On lonely journeys

Yesterday the loneliness of solitary travel started to get to me a bit. I was tired from the outset and couldn’t decide what I wanted to do with my day. Honestly, the most appealing option was to sit in the hostel or a pub all day. But that seems a waste, and Levi had met someone who recommended a bar in the northern suburbs, so I hopped on a train, feeling proud of my willpower.

I get off at Malahide, among the northernmost stops on the line. I’ve read about a great castle there and I’m eager to get that medieval chill I felt in this country eight years ago. The town itself is beautiful, bustling and quaint. Up the road from the city center is the castle, an enormous, imposing affair on a few acres of immaculately kept lawns and woods. Stone-lines paths wind through the deep green forest, which occasionally gives way to perfectly manicured playgrounds and soccer fields. Nature here exists at the end of the short lease of the Irish tourism department.


The castle itself is lovely, an ivy-covered stone masterpiece with turrets and ramparts straight out of a fairy tale. I take dozen of photos from outside, but pass on the €8 tour through the inside, which was constantly updated until the family left in the 19th century, leaving it more a Victorian mansion than a castle.

I walk back through the town to a rocky, foreboding beach. They’ve left it in its natural state—high grass, moss-covered boulders, and a craggy, unswimable shoreline. It’s uninviting, almost creepy, but gorgeous in a stark, dramatic sort of way. I take some photographs of the crabs, barnacles, and clams inhabiting the tide pools. It should be a wonderful afternoon, but my spirits are low. I’m feeling lonely for Levi, wishing I had a companion in this harsh, beautiful place.

Headed still further out on the train, I find myself in the midst of an Irish postcard. Miles of hilly farmland roll out in front of the station platform, a breathtaking patchwork of a hundred shades of green. A block from the train station, two enormous medieval windmills come into view. They overlook miles of hilly neighborhoods and church steeples in the distance.


When I arrive at the bar that was recommended to me, I find it to be a strange, glittery, would-be posh lounge with mirrored bead curtains and a sparkly red bar. It’s very unusual but great people-watching; I have a pint of cider and spend a few minutes listening to two guys down the bar hurling insults at each other and laughing uproariously at the particularly biting ones. But the cider fails to improve my mood and I get back on the train.

Back in Dublin, I check out of the hostel and lug my stuff to the house of a guy I found on Couchsurf.com. He and his roommates are all Brazilian, here in Ireland to learn English (which has been hard, since I can barely even understand the English here). They’re also hosting two girls from Germany who begged to be squeezed in when they were unable to find other lodging. These are great people. We spend the entire night sitting around drinking beer and comparing our three vastly different countries. Anne, who bears a shocking likeness to the St. Pauli girl, tells me about the candlelight schnitzel dinner she had with a boy she’s been seeing. Bruno teaches me some Brazilian drinking games, and Gabriel forces me to practice some Portuguese, shy as I am about it. Freya, who speaks gorgeous Portuguese, spends the evening translating the confusing bits of this trilingual conversation for anyone having trouble. Not the night you’d expect from an Irish vacation, but a great one. I’m feeling happy again as I climb into bed in the early hours of the morning.