🇮🇪Reverie
Irish road trip
The jeers & the booing of the Lansdowne Road crowd still echoed in my ears as I slumped in my chair, the Springboks’ victory over the Irish fresh in my mind. It had been a brutal affair on that memorable Saturday evening, our Bok scrum had turned the Irish pack into a crumpled heap, shoving them back so hard that Andrew Porter’s neck was compressed against his arse. Yellow cards flew like confetti; I swear there were more bookings than Christmas cards I’d ever gotten from distant acquaintances or my classmates from 1984. But celebration was short-lived for me. The lurgy had me in its grip, H3N2, that sneaky bastard I’d picked up at the Africa Tech Festival in Slaapstad, courtesy of some jet-lagged visitors from Blighty. My body was in a battle: fever spiking, joints aching like they’d been tackled by Malcolm Marx, & a cough that rattled like the Outeniqua Choo-Tjoe chugging up a steep hill.
I dragged myself to bed, sipping MedLemon & wrapped in my cowboy blanket, hoping sleep would grant mercy. In any case, Buzz, our old mutt wanted the chair back. Instead, sleep delivered delirium. As the fever crested, the world blurred, & I slipped into a dream so vivid it felt like I’d swapped my sweat-soaked sheets for the open road.
There I was, standing on the bustling docks of Dublin, the salty tang of the Irish Sea mingling with the metallic scent of shipping containers. My old faithful had arrived, my white BMW 320i from the nineties, that sleek beast with the kidney grilles & the engine that hummed like a well oiled sewing machine. I’d shipped her over in a massive metal box, & now she gleamed under the overcast sky, keys dangling in my hand, fueling expectation. No rugby aches here; I felt alive, invincible, sliding into the leather seat that molded to me like an old glove.
I fired up the engine, & off we went, weaving through the city streets. First stop: the brass statue of Molly Malone, her wheelbarrow piled high with cockles & mussels. As I cruised past, the radio crackled to life, Sinéad’s voice filling the interior, her haunting tones making the experience surreal. I recalled my own girl who was so pretty, the sweet Kathleen. It was the perfect soundtrack for this emerald isle adventure. Over the Ha’penny Bridge spanning the River Liffey, the water below rippling like a rugby pitch after a downpour. I glanced at the General Post Office, its stone facade pocked with bullet holes from the Easter Rising, a reminder that history here was as fierce as any scrum.
Past St. James’s Gate, where the Guinness brewery loomed like a dark fortress, the air thick with the scent of roasting barley. Then, out of the city, heading west into the heart of Ireland. The countryside unfurled like a green tapestry, rolling hills dotted with sheep, ancient stone walls snaking across the landscape. Ruins whispered secrets: crumbling cathedrals with ivy-cloaked spires, manor houses reduced to skeletal frames by time & turmoil. I pushed the BMW harder, the wind whipping through the open window, carrying the faint echo of bagpipes or perhaps just my imagination.
Northward now, to the Giant’s Causeway. Hexagonal basalt columns rose from the sea like stepping stones for mythical titans. I half-expected dragons to emerge from the mist, their scales glinting in the pale light, roaring challenges like the Bok front row. But the only fire was the thrill in my veins as I parked & wandered the paths, the Atlantic crashing below.
Turning south, I traversed the Burren, a stark, lunar karst landscape where wildflowers defied the rock. I pulled into a quaint white fisherman’s cottage for the night, its thatched roof sagging under the weight of stories. The sea lapped at the shore outside, & as dusk fell, I dreamed within the dream of ancient rituals. Driving on at dawn, I passed dolmens, massive stone portals where the ghosts of druids lingered, their ethereal forms flickering in the rearview mirror, chanting incantations that blended with the hum of the tires.
Castles dotted the route: Bunratty’s towering keep, where medieval banquets once echoed with laughter; Killarney’s romantic ruins nestled in lakeside splendor. I paused at the Blarney Stone, leaning back to kiss it under the watchful eye of grinning tourists, hoping for the gift of the gab to elevate my own stories. Further along, I spotted Mustang Sally’s, that lively spot pulsing with energy, & below it, the restaurant where Kath had raved about the best meal of her life. I could almost taste it, the headline dish, a perfectly grilled salmon, flaky and buttery, paired with a crisp white wine that cut through the richness like a well-timed offload.
The journey climaxed at the Cliffs of Moher. I parked the BMW at the edge, the Atlantic stretching infinitely below, waves thundering against the sheer drops. Sitting there, engine idling softly, I tuned the radio once more. Dolores’s voice emerged, raw & ethereal, crooning “Linger.” The lyrics wrapped around me like the mist rising from the sea, haunting, poignant, a reminder of things lost & longed for. The sun dipped low, painting the sky in hues of rugby gold & green, and for a moment, Ireland felt like home. I turned, expecting Kath to be in the seat next to me, but she was not there. The only thing that lingered were distant memories of her scent & laugh.
Then, abruptly, I woke. Sweat drenched the sheets, my body still wracked by the fever’s grip. Heart pounding, I sat up, disoriented. How was I going to get my car back from Ireland? The logistics swirled in my foggy mind, shipping fees, customs, the endless paperwork. It took a long, bleary minute for reality to crash in: that BMW had been sold decades ago, traded for something more practical. But in that dream, she’d been reborn, the car of my dreams in every sense, timeless, adventurous, a vessel for escape.
As the cough returned & the rugby highlights flickered through my head, I smiled through the haze. Maybe the lurgy had been a gift, turning a sick night into an epic odyssey. Ireland called, even if only in fevered reveries. One day, perhaps, I’d make it real, no dreams of shipping cars in containers needed.
