Once upon a time
I wrote a long blog post regarding my spring break touring the British Isles (+ Ireland if we’re going to be correct here). Sadly my computer was stolen by some hooligan in a Barcelonian café, leaving me therefore Microsoft Wordless. But after 2 weeks of living in seclusion, living off nothing but the water and salt from my tears, I have managed to pick myself up and rekindle my tenacious love of life. As a result of this rekindlement (?), I now present a new post…
April 16 – May 1:
A volcano erupted, causing me to miss a scheduled day-tour of Stonehenge and seeing Rob in London. But after 3 days of delay I was on my way to Oxford, England, a journey that required 14 hours rather than the original 2-hour flight time. The whole experience should have been documented because it would have been a blockbuster: 1 metro, 1 boat, 2 trains, 4 buses, X km of running and XX angry stranded people all ready to kill to get from point A to B. (I felt like I was a character in Rat Race, save the million dollar reward.) I arrived at my Oxford hostel late that night and got to see Clara the following morning, a great friend I hadn’t seen since grade 10. She and I spent the day touring the historic town, exploring the botanic garden, indulging in scones, clotted cream and jam, facing near-death experience while punting on the river, climbing the steps of Hogwarts, and addressing the need to catch-up on 5 years of separation. It was the most fun I’d had in a long time.
After only 1 day of paused-traveling, I hopped back on the train to get to Coventry to meet up with another friend. The town of Coventry is rather unattractive. Rebuilt after bombs destroyed the town not too long ago, the architecture strives to depict history while clearly failing. But geography aside, it was great to see Meagan and meet her friends; it’s always nice to experience “a day in the life of”. Another day of catching-up and being tourists led to a night of cocktails and club-hopping. I got little sleep and before long I was yet again on a train. Destination: York, England.
York is probably the cutest town to exist, and I jumped to this conclusion seconds after stepping out of the station. York is surrounded by an old stonewall that makes you feel like a character in a fairytale. The iconic York Minster takes over the center of the town as does the beautiful park found next door. The architecture is exquisite! The cobbled streets, tiny passages, and outdoor markets only add to its quaintness. And the hostel at which I stayed was the best yet, found inside a converted old English home.
Meat pie in hand, I ran to the train station at 5h30 the next morning, incredibly excited to be heading to Edinburgh, Scotland. When I was 6 I had a Scottish best friend who had a miniature lassie and whose dad had the thickest Scottish accent and spoke often of his time in Scotland; ever since I’ve dreamed of going to Scotland, and Edinburgh was a fantastic introduction to the reality of this dream. Edinburgh was in many ways miserable: grey, wet, and very cold. But the surroundings (the combination of the medieval Old Town and the…Georgian??... New Town) and the company (Ross) made my trip far worth it. Over the course of my 3 and a half days in Edinburgh I did plenty, the highlights being listening to fiddles in Sandy Bell’s pub, climbing Arthur’s seat, eating haggis, almost successfully sneaking into the castle, strolling the Royal Mile to the sound of Bagpipes (which I don’t actually like, but it seemed appropriate), and playing in the science center of the National Museum. I could have stayed longer but on Monday I repacked my bags and moved West to Northern Ireland.
If I didn’t have a friend who lived in Belfast I probably could have done with skipping this part of the trip. Not that it wasn’t beautiful (which it was, I spent hours touring Queens University as well as wandering in and out of old pubs and various buildings), but it wasn’t spectacular after what I’d seen the preceding week. It was more contemporary than many British cities and fairly industrial. My hostel was also in the sketchy Irish boonies on a street where literally NO ONE lived. I did, however, enjoy seeing Louise, eating traditional Irish stew in a quaint pub and Cadbury crème eggs, visiting the birthplace of the Titanic, and learning about the still-present religious conflict between the Catholics and Protestants (as a religion buff, not a cold-hearted person).
A couple days later I arrived in Dublin, my last destination, where I stayed for a little over 2 days. Dublin itself was a great city with plenty to do. The free-walking tour was incredibly informative and the Chester Beatty museum was perhaps the best museum I’ve ever been to. But even more incredible was the last-minute trip I decided to take to the Irish countryside, where I experienced the Ireland that I (as well as many Americans I’m sure) had conjured in my mind before arriving (check out photos in slideshow below).
Wicklow and Glendalough were visions! where I could have happily spent the entire 2 weeks sleeping in green pastures next to herds of sheep minutes away from old monastic cities and still lakes. But I guess the hustle-and-bustle of the Parisian city life will have to do for now.
Dommage.
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