After any extraordinary travel experience, it would be easy – but terribly trite – to begin discussion of it with the following sentence:
The second item that left an impression was the Clifton Suspension Bridge, which connects the Clifton neighborhood of Bristol to the town of North Somerset across the Avon Gorge. Begun in 1831 and then delayed because of riots in the town, construction wasn’t completed until 1864 (just 33 years later... sounds a bit like the Big Dig). Despite the setbacks, the bridge was still considered an engineering marvel upon its completion. Ever since, it has been the symbol of Bristol.
After visiting the bridge, I headed back into downtown Bristol in pursuit of a meal and a lager before having to catch a bus to the southwestern coast of Wales at 8:30pm. The first pub I found had a good menu and looked nice and British, so I stepped inside and walked up the stairs into the lounge. Entering the pub area, though, nobody seemed to notice me. There was a bartender behind the bar, and a waiter on the floor, but neither of them acknowledged what I considered to be my fairly noticeable presence, given the large backpack. I looked for a sign that might tell me to please, seat myself, but found none. After a few minutes of standing there awkwardly, looking lost, I decided that I wasn’t feeling this place, and turned to walk down the stairs and head out. The floor was a bit wet, though, and my backpack a bit heavy – a dangerous combination, which caused me, at the top of the stairs, to slip more forcefully than I’ve ever slipped in my entire life. My legs flew out from under me, my backpack yanked me backwards, and I fell down the two stairs in front of me so hard that I literally – yes, literally – kicked the front door open with the bottom of my feet.
If I had been frustrated with the lack of attention the people in the bar had been giving me two minutes earlier, I was easily making up for it now. Everybody’s head turned to see a confused and pride-wounded backpacker pick himself up, assure the room that he was okay, and then sprint out the door to escape further humiliation.
Not a good start, I thought. Fortunately, the kicking-the-pub-door-open incident would be the low point of my trip.
Continuing on my way, I found a sandwich shop, took an exquisite-looking vegetable wrap to go, ate it while walking, and then parked myself in a pub right next to the bus station. There, I met a nice – albeit quite drunk – British chap named Robert, who told me that he found my backpack very attractive and then sat down across from me to tell me about his favorite types of women.
I nodded politely for a while, laughing at him on the inside the entire time, then excused myself to go catch my bus. Before exiting, I decided to use the bathroom. Following signs, I headed into a hallway in the back of the pub, opened the door that said “toilet” on it, walked through, and found myself outside the pub in a back alleyway.
Feeling foolish and taken advantage of, I decided to hold it until I got to the bus station, and went on my way.
CORK
After a bus to Wales, a ferry across the Irish sea (which arrived five hours late due to generator problems), and then two buses across southeast Ireland, I finally arrived in Cork on the afternoon of Good Friday.
After a brief exploration of downtown Cork, I met up with my host for the next two evenings, who I had found on this “Couchsurfing” website I’d been hearing a lot about for the months leading up to my trip. Couchsurfing, if you haven’t heard of it, is a sort of traveler networking website that lets you get in touch with people that have couches, or beds, or air mattresses, or floors, on which you can spend a few nights – or weeks, or months – while visiting a city. Before just showing up on their doorstep, you have to send potential hosts a message and then get invited to stay; it’s not just a free, blind hostel service. Everybody has a profile with pictures of themselves and personal information, so you can do a bit – or a lot, if you want – of screening before agreeing to host -- or be hosted by -- somebody.
Anyway, I’d found a young French woman named Audrey who had a place for me to crash, and so for my two nights in Cork, I did precisely that. And it was wonderful. The first night – it being Good Friday – all of the pubs in Ireland were closed. So, after walking around the city for a bit, Audrey, her friend Pierre (also French -- both of them worked for Apple’s European headquarters, which I learned is located in Cork), two German travelers that I’d met earlier that day on the ferry, and I went back to the apartment. It was one of those classic meet-other-international-travelers-and-learn-all-about-their-countries experiences you hear about when people go and travel alone in Europe. We were a strange group. Two French. Two Germans. An American. All talking together as if we were old friends, despite being complete strangers just a day before. I loved it.
Germans, French, and an American in Ireland.
The next day I explored Cork, visiting a bunch of different cathedrals and monuments before settling down for an afternoon in the Butter Museum. Butter, it turns out, is one of Ireland’s most important products. Kerrygold, the most famous brand, is exported all over the world.
My breakfast sandwich. Fried tomatoes on top of friend sausages and fried bacon. With relish. And a potato chip salad on the side. Delightful way to kick off your day.
Couchsurfing hostee and hosts.
“It was all just so incredible. I don’t know where to begin.”
If I wrote that, you'd think, “Oh no. Watch out. Another young blogger just went on another European tour and wants to tell us about the beauty and fascination of the sights, the friendliness of the people, the efficiency of the public transportation, and the tastiness of the food.”
Not wanting to elicit the above reaction, I will begin my post, officially, like this:
“It was all just so incredible. I really, really, really don’t know where to begin.”
In my mind, the “reallys” render the thought original. Hopefully you agree.
Weak prefaces aside, I'll do my best to tell you about the 11 most satisfying and exciting days I’ve had in a long time. Perhaps ever. If, at any point, my ramblings tend towards hackneyed, I apologize… but it’s all in my effort to write genuinely about the trip. For, the sights really were beautiful and fascinating. The people really were friendly. The public transportation really was efficient. And the food – though not always the healthiest (see my breakfast sandwich in Cork) – really was tasty.
BRISTOL
On Wednesday, April 8, I touched down in Bristol, England at exactly 11:30pm, Greenwich Mean Time. For those of you who’ve flown RyanAir recently, you’ll know how exciting it is to touch down on time. This little victory trumpet sounds over the loudspeakers and a movie-phone-esque voice tells you that you’ve just taken part in yet another on time flight from RyanAir! Over 90% of RyanAir flights arrive on time… the best in all of European airlines!!
At 12:00am I boarded an airport shuttle to downtown Bristol, and at 12:30am I found myself wandering around the quays, a bit aimlessly, looking for a street name that appeared somewhere on the Google map I had printed out back at school several hours earlier. (I had a copy of Let’s Go Europe with me, but Bristol doesn’t make it into the pages.)
At 12:45am I figured out where I was, and by 1:00am I was at my hotel, checking in. For the rest of the trip I would stay at either hostels or apartments, but for that first night, I had been unable to find an open hostel with a 24-hour reception. I could have slept at the airport, but doing so doesn’t always bode well for the quality of sleep, and given that I would spend the next night trying to sleep on the deck of a ferry bobbing across the Irish Sea, I wanted to make sure that I had a solid bed that first night so as not to start my journey with two straight days of inadequate rest.
And thus, I stayed at a hotel in Bristol, slept soundly, woke up nice and late the next morning, ate an enormous hotel breakfast (while also packing for later an even more enormous lunch of bread, jam, and hardboiled eggs… if any of you happens to work for Hotel Ibis, do thank Mr. Ibis for the complimentary meal), and then headed out to explore the town.
Bristol, although not often high on the traveler’s list of British cities to see, turned out to be well worth the visit. The first major sight I saw was the S.S. Great Britain, which was constructed between 1839 and 1843 in a dry dock in Bristol, and had, for many years, the honor of being the biggest ship in the world. Since its first voyage in 1843, it has traveled 32 times around the world via Cape Horn and the Cape of Good Hope, docked at more than 15 international ports, and covered a million nautical miles. In the late 1930s, after many years of use only as a floating storehouse, it was officially deemed no longer seaworthy and scuttled in the Falkland Islands. It sat there for over 30 years, until a restoration team in 1970 patched up its holes and sailed it back to Bristol, where it was turned into the excellent and informative museum that I visited two Wednesdays ago.
Murals near the S.S. Great Britain.
The ship itself.
If I wrote that, you'd think, “Oh no. Watch out. Another young blogger just went on another European tour and wants to tell us about the beauty and fascination of the sights, the friendliness of the people, the efficiency of the public transportation, and the tastiness of the food.”
Not wanting to elicit the above reaction, I will begin my post, officially, like this:
“It was all just so incredible. I really, really, really don’t know where to begin.”
In my mind, the “reallys” render the thought original. Hopefully you agree.
Weak prefaces aside, I'll do my best to tell you about the 11 most satisfying and exciting days I’ve had in a long time. Perhaps ever. If, at any point, my ramblings tend towards hackneyed, I apologize… but it’s all in my effort to write genuinely about the trip. For, the sights really were beautiful and fascinating. The people really were friendly. The public transportation really was efficient. And the food – though not always the healthiest (see my breakfast sandwich in Cork) – really was tasty.
BRISTOL
On Wednesday, April 8, I touched down in Bristol, England at exactly 11:30pm, Greenwich Mean Time. For those of you who’ve flown RyanAir recently, you’ll know how exciting it is to touch down on time. This little victory trumpet sounds over the loudspeakers and a movie-phone-esque voice tells you that you’ve just taken part in yet another on time flight from RyanAir! Over 90% of RyanAir flights arrive on time… the best in all of European airlines!!
At 12:00am I boarded an airport shuttle to downtown Bristol, and at 12:30am I found myself wandering around the quays, a bit aimlessly, looking for a street name that appeared somewhere on the Google map I had printed out back at school several hours earlier. (I had a copy of Let’s Go Europe with me, but Bristol doesn’t make it into the pages.)
At 12:45am I figured out where I was, and by 1:00am I was at my hotel, checking in. For the rest of the trip I would stay at either hostels or apartments, but for that first night, I had been unable to find an open hostel with a 24-hour reception. I could have slept at the airport, but doing so doesn’t always bode well for the quality of sleep, and given that I would spend the next night trying to sleep on the deck of a ferry bobbing across the Irish Sea, I wanted to make sure that I had a solid bed that first night so as not to start my journey with two straight days of inadequate rest.
And thus, I stayed at a hotel in Bristol, slept soundly, woke up nice and late the next morning, ate an enormous hotel breakfast (while also packing for later an even more enormous lunch of bread, jam, and hardboiled eggs… if any of you happens to work for Hotel Ibis, do thank Mr. Ibis for the complimentary meal), and then headed out to explore the town.
Bristol, although not often high on the traveler’s list of British cities to see, turned out to be well worth the visit. The first major sight I saw was the S.S. Great Britain, which was constructed between 1839 and 1843 in a dry dock in Bristol, and had, for many years, the honor of being the biggest ship in the world. Since its first voyage in 1843, it has traveled 32 times around the world via Cape Horn and the Cape of Good Hope, docked at more than 15 international ports, and covered a million nautical miles. In the late 1930s, after many years of use only as a floating storehouse, it was officially deemed no longer seaworthy and scuttled in the Falkland Islands. It sat there for over 30 years, until a restoration team in 1970 patched up its holes and sailed it back to Bristol, where it was turned into the excellent and informative museum that I visited two Wednesdays ago.
Murals near the S.S. Great Britain.
The ship itself.
A plastic captain, talking to his plastic first mate.
The second item that left an impression was the Clifton Suspension Bridge, which connects the Clifton neighborhood of Bristol to the town of North Somerset across the Avon Gorge. Begun in 1831 and then delayed because of riots in the town, construction wasn’t completed until 1864 (just 33 years later... sounds a bit like the Big Dig). Despite the setbacks, the bridge was still considered an engineering marvel upon its completion. Ever since, it has been the symbol of Bristol.
Clifton Suspension Bridge.
View from the other side.
Ridiculous British yield sign.
After visiting the bridge, I headed back into downtown Bristol in pursuit of a meal and a lager before having to catch a bus to the southwestern coast of Wales at 8:30pm. The first pub I found had a good menu and looked nice and British, so I stepped inside and walked up the stairs into the lounge. Entering the pub area, though, nobody seemed to notice me. There was a bartender behind the bar, and a waiter on the floor, but neither of them acknowledged what I considered to be my fairly noticeable presence, given the large backpack. I looked for a sign that might tell me to please, seat myself, but found none. After a few minutes of standing there awkwardly, looking lost, I decided that I wasn’t feeling this place, and turned to walk down the stairs and head out. The floor was a bit wet, though, and my backpack a bit heavy – a dangerous combination, which caused me, at the top of the stairs, to slip more forcefully than I’ve ever slipped in my entire life. My legs flew out from under me, my backpack yanked me backwards, and I fell down the two stairs in front of me so hard that I literally – yes, literally – kicked the front door open with the bottom of my feet.
If I had been frustrated with the lack of attention the people in the bar had been giving me two minutes earlier, I was easily making up for it now. Everybody’s head turned to see a confused and pride-wounded backpacker pick himself up, assure the room that he was okay, and then sprint out the door to escape further humiliation.
Not a good start, I thought. Fortunately, the kicking-the-pub-door-open incident would be the low point of my trip.
Continuing on my way, I found a sandwich shop, took an exquisite-looking vegetable wrap to go, ate it while walking, and then parked myself in a pub right next to the bus station. There, I met a nice – albeit quite drunk – British chap named Robert, who told me that he found my backpack very attractive and then sat down across from me to tell me about his favorite types of women.
I nodded politely for a while, laughing at him on the inside the entire time, then excused myself to go catch my bus. Before exiting, I decided to use the bathroom. Following signs, I headed into a hallway in the back of the pub, opened the door that said “toilet” on it, walked through, and found myself outside the pub in a back alleyway.
Feeling foolish and taken advantage of, I decided to hold it until I got to the bus station, and went on my way.
CORK
After a bus to Wales, a ferry across the Irish sea (which arrived five hours late due to generator problems), and then two buses across southeast Ireland, I finally arrived in Cork on the afternoon of Good Friday.
My sleeping quarters on the ferry.
Sunrise from the deck.
The vessel, heading from Ireland back to Wales.
After a brief exploration of downtown Cork, I met up with my host for the next two evenings, who I had found on this “Couchsurfing” website I’d been hearing a lot about for the months leading up to my trip. Couchsurfing, if you haven’t heard of it, is a sort of traveler networking website that lets you get in touch with people that have couches, or beds, or air mattresses, or floors, on which you can spend a few nights – or weeks, or months – while visiting a city. Before just showing up on their doorstep, you have to send potential hosts a message and then get invited to stay; it’s not just a free, blind hostel service. Everybody has a profile with pictures of themselves and personal information, so you can do a bit – or a lot, if you want – of screening before agreeing to host -- or be hosted by -- somebody.
Anyway, I’d found a young French woman named Audrey who had a place for me to crash, and so for my two nights in Cork, I did precisely that. And it was wonderful. The first night – it being Good Friday – all of the pubs in Ireland were closed. So, after walking around the city for a bit, Audrey, her friend Pierre (also French -- both of them worked for Apple’s European headquarters, which I learned is located in Cork), two German travelers that I’d met earlier that day on the ferry, and I went back to the apartment. It was one of those classic meet-other-international-travelers-and-learn-all-about-their-countries experiences you hear about when people go and travel alone in Europe. We were a strange group. Two French. Two Germans. An American. All talking together as if we were old friends, despite being complete strangers just a day before. I loved it.
Germans, French, and an American in Ireland.
The next day I explored Cork, visiting a bunch of different cathedrals and monuments before settling down for an afternoon in the Butter Museum. Butter, it turns out, is one of Ireland’s most important products. Kerrygold, the most famous brand, is exported all over the world.
View of Cork by morning.
Hillbilly's Fried Chicken Express. Serving "American fried chicken" all day long. This is what they think of our cuisine.
Hillbilly's Fried Chicken Express. Serving "American fried chicken" all day long. This is what they think of our cuisine.
My breakfast sandwich. Fried tomatoes on top of friend sausages and fried bacon. With relish. And a potato chip salad on the side. Delightful way to kick off your day.
Another view of Cork.
The legend of the "milch" cow.
That evening, I cooked dinner for Audrey and Pierre to thank them for hosting me, and then we went out pub hopping in downtown Cork, which turns out to have a vibrant night life. The highlight of the evening was drinking my first ever Guinness on Irish soil (it’s true that it tastes better over there) as a local folk band played Irish fiddle music around the very same table where I was sitting. A stereotypical – in the best of ways – Irish experience.
That evening, I cooked dinner for Audrey and Pierre to thank them for hosting me, and then we went out pub hopping in downtown Cork, which turns out to have a vibrant night life. The highlight of the evening was drinking my first ever Guinness on Irish soil (it’s true that it tastes better over there) as a local folk band played Irish fiddle music around the very same table where I was sitting. A stereotypical – in the best of ways – Irish experience.
Front row seats for the Irish folk band.
Couchsurfing hostee and hosts.
The following day I woke up late, then took a bus north. Rather than letting this post get even longer, though, I'll conclude it here. Tune in tomorrow for Dublin and beyond.
Until next time,
Nate
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