Dolphin Address 36
August 24th 2005
With a sigh and an unuttered scramble of bad alphabet I push the bus in the verge for the umpteenth time. The short cut between Doolin and Lahinch seems to be discovered by a litter of slow-as-you-go campers that exceed their half of the road by an impassable stretch creating a wriggle in every encounter. The charm of winding and descending has deteriorated into a hazardous undertaking as these dormobiles take the mickey out of expedient steering.
There were always the buses blocking free progress, but at least they outnumber my interest by their passengers. Then there are these lazy tourists, too lackluster to park their car and take a walk but instead drive 30 with their camcorders rolling not to miss a single moment in comfort. And the aged and re-tired, halting their precious mobile as to not be responsible for a single scratch in advancing. But they are passable nuisances, taking some patience for a straight and oversee able stretch.
But the mobile homes are hardly mobile as they move in a way that does not interfere with subtle cooking inside as they clog the countryside.
To some of these snails I may seem fast and dangerous, but I know these roads like the back of my hands. Every pothole I know to swerve, each hidden parking den I caution. There is a rhythm to its idiosyncrasies that I tune into, accompanied by the melody of the moment. I sense the lunacy in drivers that edge through a bend or even halt to savor the view and next full throttle the continuing stretch so there is no way to overtake them. Or those, who in spite of my rapid approach, chose to sluggishly pull their vehicle right in front of my wheels only to toddle forward in reading velocity.
Everyday I have to cover my seventy kilometers to the Boathouse Bay and back through the happy pedestrian miles of Doolin and the eternal traffic jam of LaHinch, passing the postcard brigade and slashing around the sightseeing egos of jitterbugging juggernauts. Sometimes I really miss the streamline understanding of exercised Berlin traffic. They may be fast on the horn, but at least they are fast. I do adhere to the Irish tradition of taking things easy as long as they do not eat out other people's time.
But maybe I am just being a Dutch uncle here, fearing the overcrowds in my own country, traumatized by incessant traffic jams, living a clock that is always too short.
Sometimes I meet a very local hold up in the way of cows coming home. Chewing on scattered bits of roadside grass they unhurry to their stable. There will always be the one that stops right in front of me and glancing with a bulbous moist eye in which I am sorry to read no other but: 'Bloody tourist!'
Jan Ploeg, Meadow Fanore, August 24th 2005
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