Tom Coyne, author of Paper Tiger, is making his way across Ireland on foot this summer, playing every links golf course in the country. In Fall 2008, he'll publish a book about his adventures, A Course Called Ireland. In the meantime, he'll be writing a travel journal for GOLF.com. The complete journal is here.
Mr. Gerry and Paddy Spellman left me in Kinsale, but the rain was kind enough to stay with me for my walk to Timoleague and on to Rosscarbery and Bantry, as I worked my way through West Cork. It was a week without golf as I climbed the hills and dodged the buses en route to Waterville. The stretches where it's all walk and no play are a little tough at this point. Ireland from the roadside? Yeah, I get it. Where once I stopped to photograph every sheep and donkey, now the donkey would have to be caddying for the sheep for me to bother reaching for a camera-and the sheep would have to be going pretty low.
But the camera did make its way out of the pack last week for a few shots of a feat that made this week's miles seem a little shorter than the rest. Close to the village of Ballydehob, I officially crossed the 1,000-mile mark. A thousand miles in Ireland, on these two stumps of mine. I reached the milestone near a small stone church by the side of the road. I went inside, thought a few private thoughts about the last four months, and even said a prayer, asking for just a drop of sunshine. And a scooter. And then I headed down the road, humming that excruciating, "And I would walk" song for the next hour, a ditty I had never really liked until the walk to Ballydehob.
It's tough to not get sentimental with just two weeks remaining. Fourteen more days, a hundred or so more miles. But it's not the hours or the miles that I'm counting down until I'm back in Philadelphia with my dog on my lap and a cheesesteak in my face. Fourteen more days means fourteen more mornings, and good Lord, that means fourteen full Irish.
More than being an authority on golf courses, of which I might only visit a few each week, I have become a qualified expert on the condition of Ireland's secondary roads, the pitfalls and possibilities of pub fare, and the ins and outs of the institution that is the Irish bed and breakfast.
Back when Ireland was Europe's poor cousin, before it became a land of five star hotels and home to the wealthiest population on the continent (seriously!), taking strangers into one's home was a way to make a few extra bob in towns that certainly couldn't sustain a Hilton. The B&B is a part of the Irish experience, and after having visited north of fifty at this point, I've been more than impressed by the pride and effort and the openness of my hosts. There is a bit of a potluck element to bed and breakfasting-there are no real guarantees, and maybe that's been part of the fun, wandering into a town and wondering-will there be a TV? A toilet of my own? A proper shower, not one of those electric fountains that feels like a lukewarm tinkle on your forehead? But I can honestly say, in close to sixty B&B's, I've encountered just one filthy bathroom, and less than a handful of mattresses I hope to never meet again. So it's not the bed that's beaten me down. Sorry, Ireland, it's the breakfast.
Now bed & breakfasting isn't for everyone. It's a sort of participatory vacation that, for an American accustomed to the anonymity of hotels and do-not-disturbs, can be quite overwhelming, particularly at the end of a long walking day. At a B&B, you've got to bring something to the table-a chat, a few questions, and certainly some manners. This ain't the Ramada. I've gotten the arrival routine down pretty well: knock knock, hello, I'm the American, there's my room, there's the toilet, here's the key to the front door, and here's that antique key I'll be jangling in my room's door for a good twenty minutes come midnight. And then the unavoidable question, "What time would you like breakfast?" This is where I get a little dizzy. And a little sheepish. "Thanks, but, I don't want breakfast."
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