as per requested, the vacation of a lifetime

The semi-classified facts of a week in the life of a solo guide in ireland in september. To all of the office-bound folks, kiss your desk, touch wood, spin around in your rolly chair til you puke, steal some chocolate from the office fridge, and never quit.

Week of September 26th. Ireland, West.

Day 1:
Pissing rain on while leading a walking tour of galway.
Relentless sleet beating windshield as we drove from Galway an hour to lunch was advantageous only insomuch as the loud banging drowned out the curses of the busdriver pleading for an early pension.
Lunch in pub was warm, but too short to give relief.
The walk, an 18 km holy pilgrimage, was a swim.
Very unhappy people at times, especially those hiking in jeans because they didn't bring rain gear. The group forded streams and were beaten by sleet at top of pass, descending with hailstones impaled in their cheeks. Group photo.

Day 2:
Miscommunication with bus driver getting started, so our clients waited alone at the gas station for a pretty minute waiting for their fearless leader. Who in fact, erred, and was on the other side of the county, waiting for them.
Two hours and four gallons of toxic sweat later, walked along the only fjord in ireland to the tune of good-natured belittling of guide, put to the melody of military marching songs. nice enough until Mr. Jeans stepped in cowshit.
Great lunch at Pangur Ban, chill afternoon. Great performance by the family of soft-shoe dancers, and a lobster dinner followed by Irish coffee demonstration and some racy innuendos. Only the beginning of pain-induced bonding.

Are we going to the island tomorrow amanda? Yes, I say. No, I'm told. Plans for Day 3 thwarted. Only made aware of such thwarting at 8pm the night before. By the lunch guy on the island who talked to the fishing guy who talked to the boat guy, who was at the pub, with his boat locked up until next summer. Because nobody would be stupid enough to sail in winds like these.

Are we going to the island tomorrow?
No. Like I said.

So what does one do? One moves original Day 4 itinerary to Day 3.

Day 3:
Went to Omey Island in the morning. The tidal island, which means that one can only cross the sand strand between the mainland and the island at certain times to ensure not getting stuck out there for the night. Mutiny brewing. Ten adults fake sleeping on heated bus. Hail storm. Nice walk.

Good pub lunch. I hear. Had to leave to take back a bag of another guest at hotel that we had taken by accident in the morning loading all the bags. Good walk in afternoon around Cleggan Farm, looking at all the pretty horsies.
Great luck at alternate hotel, minus the one couple's luck, whose toilet wouldn't flush.
Good dinner. Brought in musicians who came all the way from dublin to play for us by fire after dinner.
Like it all never happened.

So what does one do for Day 4, when one has already moved it to Day 3. And one is not going to the island. One makes it up.

Day 4:
Are we going to the island amanda???
No, kids. Not today.
What are we doing then?
Good question--no idea.

Local guide came up with a new walking route around the peninsula.
Created a lunch at the Renvyle House Hotel for us at 10:30 pm the night before.

In the morning, travellers were transferred in a bus to start of walk to go with local guide.
Madamanda got a flat tire. Waited 1 1/2 hours in the middle of butt-fxxx nowhere with some very toothless, but notably handsome farmers for assistance.
More gale force winds. More rain. Good walk though, they say.
Lunch was fine.
Afternoon, the few, the proud went on another walk with John, while I drove the ladies back to the hotel via the craft shop to urge consumerism as a band-aid for bad weather.

Are we going to the island tomorrow Amanda?
Why can't you turn the sun on?
No, kids. We are going to walk in a straight line for 12 km through the bog and you will like it. And they did.

Day 5:
as mentioned above. 12 km. bog.

For dinner that night, clients meant to be on their own.
BUT.
Hotel couldn't have people eating in because of the big end-of-season fishermen's gathering.
Made reservation for them at great restaurant, but couldn't get taxis for them because of fishermen's gathering.
Madamanda, Clifden hackney service, drove group to dinner, then awkwardly escaped, ate a rice cake, and raided houses dotting the lakes of Connemara to find a way to make a picnic for the next day.
Because.
The hotel which owns the boathouse we use for the picnic was having a wedding and thus couldn't do any of the cooking or prep.

Walking out the door of the dinner restaurant:
Amanda are we going to the island tomorrow?
No, kids. Because if you go, I will make it impossible for you to come back and ask me any more questions.
We are walking tomorrow around the deforested forests. And you will like it.

Day 6:
They did.

Meanwhile, madamanda was out collecting stew and benches and turf for the fire and silverware from 18 places in connemara. Thankfully the traditional musicians showed up at the boathouse in time to help the Californian Barbie light the turf fire and cook the stew. And an hour and a half later when the group finally got there, the pipers were piping, the fiddlers were fiddling, the stew was boiling, and the moment was perfect. More perfect than it would've ever been if the first 158 hours of the week had gone well, or even decently.

Day 7:
The sun comes out, and everybody goes home.

God bless Italy.