Traveling While Disabled: Part VII, To the Beach
This is the seventh installment of the surprisingly rollicking adventures of a courageous disabled traveler going it alone. Here are links to the first six installments in case you missed them:
Wide awake at 3:45 a.m. I am doing the "Time Warp Dance". I had no idea what time my jet-lagged body thought it was but I knew I would pay for this later. I listened to the gentle rain for four hours. At 8 a.m., I took my shower and blow dried my hair, all without use of the still errant hairbrush. Fluff and fold. I looked like a cross between Joey Heatherton and Phyllis Diller.
Downstairs I was ushered to the dining room. “Your usual table Madame?”. Yes, oh, lordy, yes (arm pump). My usual table! That will be sorely missed at home. White starched linen, fresh flowers, and endless supplies of excellent coffee. Bring it on! More yogurt, cherry-berry compote, granola, brown molasses toast. Then the eggs over easy, bacon, sausage, and a broiled tomato half.
I looked out the Carriage Country House windows, across the grounds to the gardens and the lake beyond. I imagined myself as a guest of the original owners. (I have got to stop watching Masterpiece Theater. Either that, or marry an Earl.)
I left the inn at exactly 9:30 am. Ran or shine, okay rain, and in spite of my disability cause by Transvere Myeltis, it was my goal to walk to see the dunes at the famous Rossbeigh Beach. It is just beyond the small village of Glenbeigh. How far could it be? It was only two inches on the map.
Using my trusty cane, I walked to the main road going toward Glenbeigh. Soon I came to a scenic lookout area. There was a woman selling Irish knick-knacks splashed with shamrocks. And a man (not her husband, just a neighbor, I was informed) was close-by holding a donkey. He had his two children with him (I assume they were his) all dressed up in plaid kilts and green shirts. He had them taking turns posing atop the poor animal as tourists snapped photos. There was a donation basket nearby. I took a picture.
Being Irish and friendly they started asking me where I was going. I told them I was on my way to Glenbeigh and then to Rossbeigh Beach. And they in response were kind enough to burst into fits of laugher.
“Ya trying to kill yourself then? Du yerself a favor and go to Dooks Beach. It's where all the locals go and it’s on that small road yonder, over the hill and round a bit.” I headed off in the general direction of his pointed finger. After a mile I did not see a beach.
I finally asked directions from a man saddling up his horse. Seems he was practicing for the summer beach races in Glenbeigh and Galway. “You going to the beach today in this rain? It’s down this small road, follow the pavement.” I thanked him. “You’re not from around here, are ya? So I should warn you on days like dis... “ he said mounting his horse and starting down the road, then looking back with an impish grin he added, “Mind that you don’ get a sunburn.”
To be continued . . .
Sally Franz is a former stand-up comedian, motivational speaker, and radio host. She is a twice-divorced mother of two and a grandmother of three. Sally has a degree in gerontology and several awards for humor writing. She is the author of "Scrambled Leggs: A Snarky Tale of Hospital Hooey," and "The Baby Boomers Guide to Menopause."