Planning is kind of my thing. That's not to say I don't have an appreciation for last-minute, half-baked deals. I'm kind of partial to texts sent out to friends with an APB for any would-be companions to the movies and I prefer to give, at most, an hour's notice.
But when it comes to trips, I like to dream/plan/envision/anticipate. It's half the fun for me. This trip was less of a planning-every-waking-minute type thing and more of a situation where I wanted the "bones" in place--accommodation, car rental, flights, etc.--but really wanted to be able to flex with whatever felt good on the day and, of course, however the weather wished to lead us. And that really seemed to be a good fit for the kids and for us. Still, ultimately, everyone looked to me to find out what was the schedule for each day.
The problem with me is, while I love the planning element to a trip, there is nearly always a point at which I feel used up and generally annoyed with the fact that I've actually done all the planning. It's a bizarre and unfortunate side effect, I will admit. The point at which this occurred on our trip was our last full day at Doonbeg and I communicated this in a not-graceful way to Dean. He took my grievance to the concierge and returned with a great plan to travel to Bunratty Castle and Folk Park, about an hour's drive from our hotel. Excellent. We had a plan and I wasn't in charge. Thank you, husband.
Two and a half hours later, after a couple of wrong turns, a longer-than-expected stop in Kilrush at a cozy pub for lunch, and a fueling stop which turned into a 20 minute conversation between Lesli and some guys at the gas station about Massey-Ferguson tractors, we arrived at Bunratty--five minutes AFTER the last entry for the day. Such lovely moments of marital tension, when all I could think about was my Massey-Ferguson tractor convo and the wasting of time that occurred therein. What a deal. Never fear, I used my best Southern accent and most pitiful face, and the lady let us through and actually discounted our rate--sweet relief.
Our cozy little Kilrush pub with such a great atmosphere and yet, rather slow service.
I spy with my little eye.
You see we have no exemption from attitudes and self-pity here in Ireland.
Tiny little pass-through window from the bar to our room.
How does this not cause a crick in her neck?
We made it to Bunratty. Praise be!! Great castle--the kids loved it.
A large number of thatched roof cottages were moved from their original locations all over Ireland and reassembled for the folk park (and had tiny turf log fires burning in all their fireplaces). I could've moved right in!!
Hello, little thatchy girl.
My little pony.
Hee haw!
Watching and calling sheep--the sheep were, sadly, completely unmoved.
You torture me with your thick, soft wool and your insistence upon a safe distance.
The reason for this photo is: the MF. My grandfather, Bill Pierce, used to sell Massey-Ferguson tractors in little ol' Bradford, Tennessee. We grew up revering the name and being familiar with the above logo (which is now considered vintage and no longer in use). So I had to go in and see if they had any MF items of interest. Ended up talking to the manager for--yes--almost 20 minutes about Grandy, Massey-Ferguson, logos, the European advancement of Massey-Ferguson and so on. At long last, I realized we probably needed to get going to the folk park and castle, so I scooted back to the gassed-up Caddy, albeit to a chilly reception.;-/
Look at this sweet little Massey jam jar (the top of the tractor comes off)! Only a granddaughter of Bill Pierce could think this is cute!
No comments:
Post a Comment