We decided to make the grocery store café, perkily and
succinctly named The
Coffee Cup, our home base (bagels felt like grace at that point – even if
the breakfast sandwich was still irish bacon inside the bagel, and the eggs
were hardboiled, not scrambled!). This morning, our last full day in Buncrana,
we began by expertly getting bagels and coffee at the grocery story, and by
picking up our laundry like bosses in the old part of town. We avoided the
school traffic and headed up to Ballyliffin Golf Course, where Ty would play a
round of proper Irish golf and I would get a massage. Yes, it was going to be a
good day.
Turns out, it was going to be an amazing day. We found out a
bit late that the golf course and hotel were actually several miles apart – and
while Ty had the ability to drive the car, I had the time to kill (since golf
takes 4 hours – or in Ireland, 6, it turns out) and a massage is only an hour.
Luckily there was a beach in between the two, where Ty dropped me off and I had
my best day of the trip.
Ty’s version of the day looked like this: speed over to the Ballyliffin course, get set up
with rental clubs, get those clubs thrown in for free, thus helping with the
very expensive greens fees and golf balls. While rolling a few practice putts next to the first tee of
the Old Course, Ty gets adopted into a two-some with a local who literally
lived on the driveway to the club, and a northern-Irishman visiting his brother
nearby. Both are much older and playing the part of the welcoming and charming
Irishmen. Play 6 hours of golf (more on this below from Ty), race back to hotel
just as Juliana is seriously wondering what has gone wrong. Bring Juliana back
to the clubhouse for dinner and to meet playing partners Patsy and James, as
well as chatty Mary the caddy, who also takes a liking to us. Sadly Juliana is
pooped and too afraid of missing dinner two nights in a row to chat people up,
so instead we eat an amazing dinner watching the sunset over the beach, the
course, and the west coast of Ireland.
Ty’s Irish Golf Course Report:
The golf course, named Ballyliffin, after the town it is in,
consists of the Old Links and the Glasheady Links. I played the Old Links, because older is better in golf
courses, right?… Turns out, the
Old Links is probably the easier and less beautiful course, but it was plenty
challenging and amazing anyway.
The Old Links has fairways with all kinds of undulating terrain. I was told that the Old Links has
the undulations because it was built by hand by the local members without the
benefit of earth-moving equipment. The weather was amazingly atypical. Slight breezes and hardly any
clouds. I played poorly on all but
a few holes. The links style
course demands that you hit it straight, and I did not hit it straight very
often. Missing the fairway or
green resulted in 5 minutes of looking for the ball, as my playing partners
insisted that we could find it, every time. And most of the time we did! I did have some memorable shots: a 300 yard (down breeze)
drive which prompted James to declare that I don’t swing like a 14
handicap! (but the rest of the
round would prove that 14 is not sandbagging!) I managed to make a birdie on a par 4 on the front nine, and
I struck the purest 4 iron of my life on a 205 yard par 3 which checked up on
the green about 5 feet from the hole.
I thankfully made the birdie putt and was pretty darn pleased.
Juliana’s version of the day – and I’m pretty sure I had the
better day - is this: Ty dropped me off at the beach around 11am, which we read
or estimated to be 1.5 miles long. I wander along, happy to have 4 hours to
till until my massage at 4:15. It’s beautiful, its sunny, its almost deserted,
and there appears to be both tidepools and a castle at the far end. The pathway
next to the beach is along the course, so at various times I get to look in and
see what type of day Ty might be having. Also seems pretty nice. I’m happy we
are each doing our thing and enjoying it. The tidepools are beautiful – no
critters, but lovely seaweeds and interesting rocks.
The ruined castle
is deserted but there is an information sign, and it overlooks the ocean waves
crashing on the rocks. There is a family living nearby, so I don’t feel too
alone. It’s strange and adorable to watch a young woman mothering her toddler
in the shadow of a ruined castle, more concerned with hanging laundry and preventing knee bumps than this chunk
of history that seems so novel to me.
Its getting warmer and warmer, and I get to pass two horses
and even pet one while chatting up some tourists and road repair workers. We
all marvel at the day and I walk back to the beach, this time taking off my
shoes and walking in the cool but pleasant water. Its more like a sunny
afternoon in Los Angeles. Its so stunning I ask one of the few people I see to
take my photo. She obliges. I ask her the time. It’s 3:30. I am still at the
far end of the beach. Serene feelings are gone in a flash. I have been wanting
this massage for so long I panic and start to run down the beach. I am not a
runner. I have asthma. I am barefoot. I am carrying heavy winter shoes in one
hand, a giant camera in another, and my daypack is flopping around like the
dead dolphin we saw in Doolin on my back. I reconfigure the pack to the front,
where I can stop the flopping but look even more ridiculous. I’m sweating and
my feet are cramping from running in the sand. Suddenly I wonder what I look
like, on this glorious “never happens” day in northern Ireland, as my foolish
self is run/hopping along a beach that is literally sparkling with the remnants
of the tide in the sunlight, and I start laughing hilariously. This
crazy-person giggling seems to stem my asthma, and I run longer than I’ve ever
run before. There’s no asthma, the foot cramping subsides, the sweat starts to
feel normal (sorry future masseusse…), and I’m back to enjoying the day. I make
it back to the beach parking lot, and find my foot washing station being torn of
up by a giant backhoe with a drill attachment. Of course! I only have to walk
up this giant hill to my massage with sandy feet and heavy winter shoes and
socks…but I do. And I make it in time to have a cold drink and a sandwich in
the hotel restaurant before my
appointment.
My massage is glorious and includes a facial. I feel like a
princess. There are giant fluffy robes involved. No fewer than 6 types of goo
were kneaded into my face. Luggage hauling knots, sleeping on planes knots,
motion sickness management knots -
they are no match for this. I come out a new and slightly woozy person. I
think, no problem, I have time to wake up. It’s only 5pm Ty’s probably just finished golf
and is heading up the hill. I wait in the lobby of the hotel trying not to be
too obviously not a guest. Around 6:00 I start to wonder. I eat the remains of
my sandwich. I get sick of reading my book. At 6:30 I start to really worry.
How will I track down Ty? Ty has the one cell phone and the car. But he hasn’t
left any messages at the hotel. The hotel could call the golf course, but what
if he’s left? Just about this time, Ty shows up, apologetic. 6 hours of golf!
They aren’t joking around up here!
We go back to dinner, me too tired from all my beach running
and massage relaxing to talk to anyone. I’m hungry, I’ve already been stemming
worry, and I didn’t eat dinner last night, which I'm determined not to repeat. We meet Patsy and James, and I’m
clearly making them sad not to chat them up. I feel so bad, but more than that
I have an instinct to eat dinner. We do get to talk them more later in the
evening, but I’m well aware that some silly survival instinct has robbed us of
some good craic. Sometimes you just have to be the tourist. We get another
glorious sunset. Ty gets to overlook his course, I get to overlook my beach. We
swap photos. We tell stories. We eat average food, but at least we are eating
food. As we are ready to leave, the bartender/hostess/waitress decides its time
to chat us up. We get a bit of the craic after all, and head home.
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