Dolphin Address 12
March 24th 2005
To begin with, I am where I want to be: on the Fanore Meadow. Memories like the ruins of Lackinishka. This may take the thrill out of my road story, but it gains in tranquility.
The bus is all confused, drive on the right, drive on the left, going East, going West. It's onwards to the Land of Lucozade now, only 1200 km. to devour. Everything is moving, except me. My eyes are locked upon the idiot ahead of me.
My visit to Roland Kanters was a flipping success, that resulted in the keen buy of the two ultimate monofins. For me that is, because my choice is rock bottom personal and from several dozens. For combining with a waterwing the monofin is clearly superior, though I do advise ordinary fins to those with a feetcuff phobia. Might you consider to buy one, best mail to
rolandkanters@hetnet.nl.
Then to Van der Jagt in Capelle a/d IJssel where they did not skip one body size to tailor me a diving suit like the one I enjoyed in the past 12 years. For a selection of my award winning ad slogans I have to refer you to the Dutch page.
One may wait for the ferry in Hoek van Holland in an oversized, state of the art, deserted hall, where no counter is (wo)manned, so I went and devoured my annual book bonus in the cosy bus.
On the Stena Brittanica, that was to sail me to England through the night, my new coat turned out to be so warm that I feared for triggering the fire alarm. On the ships cabin loo your excrements are imploded away from beneath you and the water tap did not exactly produce Evian. This did come from the vending machine that with a steel face demands 2.20 euro for half a litre, which makes it only more delicious!
You do may eat there as much as you like and it all looks ambrosial. The trick is that everything tastes about the same, mainly after nothing. It must be very unrewarding to clear the tables here. The passengers leave their crammed scooped plates for often more than half.
The ferry, with its eleven stories more like a floating skyscraper, has sneaked into the arms of Harwich harbour in the dead of night. Shortly I will tuck up my left sleeve to remember the left driving. It is particularly dangerous at the abundant roundabouts, as here they suddenly come from the right. At the passport check I am directed to a meanwhile fallen vacant exit: 'So this is the fast lane!' and at the customs I tell in good cheer I'm going to Ireland to swim with the dolphins. Maybe I should have taken them 782 kilo's of cocaine.
Fortunately I had read all important town-names on my route into my dictaphone. That saves me a lot of awkward stops and map fumbling.
After a few miles I pass the village of Wrabness, a name that could only be dreamed up by John Grisham. Mind you, I do prefer kilometres over miles, as they make better progress. Soon the grey curtain falls from clouds like fluffy bags of water and cars become red eyes in blowing showers. It takes a generous measure of fastvoyance on the Motorway. I drive my bladder to the fill and start looking for the next gas station.
At Water Orton the M6 suddenly turns into a Toll road that trouble-free takes me past the traffic misery of Birmingham. A most sympathetic blackmail.
A dead oak startles balding branches to the heavens. In Llangollen I spy red-bricked houses with curious protruding bay windows. If the farmers in Wales had not invented legs under their sheep they would all roll down the mountain. A shred of black agricultural plastic sits on a pole, ruffling its feathers in the wind. Or was it a crow? On top of the mountain the gale howls around my roof case. Night eye palpitation rectifies my path.
In Betsy-y-coed I see the Telephone icon still merrily dance on the door of the booth where the automated giro-lady told me, just in time, three years ago, that my money had been had come in.
Only when we arrive in Ireland I get this island feeling again. I even get across Dublin in less than an hour after the extended cross-examination of a crewman. I savoured the sweet taste of triumph after the desperate four hour maze of last time. By the brisk walk with swaying arms and penduling legs one can be certain to have set tyre on Irish soil. How wonderful to swing the bends again, one with my machine. At long last there is the ocean, like a giant breath of air. Can't go further, I am where I want to be.
Jan Ploeg, Fanore Meadow, March 24th 2005
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