Apparently I’m trying to draw the Ireland blogging out as long as possible, because it’s been two weeks since I got back now. On with it!
In Galway, we lounged.
Mike is a genius packer who not only fit ipod speakers in his bag, he also brought a hammock. We read. We wrote. We napped. We ate…wait for it…peanut butter and honey sandwiches. (I know, I was also shocked).
After one particularly revelry-filled night in Galway, Dustin announced that he’s written a song about Squidget in his dream. We really loved our car.
Driving north of Galway we saw some of the most striking scenery of the trip. Squidget hugged the curvy roads through green mountain ranges, and narrowly missed the spray-painted sheep that liked to eat the grass right beside the highway.
In Clifden we stopped at the tourist office to ask how to get to our next destination – the holy mountain that people climb all the time.
G nudged me at the counter. “Hey, you ask where Mount McKinley is.”
“Excuse me, can you tell us how to get to Mount McKinley?”
“McKinley?” The tourist-office woman was perplexed.
“You know, the one that people make pilgrimages to every year…” G said.
“You mean Croagh Patrick?”
“Now that I think about it,” he said later, “Mount McKinley is in Washington.”
Having heard that some people climb the mountain barefoot, Dustin decided to give it a go.
The guide book said the walk to the top took about two hours. I took one look at it and decided it was going to take me all day.
Jeff, Mr. Uber Athlete, made it up in just under one hour. Dustin, with no shoes, took a little longer. By the time I got up, after picking my way carefully up the very rocky peak, it had been about an hour and a half. Not bad.