Day 31

Although I had set my alarm (on the mobile phone) to wake me at 7:30, I decided it was much wiser to sleep in. I turned it off and woke up at 10 am, dozing for another half hour after that. I found only a drop of milk left in the fridge but I really couldn’t be bothered making toast, so I ate mostly dry cereal, which was great.

I think the last few days of my trip will forever be marked by my laziness. Never mind. I blame the stay in Armagh; it got me paranoid about the state of the bike. I guess I should also point the finger at my inherent laziness - surely this played a part.

I rang John, and we decided to meet for lunch, at a pub on Vicar St., which is quite close to the Guinness brewery. Finally, a plan for the day.

I rode there on my bike. The massive complex of the brewery was easy to find, however once I arrived at that, it took me another 20 minutes to find the visitors centre.

Locking the bike, and paying £5, I was rewarded with a fairly brief tour of a museum. The tour didn’t go through the brewery itself, but an old hop storage shed. The uninterested guide explained, briefly, the history of Guinness, the process of making it and some side stories to keep us interested.

I was far more impressed with the tour at Bushmills, and the Kilmainhem Jail. Still, it was interesting and remains one of those places I can say I have been to.

On New Year’s Eve, 1759 Arthur Guinness got the lease for a run down Brewery at St. James Gate. He paid £100 (I think from an inheritance), for a 9000 year lease with a rent of £45 per year. The brewery he took over was failing, and everyone thought he was mad. He brewed ale for a while, but then settled on porter, a dark drink popular with the porters in London’s Covent Garden. This is made like ale, with the addition of roasted barley. Arthur decided to make his drink a little stronger than usual. In doing so, he declared that the new drink was ‘extra stout’.

I think I got the history right. One very interesting section of the museum was the place where they showed how the Guinness was transported. Sure, carriages and the like were shown for history’s sake, but they also showed the modern way. There was a picture of a truck the size and shape of an petrol truck - filled with Guinness! That was a surprise. I am imagining a tank - much like the tank we stored milk in back on the kibbutz - filled with Guinness. Mmm.

Also, with the Guinness at the end of the tour, I completed my Guinness tour. I have had Guinness at Quigley’s Point, Carndonagh, Culdaff, Ballycastle, Derry, Garvagh, Swatragh, Belfast, Moneymore, Armagh, Castleblayney, Drogheda, Dublin and, finally, at the source.

And, truthfully, I have to say that today’s Guinness was the best of the lot. It was so thick and smooth and took ages to settle. And the taste! Wow.

I left the brewery and headed for what I thought would have been Vicar St. (John had given me the directions from the brewery). I rode and kept riding, never passing a Vicar St. I arrived at a large intersection that led to the cathedral I visited yesterday, and realised I had missed it, besides, John’s description included nothing about a large intersection.

I stopped someone and asked them where Vicar St. was; they didn’t know. I rode back up towards the brewery, and stopped someone else.

‘Oh, the pub?’, they said?

Apparently Vicar St. is the name of the pub, and was on the street I had been riding up and down. I found it shortly after that, directly opposite a church, so maybe that is where the name comes from.

Anyway, John arrived a couple of minutes after me, and we entered. It was one of those swanky, arty type cafés. I usually wouldn’t come to a place like this to eat, even if I had a job and was on a normal budget! I thought (correctly) that John would offer to pay for a meal, but I still felt guilty, so I picked the cheapest meal.

John had to go back to work, but not before we had talked about how I was going to get to the airport in the afternoon. He told me that there were a series of bus companies on O’Connell St. that do shuttles to the airport. I went in search of these buses, and arrived back at the apartment (after looking at my Hotmail again care of Trinity College) with about an hour to go before I was to catch my bus.

While wandering up and down O’Connell St., I passed a shop called ‘Bonavox Hearing Aids’, just off O’Connell St. This is where Paul Hewson took his name from while he was still at school! (Apparently someone thought it would be cool to name him after a shop). A bit silly, really. But in his earliest interviews, the lead singer of the new band U2 was dubbed ‘Paul Hewson, aka Bono Vox’. I am really glad that I have seen it. I have always assumed that the store would be closed by now.

I just love Trinity College. When I walk through it I can’t help but feel academic. The buildings and the cobbled walkways have so much atmosphere, with the statues, grass and discrete little signs adding to it all. The mass of students, with bicycles chained everywhere as well. I would love to study there! The history! Wow.

I packed my stuff, got the bike ready and John came home. He walked me to O’Connell St., a completely different way than the way I had been taking. An interesting thing, when I first arrived in Dublin, and was asking the way to O’Connell St, I rode down one or two of the streets that we walked down today.

John gave me £10 to pay the bus fare (which was only £5!) and wished me good luck. I didn’t want the £10, but realised belatedly that all I had left was £15 in cash and one £20 traveller’s cheque, and the bus wouldn’t have accepted that.

I waved goodbye to John and the bus left. That man was so kind to me. I hope that one day I will be able to repay him in some way, but I don’t think I will be able to. If he ever goes to Australia, he will have contacts to stay with (or the money to stay at hotels!). It is so great that he would do all the things he did for me, just because he is friends with Julie!

Once the bus got onto the main road to the airport, I began to recognise all the buildings and streets that I saw while riding in a month ago. I recognised the street where I asked those two men how far it was to the city centre. I recognised the place where those bloody buses ran over my gloves. It seems so long ago - so much has happened in the meantime. To think that I was knackered after riding for only half a mile! Though, I guess that never changed much.

On the bus, I had the sad feeling that my adventure was over, I would check in, catch the flight, meet Steve and go back to the warm comfort of Aldershot.

‘Fraid not.

I had taken the pedals off the bike at John’s house, but at the airport I changed the handlebars so that they were in line with the frame, and deflated the tyres. I went to the check-in place, but the woman told me I had to pay my £15 at the desk down the line. I wasn’t too concerned at this stage - I had about 20 minutes before the flight was due to board, so I thought I had plenty of time.

I went down to the ticketing desk and bought the bike’s ticket (after a bloody long wait), went back to the check-in desk, put the bike through, the backpack (minus the daypack), and received my boarding pass. No worries. I had five minutes before the plane was due to board (there hadn’t been an announcement at this stage).

I walked down the pathway to the gate and checked all my pockets. I was clutching a ticket, a passport, a boarding pass, the bike’s seat, my wallet and my daypack. At this stage I hadn’t actually sorted everything out.

Everything there. Good. I got to the gate and had a final check, before handing over my boarding pass. No passport. That chill that we get when we realise we don’t have our wallet or purse ran through my body. I clutched at each pocket; no passport. The elderly man at the gate asked what was wrong. Someone else came from behind and asked me if I had lost my passport. Yes, I said. She told me that a security guard had picked one up from the ground just a minute ago. I thanked her and ran back to where she said the guard found the passport. No guard. I kept walking through the airport - at this stage I was back into the busy check-in area. I found a guard, approached him and asked him if he had picked up a passport. No, he hadn’t. I asked him if he could use his radio to contact every guard but he refused. He refused! I couldn’t believe it!

By this time they were calling my flight. He told me that if a guard picked up a passport, they would take it to the security office. He told me where it was (outside the complex), so I ran out there and told the woman my plight. No one had handed one in. She said not to worry, it wouldn’t be long. I told her I was boarding a flight in 2 minutes. She went off somewhere, and came back with the guard’s name, saying he was on a break and couldn’t be contacted. This was all a little crazy for a panicky Brendon.

I got their number, and went to catch my plane. I wasn’t so much worried about getting into England. It’s just that in five days I will be flying to Sweden - and there is no way I will be able to get there without the passport.

In the end, there was no miraculous appearance of a security guard through the door of the plane, or the appearance of the passport at Stanstead. Tomorrow, I will start ringing courier services - God knows how much that will cost. I am really starting to worry about it. With a weekend between now and the 20th, there is no way it will get here. Bugger.

Steve was waiting for me at the airport. He drove me back to Aldershot, and my trip was over.

So, a bit of a sorry end to a grand adventure. This last month I have fulfilled a dream or two. I have experienced much more than I thought possible and, more importantly, I have survived! I have done something, which only a year ago I wouldn’t have dreamt of!

I cannot wait until I go back to that wonderful country.