well
– that’s the side they used most often for the blood pressure tests.
Occasionally they did the blood pressure while I was lying down and then
again after I had stood up. They wanted to see if it would drop when I
stood.

From my current state and symptoms I am guessing that the bleeding has
stopped. I am not sure the scan tomorrow will find anything. I am
figuring all will be looking good then and tonight won’t be such a bad
night. Although I have fallen into naps so often today that I may not
sleep much anyway.

Did I mention I found two books on a book cart outside the waiting room?
My saving. There is no entertainment here. Right now I don’t know what
I’d want to watch anyway, but I could go for a good Law & Order or Wire
in the Blood. Something nice and distracting.

Cathy asked one of the nurses about the colored epaulets on their white
tops. The colors, as we’d guessed, indicate different levels of nursing,
from the low to the high, although the lowest have no epaulets at all.

The doctors here do more “routine” tasks than they do in the states. The
doctor, for example, called me from the waiting room. The doctors take
blood. Nurses do also but it’s clearly quite common for the docs to do
it themselves.

Friday, May 23 7:51 am
It looks likely that I will get the endoscopy today. Not a lovely
procedure but I have learned that they will sedate me for it so it’s
okay with me. The nurse came in to put another name band on my other
wrist, because she’d taken one off last night to try to get some blood
from me. The veins just aren’t showing themselves. Today she said they
put two bands on because I am going to be sedated and they may find that
the IV implant or whatever it’s called is not working for them and they
may need to cut off one of the wrist bands and start another feed. Just
in case, the nurse said, they make sure I have two wrist bands.

23 May 5:51 pm
I am in the GI ward now, and I didn’t get the endoscopy. I am now
scheduled for Monday. This thing is really stretching out.

The staff nurse says when this particular bag of salt water is finished
I will be unattached and can move around readily and eat and drink. Of
course the matter of what to eat or drink is a bit of a concern. There
isn’t much awareness of vegetarianism here in the hospital. However, the
menu is marked with items that are veg and items that are
“heart-friendly”. Oddly, items like fresh fruit are considered
heart-healthy but are not marked as vegetarian.

After the number of hours I have fasted I don’t really feel hungry
anyway. I’m beyond it. It is funny how quickly I reached that state, but
I think it has something to do with my stomach being rather troubled for
quite a while. I haven’t, in other words, been hungry for several days.
I have eaten even so, in part to see if the food might help or hurt.

23 May 7:27 pm
I am detached from the bag. I would like to stay that way but probably
won’t. It’s these little things that make me feel like a prisoner, make
me want to escape.

I tried out the television for a bit. Not many channels and I couldn’t
see anything of interest. A bit like a motel television, in a way.
Oddly, because I get BBC America at home and because I realize that many
of those programs are adjusted to make way for the advertising in the
U.S., I was under the impression that in the UK there isn’t television
advertising. I do not know why. But there is, folks, lots of it. I was
comparing a public television station with the rest, I guess. And BBC is
so much more a force here than public television is in the U.S.

I have come to see an odd kind of inefficiency or lack of focus or
something here. Frequently a nurse or doctor will say they’ll see to
something soon, and whatever it is does not happen for hours. For
example, last night the doctor said he ordered two pints of blood for
me, one at night and one in the morning. It took quite some time before
the night bag was inserted, and in the morning no bag showed up. Then
when I was about to be moved the doc said they’ll just hook me up to
that second bag when I get into the next room. But that isn’t what
happened. It’s fine with me if they don’t add the second bag. I
optimistically feel I’ll just be getting stronger and will not need it.
I suspect, though, that the bag will show up about midnight. After they
start blood, by the way, they take my temperature every fifteen minutes
for a while. Makes for a lovely night.

I have also asked nurses to find out something and they will go off and
never return. It’s an odd sort of lack of focus. I don’t find it in
everyone but enough to make me wonder if it’s a nation of ADD.

I love that I have this room to myself now. It was becoming a strain to
be in a room with so many people and so many interruptions. I did
especially like the woman who was across from me, Jean. She was very
straightforward, always said what she thought. When I had been fasting
quite a while she became quite annoyed, kept saying “it isn’t fair”. I
was thinking anything’s fair when you haven’t got any health insurance,
but to her way of thinking it just wasn’t fair that I was being ignored
that way.

The other highly entertaining person was Tony, the staff nurse. He was
happy to let me know about anything. He told me that if I had traveled
by ambulance I would have been taken to the new hospital, where they had
pull-down tellies and plugs for internet (he later confessed to having
no interest whatsoever in “that flat thing” - referring to my Mac) and
better showers. He did seem to think the showers were worth having. I
haven’t yet located the shower in this new unit. They have worked well
enough so far.

I called Tony over at one point to ask if he could reconnect me. Another
nurse had disconnected me so I could take a shower but had not stuck
around to reconnect. Tony took this opportunity to offer a lesson in IV
bags to a student nurse. A rather long and detailed lesson, during which
he frequently said things like “you could do that, but why?”. He was a
stickler for doing everything as neatly and correctly as possible. And
so it was that Tony took it upon himself to let the folks in charge know
that I had been starving for an unacceptable period of time, that the
hours had well exceeded the written guidelines, the Geneva Conventions
of National Health Service as I understood it.

9:06 pm
I am watching a program called Dirty Sexy Money. It’s good when they
don’t give you any way to know what the program is about. There is a
businessman on here who looks like Donald Sutherland. I’ll have to look
that up.

While I was changing channels a nurse came in and mentioned a program
she’d seen recently, one featuring a reporter who goes around hunting
for the world’s smallest man. I’d seen it too, a few days ago, and I
mentioned that. I sat on the bed and asked her, “So there isn’t a remote
control?”

“No,” she said, “it makes you work more. You have to get up and down.” I
laughed at that, thinking that not long before I had been hooked to an
IV that was connected to the wall and there was no way I could reach the
television. But she had put a good face on the situation, that’s for
sure. Not that I feel slighted by Scottish hospital amenities. I am
simply grateful to be in here at all without having to sign over the
rights to my grandson…

I’m a little worried that they’ll think they’ve made a mistake and will
move me to another room. With five other people and too much heat. And
no tellie at all.

The view from the windows here is nice. It’s a suburban area of
Edinburgh, with separated little square houses with neat little lawns
and carefully trimmed hedges, all looking rather uniform. Little cars in
little single-car garages. Hip roofs, shingles, steep (it does snow here).

Blair Underwood is in the program, too. And it’s American. Funny how I
didn’t pick up on that immediately. I have gotten used to so many
varieties of English that I just listen for the words and don’t try to
sort. Is it on HBO? Showtime?

9:38 pm
The staff here seem a lot more distant than at the last ward. It seems
odd that there would be such a difference between wards.

11:19 pm
I am having trouble getting comfortable. My legs, mainly, my right leg,
just won’t get comfortable no matter what I do. I think this symptom is
part of arthritis. I also thought I was done with it. I wonder if the
glucosamine helps, has been helping. It makes me restless, in any case,
so here I am.

The other part of the hospital is rather shabby. Peeling paint, holes in
walls, crayon writing on walls, that sort of thing. The equipment
doesn’t always work well. The beds are about 30 years old, according to
Tony, or he may have said the type had been around 30 years and that
they are the latest thing here. He was joking, of course, as usual.

This part of the hospital is in better shape. There are nice outlet
centers in a big line across one wall – lots of electrical plugs (they
are called power points, by the way, and each has a little switch to
turn it on or off) plus other handy electrical equipment and something
that might even be gas or something like that. My bed light is
permanently attached. It looks like a modular unit that they fitted for
their purposes. I am plugging my mac into it to keep it charged.

I have tried to compare this experience with my last, the ulcer I had in
the U.S. in the early 2000s. I remember being stored with a bunch of
other patients on my way up to a room, and I remember an orderly forcing
a tube down my throat. That tube was one of the first things, and it was
hooked up to pump blood from my stomach. I don’t remember how they
determined immediately where the hole was, but I’m pretty sure it was an
X-ray.

Once I got stowed in a room I was pretty much left there. I was kept
from eating or drinking so there was no need to bring me meals. I
developed a huge headache so every now and then I’d call a nurse and he
or she would begrudgingly inject me with some kind of pain killer. They
told me they had to check my urine and feces so leave the dish in the
toilet and the nurse would collect it. But she never did. It sat there
until it overflowed and then I just dumped it and the hell with it. I
remember feeling like I was alone there and thinking the hospital must
be really full. Later I read that the hospital was averaging all of ten
full beds a night there at the time, so it was far from full.

24 May 4:13 am
I have had a terrible time with my legs at night. Last night I tried
everything to get comfortable. I stretched and pulled and stood on one
leg and used yoga breaths and stretched some more. I walked around and
around the room. I finally nodded off for a little bit, and awoke with
the other leg being uncomfortable. Finally I fell asleep in the wee
hours and this time I dreamed. I dreamed I was home and there were
people in the house, at night, and they had knives. I grabbed a little
knife and started to scream. Only my voice wouldn’t come. I kept
straining and letting out increasingly louder wails, strangulated cries.
Then I woke to see the nurse at the door. “Did you have a bad dream?” My
screams, such as they were, were not just a dream. How embarrassing to
be the patient that wails in the night. I have to remember to ask a
nurse or doctor about my legs, see if I can get something at night.
Something that will knock me out. The staff present this night might
like to see that I get something.

7:50 am
I fell asleep a couple of times after that nightmare episode. So I am
not completely without rest. The breakfast person has been in here. I
had porridge (with a bit of sugar) and a soft brown bun and tea. I have
tea here rather than coffee because it seems wise to avoid coffee. The
doctors don’t seem to think coffee is any big deal, however. The tea
here is standard, nothing special, I am sad to report. The food, in
general, not so hot, but that’s typical in a hospital. Even so it seems
below the mark. Last night all that the kitchen could do for me as a
vegetarian was a plate with an omelette with tomato slices inside, a
slather of baked beans in tomato sauce (the canned type), a scoop of
mashed potatoes. I haven’t had the heart or the strength to point out
that I am the vegan-type vegetarian because it seems vegetarian is hard
enough of a concept here, even though veg foods are marked on the menus.
This guarantees that I will continue to eat lightly.

9:25 am
This ward is the DIY type, it seems. One makes one’s way as best as one
can. I asked after a shower today and learned that there was a queue at
the shower but the bath was open, so I asked where was the bath. I
brought my towel (thoughtfully placed on my bed when I arrived here) and
my quart bag of toiletries (yes, from my suitcase, Cathy brought it)
into the bathroom. A giant medical-looking bath sat in the middle, white
and shiny and rectangular and deep. It was a little scary, frankly. I
wasn’t sure I’d get out again if I got in. But I did. I managed all
right, in spite of the fact that it appears designed more for people who
have helpers than for people on their own. I brushed my teeth in the
sink in my room, which appears meant more for the staff than the
patient, using the toothbrush Cathy brought me.

Shades of the US: when I was in the hospital in San Luis Obispo I
repeatedly mentioned to the nurses and doctor that the reason I was
taking the ibuprofen that caused my ulcer was that I had severe
migraines. Nobody cared. They only wanted me out of there. Once my hole
was heeled they shipped me out. I don’t seem to be in the same situation
here, in that I have not been gulping ibuprofen and I’ve not been having
severe headaches. I have, however, been having really bad leg
discomfort. As it is unrelated to the bleeding I wonder if I can get
anything for it while I am here. In the other ward Tony understood my
need and wrung a prescription for codeine plus an anti-nausea pill from
some doctor. That night I slept. Tony, gabber that he is, is really a
patient advocate. He worked very hard for me, getting some resolution to
my fasting and helping me with the leg thing and finding food for me
that I could eat. I have not met his equivalent in this ward. Everyone
is friendly but in a distant way and when I mentioned the leg pain to a
nurse she just said I’d have to talk to the doctor, and when the very
nice nurses asked if I’d had a good sleep and I made the mistake of
saying no, they did not know where to go with that.

10:25 am
The GI doc just came by. He was very disappointed that I hadn’t yet had
an endoscopy and said he would try to set that up for today or tomorrow
morning. Depends on who has the operating rooms, though, because the
endoscopy unit is shut down on weekends. I asked him about my legs. He
is prescribing what sounds like vicodin. I said I tend toward nausea
with that sort of drug so he is also prescribing an anti-nausea drug to
take as needed. I am feeling hopeful.

10:50 am
Just got word that the endoscopy is scheduled for tomorrow morning. So I
can eat and drink until then, which is good because I think I need to
build up some reserves. The doctor told me that when the endoscopy is
done they will know if it is a small hole or a big one. The small one
will mean a couple days’ rest before I take a flight. The large one will
mean a couple of weeks before I can fly. I feel hopeful that it’s the
wee one.

If, however, it’s the biggie, then Elaine has offered to fly over and
Cathy can finally fly home. She actually has obligations, see. A job and
all. If it is the biggie I will have to make other arrangements for my
car – which is in Los Angeles – and for my cats. But we’ll take this a
step at a time.

10:58 am
This country is big on rights. There are signs all over warning that
abuse of workers is illegal. And there is a sign outside the patient
rooms with “protected meal times” on it. Patients have a right to an
uninterrupted half hour for each meal. Fancy that!

Cathy says Murray Grigor, the filmmaker, may be back in town now and may
come to see me here! This is hilarious in a way. Although he may have
memories of a director who just died here – I don’t know which hospital
actually – because of a mistake made by the staff. [later note: he left
me a phone message. I haven’t yet been able to call back.]

12:35
I have just had lunch. A veg curry plus potatoes, some undefinable juice
and an apple. When I chose from the menu yesterday I tried to stick with
the plainest things possible . You just don’t know what they are getting
up to there in the kitchen. I know for a fact that not everyone in
Edinburgh loves overcooked veg. My lunch at Sean and Phoebe’s was proof
of that. I am so longing for the look of fresh green on the plate,
bright colors, fresh tastes. Needless to say, the veg curry was not of
this type.

And along with the food I got the meds that should help my legs feel
better. I am feeling more hopeful by the moment.

3:57 pm
Cathy came with camera. We loaded her pix onto my mac and I got to see
the flat that she has rented for the next four days. It looks terrific!
Very cute and next to the river. We’ll definitely go there instead of to
a hotel if we come here again. That would solve the food problem too. My
brilliant plan to load the pix onto a flash drive didn’t work out
because my mac would not find the flash drive. Won’t talk to it.
Strange. One way or another we’ll get those pix out into the wider
world, though. As we will this incredibly long rambling epistle. [soon!
new pix!]

The staff nurse came in to give me stomach medicine – by injecting it
into the tube in my hand. She asked about our holiday and where in the
states we came from. She said she herself is from Nigeria and she has
relatives all over the US but she has not visited there yet. She said
there are over 300 dialects spoken in Nigeria, and that there are five
or six people from there in the hospital and none of them can speak the
language of the others. She says the country is “too big to be a country”.

There have been times that I have wanted nothing more than to lie in bed
and read. And have my meals brought to me. So I am realizing a dream
here. I just have to remember that.

8:45 pm
Cathy has come and gone and she left me chocolate and bread. I have had
two pieces of the bread and part of the chocolate bar so far. We watched
another episode of “I’d Do Anything”, an elimination show that chooses
stars for a production of Oliver. I think I mentioned this show before.
It’s pretty hilarious, watching the judges refer to the different
contestants as “the Nancys”. The nurse who just came in to take my blood
pressure, temp, and heartrate mentioned the show, referring to it as
“tacky”. Well, yeah, but that’s the point, isn’t it?

It occurred to me that I have watched fewer BBC shows here than I
typically would have at home in the same amount of time. I am watching
ER right now.

And now I know what’s involved in an endoscopy. A doctor came by with
the consent form and explained it. You can look it up. I can handle it.
And it only takes about ten minutes. Because my hemoglobin levels are
steady now I am not getting that second pint of blood and it appears
highly likely that I’ll be cleared for landing tomorrow. I am excited! I
want to see the flat and feel the freedom in my veins. And get this
incredibly long thing online.

9:21 pm
I just called the nurse to see if it’s time for my codeine-plus
(vicodin-like) yet. My left leg was starting to go weird again and the
idea of another night fighting these sensations was making me nervous.
So now I have my meds and all’s right with the world. I’m gaining an
understanding of need. Also, this nurse is a lovely young man, to use
local parlance, very friendly and helpful.

Elaine has been looking out for my welfare by finding various veg and
vegan restaurants and bakeries in town. She suggested I find out if they
deliver. Of course they all do, if only by Cathy and the bus. I think
Cathy is just looking for the challenge now, any challenge involving a
bus. After all, she brought me a vase with flowers that she’d purchased
from near the flat and she carried it all the way here without any kind
of packaging. I wonder if people are used to seeing things like that on
the bus. But anyway, I honestly am craving real choice, serious
vegetarian food by people who actually know what it is. I have been
eating around the edges for this whole trip – honestly, pasta is good
but I’m getting tired of that, along with the overcooked curry and the
veg fajitas. Who would have thought, by the way, that veg fajitas would
be popular in Scotland? I cannot make it out.

May 25 7:06 am
The Big Day.
The stockings. I emerged, after a decent night’s sleep (thanks to
codeine) with my towel and toiletries at 6:30ish this morning, to take a
shower. The night nurse stopped me to say that he needed to measure my
feet for special anti-clot stockings, and the other nurse or orderly or
whatever she is said I needed a theatre gown and went off to get one.
The guy measured my feet and calf and went off to the stocking location
while I waited. He emerged with a packet, said he’d put them in my room
for me to put on after my shower, told me they would be putting a third
identification band on one ankle (“I don’t know why not all four”, he
said) and I went on to take a shower. I was glad, very glad, for the
robe Cathy bought for me because I didn’t get two gowns, just the one.

The shower here is nicer than the one in ward 26 (poor sods) but the
drainage was about the same. In other words, the water escaped the
shower and pooled on the floor nearby. When I was done showering I put
on the gown and my robe and returned to find the stockings.

The stockings are white and open at both ends. The toe end is
elasticized. I took out the instructions and read them a couple of
times. One is supposed to put a hand through the stocking and reach to
the toe end and bring it inside out up to the heel, then somehow put it
on. I tried doing it correctly a couple of times but failed and finally
just put the blamed things on however I could, making sure, as the
instructions said, that the heel was in the heel pocket and the toe end,
open as it is, is under the toes, facing the floor. I think I got it
right. These stockings are meant for people in the hospital for long
stays, immobile. I guess it’s a precaution to put them on when going
into the operating theatre. The sedation, maybe, slows blood flow.

So now I am awake and alert and it’s still about two hours before I go
under. The NIL BY MOUTH sign hangs prominently from the light above my bed.

10:25 am
It’s over. I went over on my bed, with my robe still on, and they did
the procedure in the operating theatre on my bed. I lay on my side, they
put a mouth piece into my mouth to protect my teeth and help me breathe,
they hooked me up to heart monitors and blood pressure cuffs and that
finger pulse thing. They put the camera through my mouth and down so
quickly I wasn’t all that aware of it. I was able to breathe easily and
although it was a little uncomfortable it was not bad.

No holes. It appears to be an inflammation of the GI tract or something
like that. I trust someone will explain it a bit better later. The good
news is that I can get discharged this afternoon. Excellent.

3:13 pm
I’m free!! Cathy came by and waited with me. We were given false hope
several times by various nurses and orderlies who said “the registrar is
just next door” or “she’s just typing up a letter”. Finally she arrived
and gave me a “to whom it may concern” letter summarizing my time in
Western General. The nurse had given me meds – iron, painkillers, and an
acid-reducer thing (probably like prilosec).

Here’s the best they made out: gastritis. No sign of recent bleeding but
a couple of sites where there might have been bleeding earlier. The
recommendation: stay away from NSAIDs, drink moderately, go to my doc in
the states and perhaps get a colonoscopy.

Picture this: a doctor writing a letter herself. Just picture it. What
is wrong with these people??

Oh, and nobody said a word about money. I didn’t bring it up. For those
of you who might think I went to Scotland just so I could use their
health system for free, I have to admit I would have if I had thought of
it.

4:14 pm
Cathy and I stopped at a pub that offers free wifi but I could not get
online. Cathy could, but minimally. So we went to the flat. It’s an
amazing little place! The decorating alone goes beyond the ordinary. How
cool. And the river sounds outside the window are wonderful. I am
sitting on the couch now, feeling a wee bit dozy. Not so strong yet. So
I will just sit and read and maybe fall asleep.

—-And now I am at Starbucks…..

May 20

On Sunday, Cathy and I hunted for a place for lunch and ended up at the
Mercat Bar because the owner was out front and his friendly persuasion
worked. It’s a friendly place and the food was good (I had veggie
fajitas, Cathy had the world-famous mac and cheese). Later that day
Cathy asked the hotel manager, Elaine, for a recommendation. She said
something that sounded like “Meerkat Bar” and gave Cathy directions.
Neither of us remembered the name and we were surprised to find it was
the same one we’d gone to earlier. So as to spread out our experience we
went to an Italian place next door instead (also friendly, food okay).

Monday we ended up at the Meerkat for dinner, again. Out of ideas,
didn’t want to walk any more than we had to. The owner was there again
and came by to tell us of the Monday night comedy show, which he said
they call “Absolute Beginners” but which he assured us did not feature
absolute beginners. Just good comics polishing their acts. Just a pound,
he said! Downstairs! So we went down the street to lounge at a coffee
place (Beanscene) until it was time for the show to start.

It is a small room but large enough, with a small area for the
performers and several chairs and tables for the audience. We got
comfortable with our drinks. The MC was a woman with some comedy
experience herself, and she asked everyone in the room where they were
from. Somehow Cathy got her attention. In part, I expect, because of
what the woman called her “cheeky smile” and in part because she was
from Ohio. Somehow Ohio always gets ‘em. She kept going back to Cathy to
ask her questions but she was never really mean to her. She was a little
mean to some others, especially a couple consisting of an older man and
younger woman (”…and your….daughter?”)

The comics were pretty decent, not prime time but some seemed like they
could get there. It was a bit of a strain with some to catch all the
words when their accent was strong but we tended to get the drift. They
gave us each a piece of paper to write our name and a joke on, for a
chance to win a bottle of champagne. Neither of us could come up with a
joke and both of us attempted to send text messages to daughters and
sons for one. But the messages failed to leave the room. Several text
messages, in fact, have not made it home. They even gave us a subject:
Sherry Blair and her tell-all book. But we really did not know that much
about it (although everyone else did). We have been reading a lot of
papers, by the way, to see what interests people and how the articles
are written. So we know a little bit.

Yesterday we were walking back to the hotel in the evening when we saw
the woman who was MC of the comedy show. She remembered us - she called out “Ohio! and
California!” and we chatted for a little bit. She has many jobs,
including as an agent for actors. She was on her way to meet friends for
drinks. She reminded me of Amanda Donahue, the actress. Very very similar appearance and voice.

The days are so long here that it makes sense to go places at night,
like Cumberland Bar and the Meerkat Bar. But we are not party animals.
Of course I really speak only for myself. I suspect Cathy would go
completely wild in other company.

We have been here almost two days. We arrived at the Edinburgh airport
and took the airlink bus to town, as I said before. The bus let us out a
couple of blocks from our hotel, so we dragged our bags down the street.
Since then we’ve seen many people dragging bags along the streets of
Edinburgh, just as I have in Manhattan. I suspect it’s a similar
situation: the public transportation is much less expensive than the taxi.

We are staying near the Haymarket train station. Yesterday, when Cathy
went out for a walk, she encountered teems of humanity exiting the
trains, a mass exodus of black and white people. Again like Manhattan,
lots of black suits. We think maybe the financial district, which is
rather large here. Later, when we were hunting dinner (our weapons
poised for any sign of a decent meal close to the hotel) we saw the
streams heading toward the train station, like the day of the living
dead. There are many people on the streets at most times of day but at
these rush times it’s obvious that most of them are urban professionals.

Sunday afternoon we explored. Right away we discovered the castle on the
hill, the Edinburgh castle, which does not take visitors. Next to the
castle are the gardens, lots of green and benches and brilliant flowers.
Edinburgh has gardens everywhere, both public and private. Some are
mainly patches of grass with benches while others are formal gardens.
Edinburgh also has many many benches in the city centre (not so much
along the periphery). The town is a mix of old and new, with sometimes
startling contrasts. The influence of the multinational retailers is
strong here, as it has been in most towns of any size we have visited.
Shopping malls have the same retailers as we’d see back home. Rather
sad, that.

There are hills in Edinburgh. It’s a great workout for the calves.
However, the buses! I have never seen so many. They far outnumber both
regular cars and taxis. The taxis hang at taxi stands and don’t get
nearly as much business as they do in New York. There are also tour
buses constantly driving around, a part of the local bus system. Many
buses, both commuter and tour, are double-deckers. This place really
accommodates visitors.

We happened upon a street fair Sunday, with people hawking their wares
and magic tricks. When Cathy later asked what was going on the hotel
person said there is always something going on. I wouldn’t doubt it.

Speaking of hotel staff. We are in a hotel with 12 rooms. Our room is in
the basement, overlooking (underlooking) the sidewalk above. The hotel
manager manages this plus the hotel next door, both under the same
ownership. Both apparently identical in size. There is a bar with
counter and tables on the ground floor of our hotel, and a dining room
on the ground floor of the hotel next door. Breakfast is served there.
No food otherwise.

It’s an old hotel that has seen changes over the years, some of which
seem to have been not quite completed. We see holes in the walls where
things have been removed and odd bits of paint where there was some
change, with no attempt to match the paint to the surrounding walls. IT
isn’t pristine but it’s decent. There are several small things that
could make it better but it appears that this little hotel crew is just
hanging on. Everyone seems to do everything. We will see the same person
man the front desk, serve breakfast, help clean a room, and even tend
bar. Share and share alike.

The manager is named Elaine. She is a substantial woman who is not
afraid to say what she’s thinking and who is a bit tight with the bar
treats. We had beer at the bar last night and although I hinted loudly
at the presence of alternative snacks (crisps) she didn’t offer them to
us. We wondered if maybe we don’t get charged for those things so that’s
why she holds them back. She has been free with her opinions and stories
and is a kick to listen to. The rest of the staff is friendly as well
and answers whatever strange and touristy question we have. In a way it
is very familial. One feels taken care of if not physically then
emotionally.

Yesterday Cathy ventured on a walk in the morning. I stayed back, hoping
to reach Phoebe and Seamus McGarvey, the daughter and son-in-law of
Murray Grigor, the filmmaker who created the “loops” for the John
Lautner exhibit and who is also creating a documentary about John
Lautner. Karol and I have met Murray and couple of times and he
generously gave me his daughter’s contact information. I had some
difficulty reaching her by phone and finally got through yesterday morning.

Phoebe invited us to lunch. She said either at her place or at a
restaurant. I thought a restaurant would be better, less intrusive, so
we settled on one. By the time Cathy returned from her walk, however,
she was in no mood to hit the streets again. She had been out there
about three hours and needed a rest. So I took off, fresh, eager to
cover the one mile to the restaurant myself.

About halfway there, I got a call from Phoebe. Her six-month-old son had
just fallen asleep and could I please come to her house instead? Of
course I could. It was just another mile from the restaurant. I found my
way there, mostly taking Queen Street, which according to Phoebe is a
boring street but which contains the national portrait gallery. I
thought I might stop there on the way back. Phoebe later said yes, go
there, mainly because of the foyer, which is beautiful. I didn’t end up
taking that route so I do not know if I will get there after all.

I had a terrific lunch with Phoebe, Seamus, and Stella, their
eight-year-old daughter. Phoebe is a vegetarian as well and she prepared
an amazing meal of whole-grain pasta with zucchini, garlic, olive oil,
plus a beautiful and delicious salad and a few other dishes, really a
feast. We had a lively conversation about Edinburgh, about the film,
about Seamus’ not inconsiderable talents as a cinematographer
(Atonement, The No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency, The Soloist, among
others). He said he really enjoyed working on these films. The two went
to the Academy Awards last time because Seamus was nominated for
Atonement (should have won in my opinion) and Phoebe said the most
exciting thing for her was being so close to Jon Stewart! They love him
(so do I).

Phoebe gave me names of places to visit in Edinburgh, mostly art
galleries. And she told me about the Art Bus. A bus that does a loop,
stopping at many art galleries, which people can get on and off at any
time, and it’s free. This says a lot about Edinburgh if you haven’t
already worked it out.

Belfast is a large city. It looks like a great place to visit, to spend
some time. It has a lot to offer. But we only had the one night and we
were tired so we had dinner in the hotel dining room. It was good. Cathy
had some rich Salmon dishes and I had, again, a Thai curry with rice.

We watched British television - a show where singers compete to become
the next singer on the stage presentation of Oliver! ONe of the judges
is Andrew Lloyd Weber. The funny thing is that they are all competing
for the same role - one is eliminated each week. So the host, Graham
Norton, who is a funny guy, refers to the women as the Nancies.

The loser of this week’s contest was supposed to be announced tonight
but we missed it! Now we’ll never know.

Our hotel was nice, rather American in style. It had a business center
and a breakfast buffet that starts at five a.m. So we were able to have
breakfast before getitng on the road. we asked the desk clerk about
getting to the city airport and she wrote down the basic directions,
saying it is very easy. When we got into the car we also asked Zelda to
take us there, and she followed the same directions, as it happens.
Because it was Sunday the traffic was very light, so we arrived in about
a half-hour. It’s not so close.

First we turned in the car. All we got to do in the car park was to hand
the keys to the guy from autoEurope. We had to take our paperwork and
questions inside.

So we went to the check-in desk to get rid of our bags. By the way,
these airports offer those carts for baggage for FREE. No paying two
bucks or whatever.

I ran into trouble checking my bags. Too much weight for this airline,
Flybe. I was ten kilos over the limit and they charge seven pounds per
kilo! I saw no choice but to go pay the piper. Meanwhile, Cathy was
checking her one bag through at the adjacent desk. When I got to the
counter where I would pay for the extra weight the woman there was
clearly disgusted with the guy I’d gone to and ultimately she let me
slide. What happened, really, is that although I told her Cathy had
checked a third bag it didn’t show up on my bill, which indicated two
passengers. We each got 20 kg so I was actually 10 ahead, according to her.

My carryon was also too heavy and too large - because they forced me to
shove my laptop into it. Just the one bag, that’s all we get. No purse
or wannabe purse. Cathy shoved hers into her carryon too so we both
arrived at the plane with somewhat too large stuff. The flight attendant
was fine about it, put them both into a separate compartment, no fuss.
Oh, did I mention - we had to take all the liquids out, in their plastic
bags, and keep them separate from our bags when we went through
screening? And we didn’t have to take off our shoes, although I did
anyway, out of habit.

After these troubles I thought we’d be squeezed tight on the plane but
it was rather spacious for a smallish plane and I enjoyed the short
flight. Worked for me. And seeing Scotland from the air! Wow! Large
fields of bright yellow - some kind of flower that appears to grow
naturally in plowed fields - and tons of green and heavy trees. Just
beautiful.

The Edinburgh airport is not large either, and it’s attractive and in a
way calming. I really liked it. We had to wait quite a while for the
bags but when they came ours were first out. So we took them out to the
airlink bus, which is a really inexpensive bus that goes to city centre,
that stops at haymarket, a couple of blocks from our hotel. Three pounds
each and it’s a long ride and they were great about helping haul the
bags on board. The bus was nice, clean, comfortable. What a pleasure
that was. Dragging the bags to the hotel from the stop wasn’t great
because I had to drag three bags - Do Not Ask - and it took a little
trick to do it.

The Haymarket hotel, where we are staying, has a bar within but not a
restaurant. It’s small - twelve rooms in the building we are in, on
three floors. We are in the basement, which Cathy does not love, which
does not matter to me. I mean I don’t care if we are or not. Nice
people, all that we have met here.

Edinburgh is just amazing. We could easily spend two weeks here, too.
But I am exhausted from the walking around we did today.

16 May 8:41 pm

This is the last night we stay at the cottage. Both of us feel we could
do two weeks. Changing from the quiet country to the lively city will be
a jerk for us both. Maybe we should have done it the other way around.

One our way from Dingle this evening we saw a farmer and his dog and
probably wife herding sheep across the road. The sheep were moving very
fast, and by the time I could locate a camera the deed was done. It was
beautiful, though, beautifully and rather classically done, down to the
end, when a lamb had to be picked up and sent across. The lamp then
darted back into the road and had to be picked up again and brought into
the flock.

Maybe they are dumb. It doesn’t matter to me. I think they are lovely.
Sheep.

When we got to the cottage Catherine had the bright idea of traipsing
across the road with an invitation to bring on over our last bottle of
wine to Frances and John Kennedy. She was over there quite a while and I
was about to send the dogs after her when she came hellooooing back. I
went back with her to share a glass of wine and some appetizers with
John and Frances and another neighbor, John.

We ask John and Frances about local lore and custom and so on. We
confirmed the holiday home situation with them. They followed up by
telling us these holiday homes that have proliferated in the last few
years are no longer selling. It’s like the boom in the states, they
said. Prices rose and rose and speculators got busy and now nobody wants
them.

I asked Frances about the bees. She turned to her husband, who in his
scholarly fashion filled us in. He keeps bees, honey bees. He said the
bees we are seeing are bumble bees. The bumble bees won’t bother anyone.
The honey bees are another story. He told us a couple of different
possibilities about the reason the bee colonies are going down, but he
did say there has not been much effect in Ireland yet. A fellow
beekeeper John knows in Cork lost his colonies and, like the good
beekeeper he is, according to John, he sent dead bodies for analysis.
They came back with a disease that had been thought to be wiped out. It
causes a kind of disorientation and confusion in the bees. Another hive,
down the street, was wiped out by starvation because of the changes in
the weather. The bees were confused and unable to prepare for their
hibernation.

After this heady discussion we finished our wine and headed back, with
many thanks to these helpful neighbors and caretakers.

We need to set out early tomorrow. The drive to Belfast will take over
six hours if all goes well, and I don’t particularly expect everything
to go well. John gave us directions to avoid the Irish Open and to
bypass Dublin (the quickest way, it seems, is to head back toward
Dublin. Oh, what we have learned, what we have learned).

18 May 4:30 pm

I am sitting in our hotel room in the midst of Edinburgh and Cathy is
upstairs having a Guinness or two and probably chatting up whoever
enters the bar. Our hotel room is one flight down from the street and a
world away from Dunquin. It took us a bit more than 24 hours to go from
one world to the next.

We woke early yesterday morning, had coffee, packed, and were on the
road by about eight. We left the key in the Kennedys’ mailbox, with a
note Cathy wrote. It’s interesting that in another incarnation, or
rather with a different traveling partner, I might have written a note,
mopped floors, and otherwise made myself memorable for the care I took
of the place. I am not sure if my distance from those things means I am
psychologically healthier now or just lazy. Probably the latter.

I had determined that the road we wanted was N86, out of Dingle. We
would get to Dingle by the usual means, over a very narrow road with
many lay-bys. We stopped to toss another wine bottle into the recycling
bin in Dingle and were soon on our way out.

What a discovery. We had not been sure exactly what route we took to get
into the Dingle peninsula in the first place, so long ago, last Saturday
the 10th. We suspected it was the dreaded Connor Pass, but when people
looked at us in shock when we said so we wondered had we got it wrong
(Zelda took us in). Certainly it was a challenging, at times
hair-raising drive, and it was on this road that Cathy took out the
first tyre. Once we got out on N86 we knew we’d had to have been on
Connor Pass before. N86 was a pleasure to drive (ask Cathy; she drove
it), straight and decently wide and with no edges over nothingness. Thus
we were all the way to Tralee (isn’t there a song about Tralee?) in an
hour and a half. Tralee is the entrance to the peninsula and therefore,
for us, the entrance to the rest of the Republic of Ireland.

It was pretty much smooth sailing to Dublin from there. We followed the
route mapped out by John Kennedy to avoid the Irish Open, and because we
were on the road early we avoided any real traffic at all. John said the
drive to Dublin is boring, but it wasn’t, really, not to us. It’s a
beautiful country, filled with lovely little parishes and villages and
of course sheep and cows and a lot of green.

It was getting on toward lunch time so we stopped in a town with a
meaningful city centre, not very large but with several places to eat.
We scouted some of these places, settled on a pub, but then when the
server was a bit slow getting back to us to take our orders we took off
for another place, a hole-in-the-wall cafe that was very busy. Very busy
and quite small and awkwardly designed, but that’s not at all unusual in
our experience in Ireland. I was a little pressed so I told the server
I’m a vegetarian and asked about a couple of things. She suggested the
“small salad” and bread and I said yes. Cathy said omelette with
mushrooms and cheese plus bread, and we asked for a pot of tea with two
cups.

You might wonder why all this detail about lunch. Wait.

The server brought a pot of tea and one cup. She was so harried we
didn’t even get a chance to say wait a minute before she was gone. We
thought maybe she’d bring another cup but she didn’t. Politely, Cathy
waited before pouring any tea. After quite a wait, during which time
Cathy observed a server serving tea to a new customer without cleaning
the table (he’d sat down at a dirty table) plus other interesting
activities. I faced the sort-of-kitchen and saw a server putting
together a salad that I hoped was not mine. She placed greens in the
center and then started to put spoonfuls of various salads mostly
meat-centered around the edge. There were items like crab and tuna and
cheese and other unidentifiable items, clearly not very veggie.

Turns out it was my salad. I said no, not what I wanted, I’d like just
the greens please, none of these other things. I said again I’m a
vegetarian, repeating it because if the original server had grasped it
this plate would not have been in front of me. In a bit of a huff the
server took it away and later brought me a green salad that was
acceptable. She brought Cathy an omelette that she can tell you about
but I can tell you there were no mushrooms and instead of bread there
were chips – fries to you uninitiated. Cathy said no, no chips, bread,
and eventually someone did bring us some bread but the chips remained on
her plate. Somewhere in here we requested another cup so we both had tea.

When we finally tracked down someone to pay for the meal Cathy
discovered that she’d been charged the higher lunch rate for her
omelette with the chips rather than the breakfast rate with the bread,
but by then I think the only thing she was thinking was how to give that
server a negative tip. But she didn’t (I didn’t have the right kind of
money to make a tip), being a mother-of-a-former-server, as am I. We
both know to leave a tip no matter what.

It was then, belatedly perhaps, that Cathy announced No More
Hole-in-the-wall Cafes. We are done, done, done. In the states I think
one is as likely to get a good hole-in-the-wall as a bad but in Ireland
our experience suggests otherwise.

We essentially skirted the center of Dublin and headed north toward
Belfast on yet another fine wide road, often a motorway with two lanes
in the same direction. In some ways, these roads are not so different
from those in the U.S. By the time we turned left at Dublin it was
afternoon. We made good time approaching Belfast, and as we closed in we
saw an exit for “customs”. We wondered if we should have stopped and
gotten our passports stamped (Belfast, as you all now know, is in
another country, in Northern Ireland). Cathy got to worrying about it
after we passed that exit. I was less concerned because I thought if
they wanted us to stop there would have been a sign to that effect.
Cathy pointed out that when one is on the water approaching Canada one
must pull off to declare oneself and there are no signs to that effect.
I don’t think it’s quite the same thing. Nevertheless, neither of us was
really certain that skipping that exit was a good thing. So Cathy called
the hotel in Belfast and asked them. The woman at the desk asked someone
else and got back to Cathy: no need. If you had your passport stamped in
Dublin no need in Belfast.

We asked Zelda to take us to the international airport in Belfast. Our
hotel was near there. Zelda has some odd moments and this was one of
them. She took us over back roads, some barely one lane wide, cutting
through the fields and finally out on a real road. As I was driving at
this time and as I had not been dealing as much with the narrow roads of
Dingle and Dunquin in the last week, I managed to scare the hell out of
Cathy on more than one occasion. She confesses that she even closed her
eyes at times because she could not stand it.

I need to change Zelda’s settings so she doesn’t take just any road that
appears to be shorter. There have got to be some standards here.

We did get to the hotel. And they are not kidding when they say it is
next to the airport. We could walk to it from the hotel, a very short
path. It is really part of the airport, it seems, and it is just a shame
that our flight the following day – today – did not depart from there.
It would have been so easy. And as international airports go this one
has got to be one of the smallest. Just a pleasure. I would love to fly
in and out of there any time.

Why, you ask, did you get a hotel near the wrong airport? The story is
sort of long. Here is the short version: there is a huge motorcycle race
taking place in Belfast this weekend. There are very few rooms anywhere
in Belfast. We got this one and we held onto it. It was impossible to
find one near the city airport.

Stay tuned for Belfast to Edinburgh.

May 17

We’re on to a new leg in our journey. But let’s back up to yesterday afternoon and evening first.

We were in Dingle as usual. We decided to do two things: have dinner there and bring a couple of bottles to the recyler. The woman at the internet cafe put us onto a pub for dinner. She said the food is good and it’s cheaper than at the restaurants.

It’s true that our meal was good and less expensive. The atmosphere was good, too. Women bartenders, a lot of light in the rooms, high chairs available (family-friendly), friendly server. So now we are recommending pubs over the hole-in-the-wall restaurants we have tried again and again. Amongst the chaff you’d expect some wheat but we have found little.

Finding the recycling was more exciting.

While we were at the pub I noticed the server picking up some glass bottles so I asked her where the bar recycles. She sent us to a market near the water, Super Valu. She said something about a wall in back of the market. We remembered seeing the market so we found it easily enough, but finding the recycling center was not quite as easy. After digging around in some questionable areas Cathy asked someone who knew something and that person pointed across the street, where there was a really obvious sign that we’d missed. Nearby were several recycling cans for different products. One for clear glass, one for green, one for plastic bottles and so on. Seeing that plastic container gave Cathy a start. She wondered if we should have been separating plastic containers from the regular recycling that is picked up from the cottage. Remember, the cottage owner suggested that dire things would happen -to him - if we screwed up the recycling.

When we got home Cathy went across the street, gregarious sort that she is (I stayed in the cottage, hermit that I am) and among other things she asked about the plastic, if she would have to dig out the plastic bottle in there. The neighbors said no, it was fine. Cathy asked if there were some sort of fine that Ed would have to pay and that set the Kennedys off into peals of laughter. “What, we have the recycling police here??” Frances asked. She then clarified that the cottage owner, Ed, is a great worrier. If there is anything to worry about he’s there worrying.

Eventually Cathy came to get me and I joined the group for some wine and appetizers and a bit of conversation, about which more later.

Also more later about our trip to Belfast today. All is well, no new tyres needed, but I need a bit more time to tell about our lunch. I am at a computer at the hotel in the business center and don’t want to hog it.

14 May 08
First activity of the morning was Cathy’s walk. She decided to take one
of the designated walks, of which there are many here. She found one
down near the entrance to the Blasket Centre that went up and around
quite a way. A beautiful hike, she said, and it certainly gave her her
dose of physical activity for the day. I think she was gone at least two
hours and she came back with the photos to prove she’d been there (they
are mixed into the photos in the album but I haven’t yet labeled who
took what). During that time I diddled around, did a wash of clothes,
wrote some book reviews, went on a small, quite small, walk myself –
mainly to see sheep – and took a shower.

Did I mention? There is a bathroom here. One and a half baths, really,
and the half is attached to my bedroom. The shower is in the one off the
kitchen and is very small. The water heater is set so that if you turn
the shower to the highest hot it gets about warm. I mention these
bathrooms because I had expressed some concern before we arrived that
maybe there would not be bathrooms, at least not attached. But there
are, so you can schedule your visit here without worry.

I seem to have lost my debit card. And for some reason I left behind the
backup credit card I intended to bring with me. Now I know why the
travel experts recommend bringing two debit cards. I didn’t follow the
advice. I checked my bank account and found no transactions not made by
me, yet. I hoped I had just slipped the card somewhere, in a pocket, in
my laptop bag. But I have not found it and I am ready to call it in now.

Fortunately, Cathy still has her cards and we can settle the costs
later, and some of these costs have already been paid ahead. And
fortunately, I found another credit card in my wallet, which I had
packed in my lost bag. I have been taking on Ireland with a thing I wear
around my neck, a fashion no-no and only truly convenient at airports,
really. It contains my passport, my ID, cash, and cards. The good thing
about it is that it would be difficult to steal or for me to forget
somewhere because I’m wearing it.

Although today I did forget it here at the cottage when we set out to
see the Oratory.

The Oratory is a church built in the 7th or 8th century, entirely of
stone with no mortar. It’s beautifully built and after all these years
it does not leak. It is the best example of such architecture in
Ireland, almost perfectly preserved. It’s a very small simple church,
resembling, some say, an overturned boat (you’ll see it in the next
batch of pix I upload). The oratory is on a road that winds out of
Dunquin and eventually gets to Dingle. There are other archaeological
treasures on this route as well, but today the Gallarus Oratory was our
main goal.

We followed the walkway from the visitor center (run by the department
of public works) to the oratory and immediately spotted a kitten. A
small orange cat, about six months old. He had a damaged rear leg that
he dragged behind him but that seemed healed. He was a friendly little
thing, making friends and talking to every visitor he could get to. Of
course we paid him some, too, and I wondered what can I do, wished I
could take him home.

After visiting the amazing oratory we went to the Gallarus Oratory Cafe
next to the visitor center and had some tea. Because I had neglected to
bring my money (cash and credit card) and because the cafe only took
cash, we had to rely on what Cathy had with her, so we settled for just
tea. We also asked the women there about the cat. She said she sometimes
brings food for it and that it had only been there a few days. Someone
had apparently dumped it. We expressed concern but I was unable to hit
upon a way to help. In this country, particularly in this county, I am
not seeing evidence of humane organizations or spay-neuter organizations.

Finally, after our trip to the cafe we took in the video that shows
continuously in the AV room. It hit the high spots of the archaeological
history of the Dingle peninsula. What struck me is just how much is not
known about the artifacts on these lands. There are special stones, for
example, called ogham stones (pronounced, best as I make it, like
“own”). They are specially-crafted long stones that can either be lain
down or standing up, and that have special markings on them. There are a
lot of theories about what they were created for but there do not seem
to be definitive answers. These stones can be found all over Ireland but
the greatest percentage are right here in the Dingle peninsula.

After visiting the oratory we found our way again to Dingle. We can’t
seem to stay away from that little town, which is actually the biggest
town in the area. We found lunch – I had salad and bread (the Irish
bread is remarkably consistent and remarkably good) and Cathy ordered
quiche, thinking how can they mess that up? She found out, of course.
The rule, we are finding, to getting a meal that we’ll like, is to order
something that is as close as possible to the basic ingredients. Thus
the salad, which I watched being put together and got to choose the
parts for. The tea, by the way, is nothing to write home about, which is
why we haven’t been writing home about it.

Then to the internet cafe. I settled in while Cathy went on a hunt for a
furniture shop because we were wondering if they really exist here.
There was one that said it had furniture but it wasn’t open before lunch
so she set out to get inside. And no, nothing that was really furniture.
I think people go to the larger cities like Tralee and Limerick for
furniture and other household items. Wood seems quite precious, as you
can see from the stone buildings and walls. There aren’t many trees here
on the peninsula and really not many in Ireland altogether I gather.

On the way back to the cottage, along the coastal route (known as Slea
Head Drive, spectacular views and horrifying drops to the sea if you are
distracted by them), we got behind a car that was going a little slower
than most and slowing unpredictably from time to time, like when a car
came racing towards them. Cathy divined that they must not be Irish
drivers, that they were tourists. And she too became impatient with
them, which shows how far she has come in driving the Irish way. She
did, however, drive us into the bushes a couple of times so we may have
to head back to Moran’s before we leave this place.

May 15
Today we are not venturing far from Dunquin, or at least that’s the
plan. The places we thought we’d visit are on roads that are not what we
were anticipating. We have to weigh the value of that kind of travel
against the beauty and restfulness that is right here.

As we wander around this odd cottage we see things that the owners have
left and note what is displayed and what is not, and both Cathy and I
have built little stories about the owners. When Cathy first booked this
place she wrote to Jenn, the wife. Later she dealt only with Ed, the
husband. They both are in the states now, we don’t know for how long. We
both independently came to the conclusion that the couple has split up.
That may not be true but the cottage reads like a man’s place. The way
the kitchen cupboards are filled, the placement of dishes and linens in
another room, the dark brown leather seating, the existence of drawings
of dad but not of mom (framed and hung on the wall), the existence of a
coaster that says His Lordship but none that say Her Ladyship, that sort
of thing. There is a daughter, Caity, probably Caitlin or something
similar but in the Irish language perhaps, who seems to like drawing.
She lives in Dublin currently, and we are thinking maybe that’s the main
family home and this is the vacation home. Maybe the story is just that
the wife doesn’t much like the vacation home and doesn’t come here much.

As I write this Cathy is cleaning things. The house is reasonably clean
but apparently Cathy feels the need to do the spring cleaning and
sorting here. It does look better.

16 May
I am not sure if Cathy understands our role here. She plans to wash the
dish cloths we have used, she made noises about the sheets (I think
she’s over it), she bought toilet paper to replace what we’ve used, and
to welcome new visitors she purchased a cottage journal plus a notebook
with pages to insert local information. Oh, and a notebook plus pen
because there isn’t any paper or pens in the house. Could be she is in
training to rent a cottage of her own. Obviously it is very nice of her,
and I do concur that it’s good to leave something behind for the cottage.

Yesterday we decided to do some exploring on an interior road. We hoped
to find a little village – parish – where we could get a sandwich, but
nothing was open by the time we found the first cute little place,
around eleven am. I suspect the locals just don’t bother with the
earlies. Speaking of locals, we asked a bartender later (we’ll get to
that) how many of the homes in Dunquin are vacation homes or tourist
rentals and he said the ratio is about 3 to 1 in favor of the
holiday-takers. Therefore most of the homes in Dunquin are currently
empty, because the tourist season is not upon us. I expect the opening
hours for the local pottery-plus-cafe will change dramatically next month.

We stopped at a general store in a place called, I think, Ballyferriter,
no, that isn’t it but I can’t find it on our map. That same bartender
said they name everything here, including the fields, so it is no wonder
the map does not show all of these names. We picked up snacks – we’ve
been eating chocolate bars! - and chatted with the store clerk about the
houses we saw there. Turns out they are all vacation cottages. People
from other parts of Ireland come here for their holidays. I should stop
saying “vacation”. She loves this time of year because it’s beautiful
and it’s quiet. None of those houses has anyone in it. Yes, there are
vacation homes in the states, but these are all together, forming
villages of their own. They come alive only during certain months and days.

The clerk pointed us to a route where we could see a burial ground and
old church. I love burial grounds, old ones, and it sounded good so we
went. It turned out to be the church recommended by the lad at the
oratory centre yesterday, Kilmakedar. Kilmakedar has ruins of a
beautiful stone church, a rectory, or whatever they call the home the
priest lives in, and a burial ground that is still in use. We tromped
over it all, noting the variation in stones from way long ago to now and
enjoying the ruins. You will see pix in the album.

Inevitably, after we left the ruins and burial ground we were drawn into
Dingle. We have gone there every day. Yes. Every day. We have learned
the informal agreement that the tour companies make – they travel in one
loop – in one way and out the other – so if you are smart you will
travel the same way out and in and thus avoid encountering one of them
coming the other way. So we’ve been smart that way.

Yesterday’s trek to Dingle was in part for lunch. For me, mostly it was
for lunch, to be honest. Did I write about this briefly yesterday? I
can’t remember. We went to the Goat Street Cafe and had good food. So
memorable, having good food. A curry for me, a sandwich for Catherine.
We recommend this place to anyone traveling this way.

After lunch, I headed down hill to the internet cafe while Cathy zeroed
in on the hardware store. I stopped at a pub to use the bathroom – the
toilet. When we first went to the internet cafe last Saturday and asked
about bathrooms the woman there said we could use the one at the pub
across the street. “They won’t mind,” she said, “the public toilets are
way at the other end of town”. And so it has been. I have used the pub
toilets again and again and nobody complains. The existence of public
toilets is a rare one too. Are they everywhere in Ireland? That is, any
place that has more people than sheep? I’d like to know but may forget
to search out the answer.

After our time on computers and phones we did a little looking in
windows and in shops and we stopped at Murphy’s ice cream. Here I broke
from veganism for a one-scoop cone of coffee kahlua. Local cream, good
ingredients. I note that the dairy cows here are not crowded together on
nothing but dirt and forced into milking machines every day. I don’t
know the situation with milking machines but I’ve seen no sign of major
industrial factory farming as is obvious in the dairy sections of
California.

We hiked back to our car (Dingle is not flat). As we were pulling out, a
young woman on the street called out to us that our front left
(passenger side, of course) tyre was flat. We saw it, it was soft, very
soft, so off to Moran’s we went. You’ll see photos in the album of the
shop. Needed to get another tyre, which gave the older guy, a Moran we
bet, the chance to make a comment that they were going to have to lay in
these tyres in bulk because “the Americans are coming”. Catherine got
her own in with questions about how much we are helping their retirement
plan.

We stopped at the Ventry post office so I could mail post cards and then
headed back to the cottage.

When approaching the cottage from Slea Head Road we cannot make a good
pass through the gate from the road. The opening is narrow and the view
is bad and we are driving on the side of the road closest to the
entrance. So Cathy has gotten into the habit of driving on down to the
road to the pub and turning around there so we can approach the driveway
from the other direction. This time we came to the pub and decided to
pull in and park and have a Guinness.

All week we had been having a glass of wine with dinner. No stops at
pubs except for our brief time in Dublin, when we stopped at the Dead
Man’s Pub for dinner and a Guinness. In that case, the beer was delish,
the dinner was dreadful.

Kruger’s pub is the westernmost pub in Ireland. This the cute young
bartender offered when we looked for a good seat. The Dingle Peninsula
is, as you might have figured, the closest Europe gets to the U.S. The
pub has large windows looking over the ocean and the Great Blasket,
which makes it a nice place to sit and look with friends. Last night, it
was sevenish as I recall, we were the only ones in there when we
arrived. We’ve noticed that people don’t seem to spend the day there and
they arrive later at night than folks to in the states. That is, at
least at this time, in the spring. Perhaps they all go for evening walks
first. Or they spend their time debating the new rules on blood alcohol
limits that are in the papers here before deciding whether to walk or drive.

We asked the friendly young bartender about the winter. If there were
any visitors then. No, no, absolutely not, he said. It is cold and dark
and everyone is depressed and everyone drinks, he said. So perhaps the
weather is just too good right now for us to meet up with locals at the
pub, or very many of them anyway. While we sat there nursing first one
pint and then the second a few people did come in. A game of snooker –
we think that’s the name – got going. Another tourist couple came in,
sat near us. I thought they were English, Catherine thought they were
German. We will never find out, but that may be an indication of how
functional we were at the time.

I asked the bartender where the puffins are. I had seen a postcard with
puffins, somewhere in this area. He said they hang on the other side of
Blasket. They are small, he said, and they fly fast and close to the
ground and it is difficult to distinguish one, to see one clearly when
out there on the ocean looking. I was relieved, in a way. This meant I
didn’t have to work up the courage to take the ferry around the island.
Taking the ferry, by the way, might not be a big deal. Getting to the
ferry looks challenging, however (it’s a walk down a steeeep trail), and
neither Catherine nor I have actually seen one of these supposed
ferries. Makes us wonder.

Catherine asked about silage. Wet grass that ferments. The farmers here
wrap it up in plastic and feed it to the cows. They like it, the
bartender said. The sheep get dry grass because, apparently, they don’t
like the silage. I’m thinking the cows like it because it makes them
drunk but what do I know?

Neither of finished our second pint but we were pleasantly lifted by the
experience of Guinness draught. We went back to the cottage, fixed food
from leftovers, read books. The television gets three stations and as a
rule what’s on is American shows. Go figure.

Morning dawned a bit foggy today. But it still seemed a good chance to
go out and get some pix. This time I went on my own. I am feeling
stronger (strength being a relative term for me) and apparently Cathy
thinks I am not going to destroy the car driving alone, so I went off
for areas I thought were especially beautiful. I had to go with where I
could park the car, of course. But from there I hiked down hill toward
the ocean and did what I could. The weather never completely cooperated
but I enjoyed the effort.

IN the meantime Cathy mopped and vacuumed and dusted and wiped and
encouraged a large bee to go back outside. By the time I got back the
cottage was clean as a pennywhistle. What to do but eat and read for a
while? Then into town we went again, into Dingle Town. I mean, after
all, we needs us our fixes.

Mary (daughter) mentioned to me (text message) yesterday that Dingle is
a funny name. Of course she hasn’t seen the other names here. Dingle is
pretty easy, at least, to remember and spell and pronounce. It’s the
English version of the town’s name. But wait! The name was changed not
long ago, by some county council or something like that (I’m vague on
the details). Without a vote. The name was changed from Dingle back to
some really old roots, An Dungeuan, something like that (I know I
spelled it wrong but how can you tell?).

Because of the name change the street signs, directional, have been
changed too. Dingle has been wiped out. You would not know it from being
inside the city, of course, where every other shop is Dingle This or
Dingle That, but first you have to get here. And that’s what’s incensing
some folks. The tourists can’t get here because they don’ t know the way
because it isn’t on the signs.

There is now a move to change the name again and get Dingle back on the
signs. But until that bill has passed the signs cannot be changed.
Fortunately for us, we relied on Zelda to get to Dingle and she relied
on older maps.

14 May 08
What is the big news of the day, of yesterday? The weather was fine,
warm and breezy, and Cathy and I both washed a load of clothes and hung
them to dry on the clothesline. How virtuous we feel.

Before we made this effort we drove into Dingle. Our plan was, first, to
have some tea in Ventry, another little parish between Dunquin and
Dingle. But nothing was open. Tuesday morning, about nine, but no. I do
not think there are many commuters on this peninsula, certainly not many
who would want to stop for a cuppa before heading for work. And
apparently the locals aren’t so much for going out for tea early either,
just because. So we went on into Dingle and found tea at a little cafe
on Green Street.

I stuck with a scone and tea. Cathy decided to be more adventurous and
ordered a more typical Irish breakfast: eggs, sausage, bacon, toast,
mushrooms, tomatoes, and black and white puddings. The food came piled
in a wide bowl. I don’t think presentation is everything there. Cathy
offered me a taste of the black and white puddings, neither of us
knowing what they were, and I tasted the black. Immediately I knew there
was animal involved so I did not finish it or try the white.

The scones we’ve had here are made, generally, with some “brown flour”.
I am not sure what the brown is, but they tend toward hearty. I rather
like them.

The black and white puddings. Later we stopped at a bakery for some
bread, and Cathy asked what was in those puddings. The black is made
with blood. The white with offal. Cathy paled and wondered if there were
anything available that would let her cough those up again. From what I
tasted, by the way, I don’t quite see the attraction in any case. But
then I don’t get the Irish cuisine as a whole. At least what we’ve had
of it. The tea is fine, the scones are fine. The heavy fat-saturated
foods, not so fine.

After this adventure we explored a bit. Cathy was a little unhappy with
the state of her hair and wanted a wash-and-blow-dry somewhere. She
found a place that would take her at 1:00 so we wandered separately
until she got that done. I slipped into the shop when the cosmetologist
was finishing up and we left together for our next cup of tea, at Bee’s
Teas. From there we found the post office, bought stamps, mailed post
cards.

Our wanderings took us about and around Main Street. Dingle is indeed an
arty, hippyish town, as advertised. It’s friendly and not full of
itself. It’s not fancy, it’s patched together picturesquely. It’s easy
to see why it’s a popular place.

On our way out of town we stopped at the famed Moran’s Garage. The Moran
family and friends do everything that needs to be done in Dingle, it
seems. They run buses and tours, they fix cars, they replace tyres, you
name it. So we figured they might be able to buff out the scratches on
the car’s side. The scratches extended from one end to the other but
were not particularly deep, did not actually create dents.

And they could. And they were on it immediately. A nice young Russian
guy came out with a can of scratch-be-gone or something like that (I
made noises about buying a can but we didn’t actually, maybe we should
have), and cloths. He used it much like car wax, rubbing it in and then
rubbing it out with a clean cloth. It looks wonderful! The scratches are
not entirely gone, not all of them, but you do have to look for them.

Oh, and for those of you who are smirking about the crazy Ohioan who
runs into hedges, know this: several Irish people have told us that
their cars, too, are scratched on the passenger sides.

Some side comments not related to yesterday:

Maps. We both brought maps, but neither of us brought detailed local
maps. I figured it would be easier to find a good one once we got here.
That turns out to be not the case. Catherine secured an ordnance survey
map of County Kerry, which helps but is still not detailed enough for
our explorations of Dingle Peninsula. I would recommend to anyone coming
this way that they search for maps online well ahead. Directional
signage isn’t the best, and in this county Irish is, as I understand it,
the official language. Many of the signs to specific locations are in
Irish only.

Did we mention bees? There are a lot of bees here, or at least it seems
that way from our admittedly anecdotal experience. Big ones, too.

Pictures. More to come. I haven’t uploaded those we took on the way here
but there are several, by both Cathy and I, to be added to the group. I
love the sheep. We can hear the lambs crying little high-pitched baaaas
now and then and I just want to go out there and hug them. Our neighbor
told us the moms and babes (ewes and lambs) are taken from the flock
after the births and they are brought down to level ground. They stay
there until the lambs are strong enough to handle hillside climbing.
Thus there are little yards nearby with just a few ewes and lambs.