Day 19 – 25th August- off to EIRA
Belfast to Bunratty—A Whirlwind of Speed, Shenanigans, and Skelly Escapades
Thinking I’d sleep was optimistic at best. So naturally, I didn’t disappoint myself when I woke at 3:30am, wide-eyed and ready for the day. Bags packed, caffeine pulsing, and off we went—hurtling toward Belfast at what can only be described as ungodly speeds. Crawford, my cousin and resident daredevil (aged 80+ and still driving like he’s auditioning for Top Gear), clocked a casual 134 mph. Not too shabby for a Northern Irish octogenarian with a need for speed.
Robert had warned us about the maze of roadworks and one-way streets ahead. Belfast, it seems, is undergoing a full-blown facelift. We arrived early—miraculously—and I was dropped off at Grand Central Station. Not quite the right spot, but close enough to feel smug. A kind Canadian gent helped load my bags under the bus, only for me to discover that I was at the wrong bus entirely. My ticket was for a different departure point near City Hall. Cue panic. Cue kindness. The driver sold me a new ticket (€16), which stung slightly given I’d paid €21.50 the night before and had declined the refundable option. C’est la vie.
Turns out, my Canadian helper was also my seatmate—and we talked the entire way to Dublin Airport. Lovely company, lovely chat. Next mission: locate Helen and Tom. And guess what? My phone decided to work again! I got a call from Australia (probably someone trying to sell me solar panels—should’ve answered just to rack up their phone bill). Plus, a cheerful “Welcome to Ireland” notification. Handy, since I now had to track down H&T.
I’d been dropped at Terminal 2, but figured they’d arrive at Terminal 1. I wandered over, found the Budget desk, and the girl behind the counter said Tom had just signed the contract—two minutes ago! But she wasn’t sure which office. I rang Tom, who gave me instructions: find the red and blue shuttle bus. Easy, right?
Well. I found a red and blue shuttle bus, asked the driver if he went to Budget/Avis. “Nope,” he said. “Just the red and blue car parks.” Back to the lift, across the walkway, and there—through the glass—I spotted the actual Avis shuttle bus. I bolted down the escalator, but it was already pulling away. Eventually, another bus arrived. I asked the same question. “I only do drop-offs to arrivals,” he said. But then he looked at me—clearly seeing a slightly frazzled, possibly fragile woman—and said, “Hop on.” Albeit a bit angrily.
Two minutes later, we were at T1 (for the pickups) A lovely American woman chatted beside me (usually that’s my job). We finally reached the rental car hub, and there was Tom, waiting like a beacon of calm. Reunited with Helen and Tom at last! We did the usual car check—photos galore, because we’ve been burned before by mystery scratches—and set off for the village of Kill. (Yes, Kill. Scotland and Ireland seem to have a thing for ominous places and place names.)
We pulled up at the pub where we were meeting the rest of the M7 crew—Brian, Vicki, Jim, and Di. Hugs all round! Only hiccup: the pub didn’t open until 1pm. So we grabbed chai lattes (infinitely better than the ones in England) and hit the road for Bunratty.
Ireland’s speed limits are generous, and we made the two-hour trip in lightening speed. Then came a call from Di: “Where are you?” They’d turned off the motorway 10km too early—following the wrong car. Classic Skelly move. They’d been used to seeing ‘Hamish’ the highland cow I used to have in a previous holiday – on the back window ledge. From now on I’ll have my pink raincoat in there!
We reached our lodgings and claimed the two rooms with the shared bathroom (as planned). Tom stood in the doorway, spotted a red car zigzagging in the distance, and rang them. “Look to your right,” he said. Bingo. They saw us and arrived moments later, full of tales and “ever-so-slight disagreements.” Honestly, travelling with the Skellies is like starring in your own sitcom.
Settled in, we naturally scoped out the local watering holes. Pub #1: we took over one side of the bar, ordered chips (Helen had soup), and had a couple of drinks. The girls popped to the petrol station for essentials (no supermarket in Bunratty), while the guys migrated to Pub #2. We dropped the shopping and joined them there.
On the way home, we spotted Pub #3 across the road. It had the holy trinity: Sky Sports, the Newcastle game, and live music. We booked a table for seven at 8pm and headed back to freshen up.
Later, we returned to Pub #3, but the TV wasn’t working. Helen and Tom held off ordering food and dashed back to Pub #2 to catch the match. Eventually, Pub #3 got the game on, so we rang them, placed their food order, and they returned for the second half. Helen had a hot salad (they’d kept the meals warm). Newcastle lost 3–2 after holding Liverpool to a draw with ten men until the final minutes. Gutting.
Still, it was a hilarious, chaotic, and thoroughly entertaining day. Must remember the brilliant conversation we had in Pub #2—pure gold. Home late, straight to bed.
(Side note- We were also rather intrigued to learn that Jimmy was behind the wheel this time. Normally, that’s Brian’s domain. So naturally, someone asked the obvious: “Why the change?” Brian’s response? A cryptic, “We won’t go there.” Ha! And just like that, the topic was closed. We may never know what happened, but it’s safe to say there’s a story tucked away somewhere—probably best left in the vault for now.)
So Tom casually mentioned he hadn’t read the blog yet, but promised he’d catch up “on the way home in the plane.”
Helen, ever the realist, replied, “But you’ll be driving.”
Tom, without missing a beat: “Driving the plane??”
Cue the confused silence… followed by the kind of laughter that only happens when everyone realizes they’ve been talking about completely different modes of transport.
Helen, of course, meant the car. Tom was still airborne in his imagination.
It’s one of those “you had to be there” moments—but trust me, it was peak comedy.
6,352 steps. Not bad for a day that started at 3:30am.
Lady Boomer 