Ireland and London 2024 Part II of II: June 2 - June 9
- Nicholas White
- Jun 5
- 31 min read
County Galway and London
Saturday 06/01 and Sunday 06/02
Galway, Salthill, Aran Islands and a Superhero
After gathering some supplies in Galway, Jackson and I walk happily exhausted back to the dream home.
I wiggle the one room key, we ride up and I wiggle the two room key. While very annoying and time-consuming the "touchy" key situation is low on the list of problems with the apartment.
By now, it’s near 1 AM. While Jackson and I were out on patrol, Janice was deep into research and making things happen. She is a superhero.
“So I found us a place in Salthill which is really close by. Looks great. It’s a condo in a four unit place. Residential street. The pictures look pretty and not far from Galway. The price is higher than here but it’s waaaay nicer.”
It is. I look at the pictures and I’m genuinely impressed. The pictures don’t capture how truly exceptional it is; we will realize this when we arrive but that’s still many hours away. We’ve gotta stay one night in the dream home. We can do it.
“But we can’t check in until 3 tomorrow. I am thinking of booking this excursion for us the day after tomorrow. What do you think?”
After she describes it to us briefly, both Jackson and I immediately say “Yes.” What an impressive woman this is. Not only has she found us a new home but she has also researched and booked a fascinating excursion. She is my hero.
We make it through a restless night and sleep a few hours in our weird bedrooms. The shine arises and we are greeted by another glorious Irish spring day. Grab our bags and head out of the building. Overnight, the “owners” of the little homeless closet/key box arrived. Just outside the entryway of the apartment building, a group of four homeless people have set up their bed on the sidewalk. Another star for the review of the Galway Dream Home.
I go to their locker, find the lockbox and put the keys in. The entire time I am looking over my shoulder hoping they remain asleep and don’t suspect I am stealing their modest possessions. They do not wake and we get to our car as quickly as possible.
Pack up the car and so glad to be saying goodbye to this apartment. In all the years and dozens of times using AirBnB or Vrbo, we have had two bad experiences and this was the first truly intolerable accommodation. Too bad it happened while we are so far from home but we have had a pretty great average. We put that memory behind us and are glad to be in Galway.
Today we explore the town and have breakfast at a hotel restaurant near Eyre Square. The area is vibrating with energy and enthusiasm. Dogs being walked, kids playing football, college aged kids sitting in groups chatting. The streets are not uncomfortably packed but there are people and bicycles, city buses and cars all around. Shops, pubs, hotels, it’s not a large downtown but there is so much packed into the area it feels like a metropolis.
As we walk the city, the delight of Europe is all around. Buildings built five hundred years ago sit beside buildings built a decade ago. There are very few “branded” clothes. Few people are walking advertisements for a sports team, a musician, a fake bar or some international brand. Of course we see some branding especially for local sports teams but in the southwest United States–Los Angeles, San Diego, Phoenix–there is a constant barrage on the eyes of branding. The lack of aggressive marketing here is refreshing.
Nearly 1 PM by now. We get our car from the carpark and head towards Salthill. It’s a roughly fifteen minute drive from Galway city center to our new home on Threadneedle Road. We cannot check in yet but we decide to explore the area ahead of time.
People are enjoying the long boardwalk along the sea as we drive along it. Glorious views of the ocean greet us on one side and, on the other, we see football pitches, lovely homes, small hotels, restaurants, shops and an amusement park that looks like it has been entertaining locals for many decades. Like many things in Ireland, it is all familiar but different.
We park outside our new address. It is gated and we can see the welcoming little building. Landscaping is immaculate and the houses lining the street are clearly well cared for. This is a residential area that is much more closely suited to us.
As I prepare to park on the street so we can start our walk around the area, Janice’s phone rings. It’s our host letting us know we can check in now if we’d like. We’d like.
We get the code to the gate and for the key lockbox. Behind the building are several outdoor parking spaces and garages, all enveloped by trees. The grounds also have a small grass park and tiny walking path. Janice says what’s on my mind, “This is awesome so far.” No homeless people as far as the eye can see.
Carrying our bags up to the residence, it is quiet and calm and clean. There is an elevator to the second floor and we take advantage of that. Unlock the house–no need to wiggle the key–and enter a magnificent residence. Very likely the nicest rental home we have ever occupied. There are snacks. There are posted notes sprinkled throughout the house indicating directions for how to access the wi-fi, how to work the washer and drier and the coffee maker. This host cares and wants us to love it. We do.
Wide window views of the grounds out back. The sea in the distance a few blocks away Jackson’s room is spacious, comfortable and clean. He has his own bathroom and shower. The master bedroom really is luxurious. This is about the exact opposite of the home in downtown Galway. I smile.
We unpack and hang out for a little while and then step out to walk. We are only a few hundred yards from an interesting spectacle: the Blackrock Diving Board. This allows the brave to jump from a fairly great height into the sea below. In this particular instance–and many others–I am not brave. I encourage Jackson or Janice to give it a go but they decline. Perhaps in the height of summer when the weather is warmer, people do give it a go but we don’t see anyone partake.
About an hour later, we have retraced our steps back to Galway but now it’s a totally different experience than the night before or when we drove to Salthill. We are seeing places and people we’d never have seen in the car. A rent-a-bicycle rack appears and Jackson wants to explore on his own a bit. As any parent knows, this is nerve wracking: letting our fifteen year old miracle go off in a foreign land on his own on a bike is concerning but also, we know, extremely exhilarating for him. We rent the bike and he is off.
Ten more minutes of walking and Janice and I arrive at the Salt House. Small but absolutely bursting with personality and charm. Welcoming and warm. There is a man sitting at the bar with his small dog on the stool next to him. The locals all say hello to the man but, mostly, they address Cornelius who seems perfectly content to be a bar buddy despite the fact that he is a canine. As far as I can tell, he remains sober.
No food that suits us at the Salt House. We move on a few hundred yards to Monroe’s. This is a massive pub with a large bar and televisions throughout like an American sports bar but with more character than most. Dark wood and Guinness ads pepper the space. There is a large stage and many promotions for upcoming live music. We sit at the bar for a few minutes and watch a rugby match. Rugby is cool but I wish it had been a hurling match. While I am no rugby expert, it is not an oddity. Hurling, on the other hand, is truly foreign and perplexing and fascinating. Someday I will return and catch a hurling match.
By now it’s almost 8 PM but, of course, the sky seems like it’s the afternoon. We take our drinks to the streetside patio and watch the evening unfold. I am reminded of Nashville as I hear the sound of live music popping up throughout the town and people laughing and chatting and expressing love to one another. Happiness is in the air.
Jackson texts us and comes to us at Monroe's. We order another round of wine, Guinness and Coca-Cola and just enjoy sitting together on the patio. Simple and satisfying.
The walk back is uneventful but satisfying. Considering that in Phoenix, the sun actively tries to end life at this time of year. In Galway, the weather is perfect for a light jacket. While the sun is out, it is not the villain in this place. It sun seems to gently embrace us rather than try to kill us. I like this version of the sun.
Hungry now, we stop into a restaurant in Salthill near our home. It’s not special. Perhaps the least satisfactory meal of the trip but hunger has been sated. They can’t all be "A" plusses, right?
Return to the house and settle onto the couch. Before we came to Ireland, Janice and I started watching the show Bodkin which is set in Ireland. Fun and interesting and starring Will Forte. What’s not to like?
We enjoy the calm suburban space we are in to finish the series and a quiet night at home. By eleven, the sun has finally set and Bodkin is over. We are more than ready to get some sleep and anticipate our excursion to the Aran Islands in the morning.
Monday 06/03
Inishmore, a Puffin and the Cliffs from the Sea
We are to be at the Galway docks at 10 AM, board our ferry and off to Inishmore, the largest of the Aran Islands. It’s about a ninety minute trip to the island where we will rent bikes (very few cars or trucks on the island) and explore the wild and rustic Inishmore, population 820. Likely there are more horses, cows and sheep than people; there is a road–mostly paved–around the island used by thousands of tourists a year who come to experience this rugged beauty.
The ferry ride is without drama but as we cruise out to sea for our journey, seeing Galway disappear into the distance and then large cruise ships and freighters in Galway Bay is glorious. The weather is clear and cool and we are on the sea. Nowhere I’d rather be than on the sea in Ireland with the love of my life and our spectacular son.
Eventually the islands come into focus and the rolling emerald hills of each are pocked with small stone walls and an occasional simple home. We dock in Inishmore and head to the bicycle rental shop where we are quickly given our vehicles for the day. I am feeling truly lucky as I know this is not an experience most people get to have.
Bicycle speed is a wonderful speed to see the world. On the road, the sea is always in sight and we never see a motorized vehicle. Just other tourists on bikes or in horse-drawn jaunty cars and an occasional local tending sheep or horses. Our bikes allow us to cover a lot of ground while also not flying by as we might in a car. There are some mild hills but all very gentle. We have a small map though the route is not very challenging to navigate. Every once in a while I check to see that we are on track to the highest point of the island. There we will see a collection of shops and restaurants.
About an hour’s ride through occasional drizzle but mostly dry grey skies. Sea lions bark in the distance. The sound of chirping birds. Mild lap of the ocean against the nearby shore. No music, no engines, no sirens. Just the same sounds that have been singing for a million years.
We crest a small hill and see signs of more humanity.
At the peak of the island, hundreds of people are walking around in the shops and setting up on the patios of the two restaurants. There is a food truck serving fish and chips. I order for us all. We sit on our picnic bench and enjoy the energy and the scenery. The food is delicious and we chat with some people from Pennsylvania about their trip so far. Like us, they are enamored of Ireland.
After lunch we enter some of the shops and I buy a little magnet. On it is a design by a local artist painted on wood from the island. It’s on our refrigerator currently. I smile each time I see it.
Riding back to the Inishmore dock the same way we came is delightful. Stop several times to take photos and an Irishman from Cork takes our photo. We have a great chat with him for what seems like 30 minutes. In the dock area, we return our bikes, explore more shops and then get in line for the ferry. We start talking to the young man in front of us in line to board the ferry. He’s heard our accents.
“I am from Galway but lived with my grandparents in Boston for two years.” His name is Naoise and he couldn’t be more friendly.
We learn that he has been camping on the island for the last four days. He’s also a sheep farmer in County Galway from generations of sheep farmers. An interesting point he makes in passing: the Irish government pays he and his family well to continue tending sheep so they can keep the product local and encourage younger generations to keep tradition alive. The government is committed to keeping many small farms thriving rather than strictly benefiting the largest corporate farms. Interesting.
A short time later we are onboard the ferry again to the last leg of our journey: a cruise by the Cliffs of Moher before our return to Galway.
The ferry has a bar and now that it’s late afternoon, seems appropriate to try a local beer. Connemara IPA. It’s fine. But a Guiness is better. Jackson and Janice elect to stay inside the ferry and get situated near a window where they will have a view of the cliffs soon enough. I want to be on the deck as we pass the cliffs so I head up the stairs and outside.
The sky is gray and the sea is a bit angry. Several times I must grip my plastic cup of beer with my teeth so I can use two hands to brace myself on the rail or whatever is nearby to gain hold. But it is exhilarating with the spray of the sea, a bit of rain falling and the cliffs slowly coming into view as the Aran Islands drift into memory.
Minor tragedy occurs as we sail. While most of the passengers remain inside the ferry, dozens of us are on the upper deck. Some are milling about and trying to get a good position on the rail side for photos of the cliffs which are still 20-30 minutes into the distance. A young couple are walking on the deck and the man is holding the railing and his partner’s hand. But the sea is rough and, despite her partner’s best efforts, the boat lists hard and the young woman tips towards the bridge and her head smacks full speed into the metal wall. The cacophony of the crashing ocean and the roar of the engines doesn’t matter; it is overpowered and everyone nearby hears the loud “smack” of her head against the wall. Her boyfriend’s strength was no match for the roll of the sea. She immediately begins crying in agony. He wraps his arms around her. They make their way back inside and all who saw it are temporarily aghast and sad. However, had the boat listed the other way, she would likely have been cast into the water. A knock on the head is likely a better outcome. This incident informs me over the next hour or so.
The cliffs are much closer now and spectacular in their scale. There is something quite profound about having been on the land just a few days ago and now seeing them from the sea. I am filled with an indescribable feeling. Gratitude, awe, insignificance…the moment is sublime and is made more so when a puffin splashes into the water and floats nearby for half a minute. I consider grabbing my camera but decide against it as the waves are still roiling us and I may miss the chance to take this site in with my own eyes. On this entire trip, there have been many things I had never seen before nor will likely ever see again. This puffin is a great reminder of that and I cannot help but smile from head to toe. It takes flight and leaves me with an indelible memory.
We are now at the foot of the cliffs and the sea is calmer; we are not completely surrounded by water. It is by no means tame, however. Each time I want to take a photo, I put the edge of my plastic cup of beer in my mouth. Grab a firm grip of the rail with one hand and use my other to take some pictures and videos. There are a few times where even this is not enough stability. What happened to the young woman earlier cannot be forgotten and I really don’t want to need a rescue from the sea if I am thrown over the side. I am happy I got a few photos but also glad I took so much in with my own eyes in the moment. The pictures do no favors to the reality of being there under the august rock walls that lift up the sky where they are topped by green. Mesmerizing. One of the highlights of the trip for me.
Back in Galway, we return to Monroes pub for dinner. They have an adjoining pizza restaurant so we get a pizza and salad and enjoy the ambience of the pub. Return to our home in Salthill extremely content with the day we have had. Jackson seems genuinely impacted by the bike ride. It was an incredibly rare treat to explore such a remote and rugged place.
While Jackson and Janice decide to stay in, I cannot resist the pull to experience something so hard to find at home: live traditional Irish music. The walk back to Galway to the Crane Bar is about 45 minutes. It’s a lovely walk though just a bit further than I would have liked but it’s still light at 9:30 PM and I am in Ireland and headed to a legendary pub. I really cannot complain.
The bar looks as if it was originally a two story home. Both floors are bars and I learn that music will be upstairs so I head up the old staircase. Yes the layout is reminiscent of being in a home.. But there is more to this than just the setting. Like has often been the case, employees at the pub treat you like a visitor rather than a customer. There is a level of politeness and informality that is difficult to describe but no one here looks like they are miserable to be at work. It’s very welcoming like the music. I get a Powers whiskey and a Guinness at the bar and find a spot near the musicians.
Fiddle, flute, single drum, guitar and banjo. They sit in a tight circle surrounded by patrons in the small space. While during some of the most upbeat songs, there is chatting and laughing and drink orders being yelled about, a moment comes where the music stops and the guitarist taps his guitar “Attention. Attention. It’s time for a story please. Quiet for a story.” Everyone complies. The music is tender and slow and calm. The story is of heartbreak and death and is absolutely perfect.
The music, once again, becomes upbeat and snappy. I chat with some other Americans in the pub. They are from Alabama and are here to celebrate their matriarch’s 90th birthday. Her first visit to Ireland. I am sitting too far away from her to speak with her but she nods her head to the beat of the music. Her smile communicates more than words.
I stay for a few more songs then back to Salthill more than satisfied. The sun has finally set on a very good day.
Tuesday 06/04
Connemara, Clifden and Kylemore Abbey
Quick snack and coffee at the house and then we're on the road. Out of Galway and into Connemara National Park. As stereotypical as it sounds, it is green as far as the eye can see as we make our way towards the small town of Clifden for lunch. Not just rolling hills of grass–though there is plenty of that–but thick trees that crowd and shadow the road. Occasionally these packed trees open to views of lakes and inlets from the sea. Sheep, cows and horses amble near and far. We see no other humans for nearly 30 minutes and we arrive in Clifden’s downtown. Lunch at the Woodfield Hotel located in the very welcoming downtown. Sitting in the dining room, we are enamored of the view which gazes out into the green fauna that is also penetrated by an inlet of the sea. We sit above and are all filled with a tremendous sense of calm.
We head out of Clifden and begin the steep, serpentine drive up the sky road. There is no chance that two cars could pass on the road as it is so narrow in most sections. Thankfully we experience no oncoming traffic and we drift behind a mid-size van full of tourists heading in the same direction. I am envious of those tourists as they have a local driver; they can enjoy the increasingly dramatic views. I glance over but must keep my eyes on the road lest this be the last view we ever see. There’d be worse views to make your last, I suppose.
At the peak of the road, there is a small collection of parking spaces and a viewpoint. I park and the three of us step out of the car and to the rail of the viewpoint. The sea reaches to the horizon and the land cuts into the sea. We are four hundred feet above and nature just stretches out before us with not a cloud in the sky. White breakers tap against the rugged land below and shatter against the grass topped rock the stretches for miles around like fingers dipping into the drink. Speechless, we just stare and I can barely breathe it’s so beautiful. I have been to Carmel and Torrey Pines. I’ve been to Maui, Alaska, Cancun, Idaho, Wyoming, the Amalfi Coast…all truly beautiful landscapes. But this is it: the most beautiful view I have ever seen.
We begin our descent and I keep my eyes on the road and the sea views disappear. We are in the trees once again. There is no hint of a city or of industry besides farming and tending livestock. It is pristine and looks damn near untouched by man. Prehistoric natural beauty. Our next stop is the opposite: Kylemore Abbey.
Though referred to as a “castle” in some publications, this a mansion of staggering opulence. Built in the 1800s by an outrageously wealthy Englishman, I am impressed with the grounds and the architecture but I am also slightly aghast: the hubris of building such a “home” in this remote area is shocking. I cannot help but think of the laborers who were tasked with transporting the materials and to construct the home. The landscaping and grounds are undeniably impressive as well. It’s a site worth visiting but also provocative as a symbol of enormous wealth and privilege. I suppose it is now ironic and somewhat fitting that it is now a place for worship, meditation and service as a home for Benedictine nuns. But it’s still incredibly ornate surrounded by rugged beauty. A perfect symbol of man's obsession with control.
We have nearly completed the loop around Connemara. More massive lakes surround the road, deep and clean blue contrasts with the green surroundings. It is magical. More than once we must slow down or stop for the sheep crossing the road. It is almost aggressively pleasant.
We are now back in Galway and have been looking forward to the football match in the evening: I’d researched the best bar to watch sports in Galway. Tonight is Ireland vs Hungary in a friendly in Dublin’s largest arena. My expectation: a raucous crowd in the bar, dozens of televisions blaring the game and the entire nation rallying their team. This does not happen.
The bar does have dozens of televisions. They have a massive screen for main events. Of all the TVs, two have the match on. The main screen is showing billiards and the volume is off while bad 80’s rock music plays on the half empty bar’s sound system. Whitesnake gives way to Foreigner and leads to Def Leppard. No one seems to care about this match. One of us is quite sad as we leave the bar. We do some shopping in Galway. My mood improves quickly as we walk. I’ve been seeking one for days but have not been able to find the right one but, tonight, I finally get my flat hat. Jackson gets a very cool rare Bruce Springsteen t-shirt. The energy of Galway at night is extremely attractive but we have had another long day and time to head back to Salthill.
Wednesday 06/05
Back to Dublin and "Please… I am begging you"
Today’s the day we check out of Salthill and head back to Dublin for our evening flight to London. To reach Galway from Dublin, we had gone far through Waterford, northwest to Cork and Killarney and then further north and west to Galway. But now efficiency will be the name of the game. Drive east directly to Dublin cutting across the middle of the country on the large motorway. Should be about a three hour drive. All goes very efficiently. Until the very end.
Clean up the house. Pack our bags and stop at a local coffee/ice cream shop. Croissants and great coffee. Salthill’s Creamery is well worth a visit. Before we go any further, we stop at the local St. Vincent De Paul to donate a suitcase full of “extra clothes.” One of us has finally come to see that they have overpacked. As we are trying to travel light to London, it is time for her–I mean “someone”--to part with some unneeded clothes and extra luggage. The drop off goes smoothly and we have truly had a unique experience: donating in a foreign country. There is someone in Ireland right now wearing a Lululemon t-shirt that was, not so long ago, resting in a dresser drawer not far from Phoenix.
We speed through central Ireland which is not as dramatically picturesque as the coast but still beautiful. Farms and small towns, cows and sheep and horses and an occasional tower house or castle ruin.
As we approach Dublin, our timing to return the car and get to the airport is good. But it’s not great. Need to fill the tank with gas. Nearest gas station is not so near. Traffic. Get gas. Still Ok. But now…
Follow the signs to the airport and also have “rental car return” directions in our phones. We follow those signs as well and now we are in the traffic of the terminal where passengers are being dropped off and picked up. Cacophony and crowds. Stop and go. Our flight is not for two hours. Plenty of time to check bags and get through security. Probably.
Go around the airport again and tensions are rising. Finally look into the car rental documents and there are directions to the Hertz return lot that clearly indicate: “car rental return is very confusing at Dublin airport.” This, we can attest, is true. I do not accidentally–or purposefully--kill any pedestrians as I drive like a maniac around the airport.
If you need to return a rental car to the Dublin airport: Please… I am begging you:
To return your car, follow the directions from the car rental company.
The airport signs are the opposite of helpful. And your phone navigation will betray you.
Now we are pushing against the clock to catch our flight. I am sweating profusely as we need to complete some paperwork and get the shuttle to the terminal. Jackson and Janice unload the car and I am not the picture of grace and cool as I am explaining the replacement tire to the attendant. He informs me that Hertz will need to charge me for a new tire since the one I got is not the same brand as the others. Great. I get one tire for the price of two. But whatever. I will try to make my case later. For now, the shuttle has arrived and I grab my backpack and jump on board next to my family who are both much cooler and calm than I. This level of cool is a low bar to cross. We are headed to the terminal and still have a good ninety minutes to spare.
The terminal comes into view and, as long as security goes smoothly, we are in good shape for timing. Also, on the upside, my phone will be fully charged as it was charging in the car as we drove across Ireland. On the downside: it’s still in the car.
Well dammit.
We unload the shuttle at our terminal and I tell the driver of our issue. He is calm-friendly and radios back to the office. They have found my phone and will put it on the next shuttle to the terminal. Crisis potentially averted. I am considering options if this doesn’t work: I may need to spend several hours in a London cell phone shop. Exactly what I want to do. But all is well.
I get my phone back and we even have time to grab a sandwich and some refreshments and chill before our flight. Sigh of relief.
Flight to London is quick and smooth.
The three of us trying to use the Tube from London City Airport to our hotel in Kensington is not.
Despite our best efforts to plan the Tube route ahead of time and even asking for help from attendants at the airport, we end up further from our hotel from where we started. Thankfully the cost of the Tube was very cheap but we’ve now wasted 30 minutes. We exit with our luggage and stand on the street. I call an uber-cab using my recently rescued phone.
The driver is not talkative at all. He seems little interested in telling us anything about the sites we are passing: Parliament, Big Ben, Westminster Abbey. It’s riveting to stare out the window on scenes that seem familiar after so many viewings on television and film and photographs but to be here in person: it is otherworldly. There are people and cars and history all along the streets. Captivating with energy in the early British night. The driver is immune. I casually say “Wow that’s a beautiful Church.” He literally replies, “yeah. They love their Churches here.”
Arrive at Residence Inn, Kensington. Very inviting if not historic or overtly charming. The staff are nice and the room is great and has a very large balcony with views of the city. I believe we are on the 11th floor. Good location with a well reviewed restaurant nearby. The Warwick Arms.
The three of us walk to the restaurant which looks like a delightful little pub that’s been standing since the 19th century. It’s warm and inviting and we happen to be wedged quite closely to a family that looks like a near duplicate of ours. Tyson, Anne and Logan. Parents are maybe a few years younger than Janice and I and Logan is 19. But we get to talking, as we often do in pubs. Great pubs encourage community. We have so much in common with this family sitting near us. Music and sports and movies and comedy. We eat and drink and chat for hours.
We finish our quite delicious Indian food–I am guessing the menu has changed since the 19th Century–and hit the hotel lobby bar where we continue to chat about music and politics. Jackson makes it to the hotel gym as he always does and the rest of us carry on. I think it’s two in the morning before we all go to bed. We exchange numbers with our new friends. Though they are checking out the next day and we haven’t seen them since, I am still in regular contact with Tyson. They are a delightful surprise.
Amazing city, comfortable hotel, great meal. Good drinks and new friends. We like London.
Thursday 06/06
D-Day, Hadestown and Guards…What Guards?
We are out of the hotel by 9 AM to make our way to Buckingham Palace for the changing of the guard. Couple of scones from the hotel restaurant and some coffees and we begin our walk. Sky is powdered with white clouds but mostly bright blue. Another gorgeous day. I am having a hard time believing the weather in Ireland and the UK is as rainy as I have heard. I also know we have been incredibly lucky in myriad ways.
We make our way up Warwick Road and through many of the shops of Kensington, walk along Kensington Gardens and Hyde Park. Beautiful is an understatement even as we speed past to get to the Palace. I review my navigation app and can see now if we keep the same pace, we won’t make it to the changing of the guard. Rather than run, we hail a taxi. We love the black taxis here. Most of them are electric and have two bench seats that face each other, one bench conventional facing forward and the other facing the back of the vehicle abutting the drivers’ station/fort. It’s roomy and comfortable like a small limousine.
As has often been the case, our taxi driver has little interest in speaking to us and, like many times before, doesn’t seem particularly interested in the historical sites we pass. But it’s a quick and quiet ride. Five minutes, we emerge at the Palace and Jackson and I note the profound feeling this is: only a few days ago, we were touring Philadelphia’s Independence Hall, the heart of the Revolution. Now we are in the heart of the Empire. Thankfully, relations between the two have improved more than slightly.
The Palace is as impressive as anything we’ve ever seen. Clean, ordered, and imposing. From the gleaming gold statues, to the perfectly groomed flowers surrounding us, everything is in its place and perfect. There are dozens of people about though I expected many many more.
We find a spot on the powerfully beautiful Queen Victoria Memorial with a few other tourists. The Guards should already be in place and there should be more pomp already in motion. Guards in bearskin caps do stand in position around the Palace as still and as disciplined as you’d expect. But clearly there will be no changing of the guard today. While it is all still impressive and gorgeous, I do some additional research to find that the ceremonial changing of the guard only occurs when the monarch is in Britain. Of course, today is a momentous occasion and the King is in France, joining other world leaders to commemorate the landing of allied troops at Normandy, eighty years ago. We will have to try another day. In retrospect, it was a rookie mistake on my part to miss this detail. However, seeing the Palace without throngs of other tourists is quite satisfying. We will try again before we leave.
Ambling through Westminster, we simply enjoy seeing the architecture and people watching. Energy abounds. We find the restaurant we have decided on and have a great meal at Timmy Green. Shakshouka may be my new favorite dish. Jackson had the “Fancy Bacon Roll” and a world-class smoothie. While Janice’s avocado toast is not a hit, the charcoal black sourdough gets an award for oddity. The coffee is excellent and the service and ambience is a winner. We’d definitely return.
I have heard from some people that British and Irish food is not anything to celebrate. My experience has been quite different. Like the United States, there is a massive amount of immigrant influence so perhaps people are critiquing traditional fare and not cuisine brought into the countries by immigrants but I am not quite sure. Our meals have been quite excellent at least ninety percent of the time whether it was traditional Irish seafood chowder, tikka masala, hamburgers, Guinness beef stew, fish and chips, cobb salads or Shakshouka.
Walk back towards our hotel and visit High Street, Hyde Park and Kensington Palace. Coffee and delicious pastries in the shop at Kensington Palace. People walking dogs and playing frisbee. Picnics and smiles all around. The neighborhoods and palaces mingle together amongst pristine parks. There is no other word that comes to mind but “lovely.”
Late afternoon now and we spend some time relaxing in our room before heading to the West End for tonight’s musical, Hadestown. We heat up our leftover Indian food from the night before. We also watch world leaders offer gratitude for what so many soldiers did on this day eighty years ago. Very moving. To be in Europe on this day is particularly profound as the book I have been reading is Guns at Last Light which begins on D-Day and documents all the way through the end of the war. Most powerful? Seeing the handful of men on stage who survived that day which changed the course of history for the benefit of us all.
We consider using the Tube to reach the West End for the play but after the airport Tube incident we are reticent. Instead we opt for a very expensive taxi ride in comfort. Another charismatically challenged driver.
But we eventually arrive at the Lyric Theater and it is exactly what I’d hoped it would be. Intimate, historic and ornately decorated. The seats are not necessarily built for a six foot five inch man with several spare pounds but I sit on the aisle and dangle my legs into that aisle. It’s fine. And the show? Much better than fine. From the opening to the close, the acting, singing and sets are outstanding. Funny, sad, tense and relentlessly entertaining. This is a spectacular show and seeing it in the jewel of the world’s live theater tradition, just a memory we’ll never forget.
Another expensive and quiet taxi ride back to Kensington. Relax on our patio and gaze at the city lights below. Exhausted, we all slip into a well-earned sleep after walking for miles and miles and miles with more to come tomorrow.
06/07
The Guards, the Thames and the Tube
I quadruple check the details: there will be a changing of the guards today. The King has returned.
We give ourselves enough time and walk the whole way to the Palace on yet another crisp blue-sky day. This time, there are throngs of people outside the Palace and there’s a hum in the air as the ceremony begins. This is the Gurkha regiment. All of these soldiers are recruited by the British military from Nepal which was not a part of the Commonwealth. This is unique but this regiment was created to serve in Hong Kong. It has a long history in the British military and they served in Afghanistan Prince Harry was a member of their unit during that time. The discipline, the pageantry, the adorned horses and the formal uniforms and the music…it does not disappoint and I will barely even try to describe the feeling of watching this ritual unfold together as a family while surrounded by thousands of equally awestruck strangers. Truly a marvelous experience.
After, we head towards the day’s excursion and walk down the mall beneath dozens of Union Jacks that line the street. We walk several miles towards the river docks and pass Westminster Abbey and Big Ben. We find giant and bustling pub for drinks and food. Everything has been perfect and tremendously British: proud, smart and beautiful.
After lunch, we continue on to the dock and climb aboard the boat that will take us up the Thames to the city of Greenwich. Along the way, the boat tour guide points out many points of interest along the Thames. We see the Old Globe theater, the HMS Belfast, the London Eye and the Mayflower pub. We are feasting on history and so much of the tour is fascinating and beautiful and one particular detail really stands out: the Mayflower Pub was named in honor of the ship that left Plymouth and landed in America in 1620 and returned more than a year later to London. The ship was now so damaged from use, it was submerged in the Thames after being salvaged for any useful parts. While further research indicates this may be a myth, our tour guide says that part of the ship was used to build the pub. Probably a case of the truth disrupting a good story, I’d like to believe it’s true and I vow to return someday to investigate.
Disembark in Greenwich. The impressive Cutty Sark greets us. Full of gravitas and history and importance like so many things in London. We make our way, slowly, through the Greenwich market. Stalls and shops and walk up restaurants, paintings and jewelry and people. A tremendous collection of interesting items. Of all the things we could buy, we settled on two heavy marble coasters that are quintessentially American: one coaster is adorned with a Green Day Album cover and the other is a photo of Bruce in concert circa 1985. They are great reminders of one of the great trips of our lives.
We walk a bit to our main destination: the National Maritime Museum. Spectacular.
The building itself is worth the price of admission (which is free but I would have paid a lot more). Coins and swords and muskets and parts of ships are protected by glass. But looking at items from three, four, five hundred years ago that have been recovered from the sea, astonishing. Tiny ship replicas, exquisite maritime themed paintings, naval uniforms of the past, contemporary photography, sculptures, on and on. A truly impressive collection presented with great care and thoughtfulness. We spend about ninety minutes touring together and also on our own, mesmerized by all there is to see and learn. I’d absolutely return and spend even more time, but our own naval vessel leaves soon. We head towards the docks.
Stop at a pub for a basket of calamari. Great fun in this lovely town but we are on our way back to Kensington. We linger a bit longer than maybe we should have as we rush to get on our boat. Of course, if we got stuck in Greenwich, there’d be worse fates.
The trip back along the Thames is more subdued. We are thankful for the calm. We dock and depart from a tremendous experience. As it’s early evening and we have no plans for the night, we risk the Tube. And we are successful. No problems to Earls Court station at a fraction of the cost a taxi would have cost us. We are feeling proud and we head up to our room to relax and watch the international friendly football match between Iceland and England. Unfortunately, the Three Lions lose. Eurocup begins in a few days and we will be rooting for England.
The sun is setting on another memorable day. I hunt for a charcuterie board nearby and, surprisingly, it’s difficult. Exhausted, we eat our difficult to obtain meat, cheese and bread. Our patio is glorious and we eventually head to bed after enjoying it for a bit too long.
06/08
The Near End of an Era
Our last day in Europe, basically. In several hours, we will fly out of Heathrow to Dublin and will return the next day to the US. That’s the plan at least. But we still have many hours to enjoy in London. We leave our bags at the hotel and head into Kensington to a restaurant I have researched for brunch. Potentially the best meal of the entire trip.
In every review, Balans Kensington is highly rated for the food and ambience. In our opinion, it’s still underrated. Artistic and comfortable and excellent service. There is a tree sculpture in the middle of the restaurant that reaches through the ceiling in quite an arrogant display. It’s marvelous. But the food is just as good.
Janice has an outstanding Smoked Salmon Eggs Benedict served on, appropriately, the best English Muffin in history. I have a cheese omelet that is the definition of perfected simplicity. The potatoes it is served with are making me salivate even now as I write this. Jackson has a Cobb salad which is a surprising choice for the young man but it is stellar. We leave happy and walk to a record shop up the road. Two stories packed to the ceiling with artifacts of analog sound. Cool vibes.
Walk back to the hotel and decide not to risk the Tube. We opt for a taxi and thank goodness: we finally get a talker!
Our driver is a mid-sixties local who is gregarious and more than anxious to talk about his love for Chelsea FC, British history, politics and America (he’s never been). The ride is long and expensive but well worth it as we got a tour guide along the way.
Easy flight back to Dublin on British Airways. Shuttle to airport hotel. Unfortunately, getting into Dublin proper from the airport is a task far too taxing for the situation. Fortunately, the Clayton Hotel has a cozy but impressive restaurant. Bangers and mash and a Guiness are much appreciated as seems an appropriate goodbye meal to a part of the world that has left an indelible impact on my soul.
The Clayton Hotel is more than adequate for an airport hotel. It’s actually pretty great. Not the hotel’s fault it is miles and miles outside Dublin.
The next morning we are out the door early and on to the shuttle back to the airport. The customs arrangement between Dublin and the United States is well worth investigating. If it works for you, do it. It’s one of the few arrangements in the world where passengers go through customs before entering the US. Much better to do this when we are feeling relatively fresh and lively rather than after a multi-hour flight.
All goes smoothly. For now.
We land on time in Philly and have time to catch a meal at a philly cheesesteaky place in the airport. Even time for a good American IPA and a coke and a glass of wine. Little did we know, we had enough time for several more meals and drinks.
Head to our terminal. Wait. No plane yet. That’s ok, Maybe a little delayed. It does arrive and the other passengers disembark. Twenty minutes late. No big deal. But then…announcement.
“Flight 541 to Phoenix will be delayed briefly as there seems to be an interior electrical issue.”
Well dammit.
Wait. Wait. Three hours later, we board. Walking around the airport, grabbing another beer. It gets old.
Glad to be boarding but good gracious we are miserable. Instead of landing at 10 PM, we land near 1 AM. I won’t bore you with the feelings we are all feeling but you can imagine, dear reader, they were not pleasant.
Once we get our ride share after two cancel on us, we are headed for home in Debbie’s Honda CR-V she got two years ago and she has lived in Gilbert since 2017 but she moved with her boyfriend from North Carolina because he got transferred for his work–he is in banking–and they want to get married but have a five year plan and her cousin just joined the Navy and…we have another talker which, in 99% of other circumstances, I would embrace. This is the 1% where I do not want to engage.
We are home just after 2 AM. Or was it 10PM? Or 3PM? It’s dark out is all I know and delirium is at bay. Barely. The dogs are happy to see us. For about 97 seconds. Then they go back to bed. I sleep well. I think.
Though it’s needless to say, I need to say it: despite some challenges and return trip delirium: we LOVED our vacation. Hyperbole won’t do it justice.
Thanks for reading.
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Slainte!
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