The question I’ve been, strangely, waiting to be asked since we got here, was (disappointingly) asked by a drunk guy trying to prove to the person on the phone that the bus was in fact delayed.

Anyway, I’m getting ahead of myself. Today was surprisingly eventful and I plan on documenting all of it.

The day began like many others, waking up well past our alarm and not having a convincing enough reason to move any further than to the sitting position. I moaned and complained about Ken’s prospect of going into the City Centre to hand out even more of my CVs (It’s been the only thing we’d done for a few days and the lack of any kind of response is really getting to me). “Let’s go to Skerries”, I said. After some back and forth decisive arguing — we got on the bus.

The bus ride didn’t take long, usually around 25 minutes from Lusk to the Port. I say “usually” because I may or may not have got us off at the wrong stop. Too be fair, the intercom said “Skerries” — which is our stop — but then I lost that she said a follow up street name. The stop was coming up — the words, now on the screen, were in Gaelic — and I panicked.

Skerries is a small town along the coast. It’s a lot like Rush but the houses are generally bigger (so either it’s quite a wealthy town or the property value is lower). We really had time to take in the house and coast, given that we were walking all the way to the Port. At least, that was the plan until we came across a couple Bleeper bicycles tied to a post right where we’d stopped to take in the beautiful viewpoint of the ocean and tiny islands in our view.

(Side note: there is a building on one of the small islands just off Skerries and I have every plan to make my way there one day).

After my first bike ride in nearly 9 years, we made it to the Port; utterly freezing. So cold, in fact, that Ken wouldn’t stop to let me take too many pictures before ushering me inside the nearest coffee shop. It was called ‘Goat in the Boat’ and the coffee was good, but we had already decided that we want to get lunch the “famous” Skerries Mills that we passed on our way, and so after hyping ourselves out to get back into the icey wind (exacerbated by the water droplets smacking onto us form the surrounding sea), we attempted to make our way to the Mills.

Let me tell you, dear Reader, that I have never been so cold in my entire life as I was riding that damned bicycle down the walkway towards the centre of the town. When we finally got off at our stop, I was shaking so badly that I could barely speak and it felt as if my bones themselves were cold. “Cold to the bones” — I finally understand that expression. And I was angry at Kendal, not because it was his fault, but he was the closest thing to me and my anger is probably what kept me alive until we finally walked our way to the mills.

By the time we got there, I was so desperate to be inside and eating that I didn’t really bother to stop and be impressed by the 200 year old, working, mill. We went to their little café and ordered a toasted chicken sandwich. When one says a chicken sandwich, one usually expects a little something (like mayonnaise) with their sandwich to, I dunno, moisten up the dryness of chicken. But we literally got a chicken sandwich. Chicken. On a sandwich. Sorry for the ramble. I was desperate for comfort and the food did not do it for me. But, I’ll tell you what did. A small bottle of Sauvignon Blanc from Chile. That little bottle warmed us up and tasted smooth and sweet. It might be the second best wine we’ve ever had.

I’m sorry to say that we didn’t tour the mills, but decided that that was something for a different day. Perhaps a day when the €10 euro per person price tag doesn’t seem to feel as threatening. (Although should one of you wish to deposit the euro into my account so that I may visit the mills on your behalf, I shall do the greatest write up of my experience).

Fortunately the excitement of the day didn’t end in an almost-tour of an old mill. And I still have to tell you the story of the drunk man, so let’s get on.

We have a church group thing that we go to on a Wednesday. Today we left an hour and a half before the due time, and chose to spend our extra half an hour (waiting for the later connecting bus) inside The Pavillion, in Swords. We walked the mall and ended up in front of Dunnes — pronounced “dunns” by the way — and there, in front of us, were Orchids. And the Orchids were on sale. 50% off their usual €5 price tag and probably the cheapest I’ve ever seen an Orchid. So, of course, I had to get one.

I loved my Orchids in South Africa. I had one of them for over 7 years and at one point it was flowering twice a year. By the time we moved I had 5 Orchids. All healthy and happy. The thing about Orchids is that they don’t like change. I can’t promise that to my new one, with our “lease” being up in 2 weeks and currently no prospect of a place to stay. But she was sad and ready to lose her last flower and she reminded me of home.

When it was almost time to meet our bus, we headed to the door, stopping at the cheapest store to buy some gloves and jellybeans. We made our way to the bus stop — the wrong bus stop. When we realised our mistake and saw our bus coming we began to run. But Kendal called out to me to stop and as he did so the bus roared past us. Sigh.

“Oh well”, I said. We’d have to simply just be late for the meeting and catch the next one. But the next one didn’t come. Around the 10 minute mark of our bus being late, a drunk guy (also waiting) was yelling on his call to someone that he was waiting for the bus and that the bus just wasn’t coming. He turned to us to confirm this for his friend on the phone, who still didn’t believe him. He said “there are these guys here, from France or.. where are ya from?”. “South Africa”, we replied. He repeated it into the phone as if that was proof enough that he was telling the truth, how else could he have suggested such a random place. The people here know very little about South Africa (but that’s a story for another time).

And so, that’s how we were asked the question I’d been waiting to be asked. I don’t know why I’ve been waiting. I guess I just expected people to find us (or at least our accents) strange enough to want to know. But thing about Dublin is that there are so many people from so many parts of the world that almost everyone is a foreigner. And we’re just like them.

Today was a crazy day. But it was good. Life is good and exciting and worth getting up for in the mornings. You just have to decide.

Goodnight, dear Reader
With love, from Dublin
Cheylin.