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Mrs Murphy This morning no rain fell from the nondescript flat sky into our well-protected rhododendron hideaway. Surely, I should have recognized the ominous omen. The rain held off just long enough to deceive us. The dry sky lured us out. We headed north, directly into a cold gray drizzle. Once the rain started it didn't stop. A flood of water opened on us--dashing our hopes it would merely be sporadic showers. The clouds and sheets of water obliterated even the scenery. On a positive note, we made good time as we had to pedal fast, just to stay warm. The only saving grace was the tailwind prevented driving the rain straight into our faces. We saw oodles of soaked cyclists, so if misery loves company we were in absolute ecstasy. The sidewall on Sharon's Avocet gave up the ghost and flatted. Luckily, we were near a gas station, so we fixed it under the service station's roof. Watching us change the tire, peering out into the gloom, smiling customers said, "Lovely day." By the time we finished, our hands were so cold we could barely feel them. The Cliffs of Moher garnered a quick glance. The Dutch cyclist we had caught up with didn't even bother to glimpse the cliffs, but continued straight into Doolin. As soon as we stopped to view the fog covered cliffs, the blasting wind instantly froze us into two snot-flavored popsicles. We pumped into Doolin, renowned for its traditional Irish music. We found a B&B downtown right next to the pub. Doolin was a tiny fishing village--at least it was before the hoards of tourists had engulfed it. Now there were three hostels, two campgrounds, numerous B&B's and other accommodations. There were many French and German tourists and even a few Americans. My clothes were as saturated as if I had plunged into a swimming pool. I tentatively knocked on a door with a hand-written B&B sign in the window, wholly expecting the door to be slammed in my face. "Bring your bikes inside!" the robust old woman who opened the door urged. We leaned our bikes against the beige hallway wall while Mrs Murphy clucked about how sodden we were and we would catch our death of pneumonia if we stayed out in that weather a moment longer. Tsk, tsk! Our extremities frozen, we were only interested in a hot shower. Mrs Murphy showed us our room and assured us there was plenty of hot water. Sharon and I nearly trampled each other as we made a mad dash for the bathroom. Tugging off my drenched apparel I scrambled into the tub. To my horror, I found the rubber shower hose cracked and rotten. Water wouldn't come out the shower nozzle. Rather than pulling my soppy clothes back on and slogging downstairs to complain, I decided to have a bath. I ran out of hot water; the sickly, rust-colored fluid not yet past my balls. I laughed. Sharon cried. Musty carpets, no central heating, orange scummy water, mildewy bath tub and shower curtains: A bargain for only fifty bucks. It had been a cruel day. We hadn't been this wet, cold and miserable in a long time. While I was in the tub, more guests arrived, and a German broad rudely hammered on the door every minute. Sharon hadn't even had her turn in the tub yet. I tried telling the German dame we were going to be a while, but she didn't grasp the hint. After I finished swishing around in the tepid liquid, I took my watery clothes downstairs and the kind Mrs Murphy spun them in the washer to wring them out. I didn't hassle her about running out of hot water or complain the shower hose was split, even though Sharon figured I should. I reasoned if the hose was that busted, she must already know about it, and didn't give a hoot. I pulled on Sharon's dry rain pants to walk next door for supper. She had ridden in her cycling shorts all day. No wonder she felt like a cryonics specimen. We walked out into the wailing wind and melancholy rain to the lively pub next door. It was chock-full. We hovered patiently until someone left their table, and then we grabbed it. Patrons huddled on top of one another in the bar section. When I commented, the waitress expounded, "It's not busy tonight; you should see it on a Saturday night." Wow! We didn't know what tourist traps were like. It was a proverbial mad house. Sharon spunkily tried seafood chowder and avowed it was more akin to broth. Guess they didn't have fishermen anymore; now they all played the fiddle and sang instead. I gamely ordered the chicken special and I can honestly say it was the only dry thing I had seen all day. I washed it down with a shared pint of cold Guinness. Our first, but not our last! It was as black as a witch's cat and creamy smooth. Guinness would give me strength to climb the hills. We enjoyed listening to the haunting ballads and soft unplugged music. The fella playing a skin drum with a modified bone drumstick was the most entertaining, really getting into his part, not even stopping when the song had ended. "Make way, musicians coming through." He gave me a toothy grin as he elbowed by. I bet he was just there for the Guinness. |
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