The following takes place in 2012 in Washington State while I worked the area as a Timber Cruiser:

I was resting at the Pilot truck stop at exit 99 on I-5 just south of Olympia, Washington when I got a call round about 4pm. It's one of the cruisers I was working with last week. He tells me his truck has a flat in the south part of the forest near Fort Lewis, which is about twenty miles from me, and his jack isn't working. It was in such a muddy and rough area his standard jack could not lift the truck up enough for him to get the tire off. I got his coordinates, plugged them in to my GPS unit, and headed out to rescue him with another jack.

I arrived about an hour later after having to drive through the forest and the rain out to a remote area that was flooded and getting more flooded every moment. We then had to walk about another two miles through the forest into the area he was parked because I did not have a 4X4 to reach him. The wind was picking up the entire time. The entire area was blown down trees, limbs, and mud. Try as we might, the two jacks just could not give enough articulation to get his wheel off. It was dark by now, and the weather was simply miserable. Eventually we became exhausted and frustrated. Ron said he'd go camp in his truck, and we decided to wait and see if there would be a break by morning and give it another go. With the aid of my GPS unit, I walked in the pitch dark back to my truck and readied it to camp in for the night. Just when I reached my pick-up, the other cruiser appears from the wind and the rain and the dark down the trail and tells me he needs "beer, pizza, and a hotel room". He would pay if I got him out of there. Neither of us were in the mood for a night in our trucks, so we decided to leave in my truck and see if we could make it out of the forest and find a hotel in Lacey.

This decision came nearly three hours after I arrived; by then the roads were flooded and I was previously planning to wait until the water ran off the next day and drive out. But the thought of a dry hotel room cold beer, and hot pizza was more than enough incentive. It was very dark, and my headlights are nearly worthless...but I wanted beer. It was worth a try. We boarded the truck and I fired up the old Ford F-150 and headed out. Only one problem, there was no room to turn her around, so I would have to follow a small trail another three miles until we were out of the forest and on to a proper road or back up nearly the same amount with no back-up lights. It would be the longest 3 miles of my life either way.

The down pours had collected at the bottom of every hill and formed huge ponds I had to ford with my Ford. When we became stuck my fellow forester had to get out and stand in the bed of the truck so the wheel could gain some traction as we rocked it back and forth. What were once logging roads were now mud runs that gathered branches and water. I had to fly up every hill, often ending up nearly sideways, to maintain enough speed to top them without becoming stranded, sliding back down to what was inevitably a lake at the bottom that threatened to kill the engine due to it's depth. All the while it poured rain, the windshield was thick with fog, and the mud and branches were flying in through the side windows we had to leave open to keep the misting down. We were endlessly moving branches from the trail to make room to pass, at other times we were hacking and sawing tree trunks waist high to clear the road with our axes and chainsaws. 

Then it finally happened. A branch became stuck so badly in the undercarriage it anchored us. It had to be cut free in several pieces, but not before it ruptured the rear brake line. With the rain and the dark, I wouldn't realize this until we started off again and I found myself on a downhill section of the trail. It nearly got us killed. At first, I assumed it was the mud keeping the Ford from slowing. Fortunately, before we tumbled down the side of a cliff into the Nisqually river, I managed to get some response from the parking brake. Unfortunately, the parking brake on a Ford truck is operated by your foot and locks on when activated. It must be released by reaching nearly under the dash and pulling on a lever with much difficulty on this old wreck. So now I am driving rapidly over ridiculously rough trails to keep from becoming stuck, in completely stupid weather, with my nose against the steering wheel so I can operate the parking brake with my left arm and left foot. That steering wheel beat the daylights out of me until we reached the main road out of Fort Lewis. I hate that steering wheel. But I love that truck for getting us there.

It took nearly two hours to end that three miles of trail hell, from boarding the Ford until we made it out to the pavement. We both looked like a dog had dragged us through a pasture full of horse dung when we arrived at our destination. I had no idea I could collect so much water and mud on my body in one evening.

That night we stayed at the Super 8 near Lacey, I was absolutely stunned the Ford made it thru that torture test. We had a lot of beer and a lot of pizza. Even Carlow, my Greyhound that rode shotgun as I cruised timber, had some crust and a few pieces of sausage. At eight AM the next morning we were at the CRAP! auto parts buying a REAL jack. By 10:30 we had hiked the mile or two to the truck, swapped out the tire, and drove her out back to the flat top and then up to where I had parked my truck. The 3 mile trail was far less intimidating in the daylight without rain and in a 4X4.

I was treated to a very healthy lunch as well.

I recently brought my Greyhound with me back to Ireland.

This is the rough draft of that event:

There and back again,

but mostly there,

and then there... and there... and there...

November 13^th, 2012.

I had been spending the last few days modifying my sleep patterns so that I wouldn't be debilitated with jet lag when I arrived at my final destination in Tipperary, Ireland. They say it's a long way to Tipperary. I say it can be a lot longer to travel than they can imagine, especially if you are completely incompetent at planning a trip. I had arrived at the air terminal in Seattle, Washington sometime around 4:30 in the morning after having stayed up for the previous night. At this point I had been awake for close to 18 hours. I had planned on getting some sleep on the plane to Ireland. I can never sleep on planes, so part of the plan being up all night was not only to combat the jet lag, but also to force my sleep while flying. This would turn out to be an error that would lead to a long chain of errors; errors begetting errors begetting errors.

I had my Greyhound, 'Carlow', in tow. I do not suggest air travel for any reason with your pet. Not just because it can potentially add an enormous amount of complexity to a trip, but also because it is not easy on the pet itself. The journey I am describing will be a good example of what not to do with your pet in travel. I had spoken with the Agricultural department in Ireland and the USA, a Greyhound rescue in Ireland and three others in the United States, officials at Aer Lingus, United Airlines, Delta Airlines, American Airlines, British Airways, Virgin Airlines, KLM Air Lines, Air Canada and Air France and SeaTac Airport in Seattle. What you will find missing in that long list of official contacts is the Airport at Dublin Ireland. This would turn out to be a painful omission.

In the United States, we tend to treat air travel with a pet rather lightly. Many airlines do not even require a health certificate, let alone any official paperwork according to immunizations. None require microchip identification, nor do they require any sort of pet passport as they do in Europe. There are a couple of airports and States that do require an animal have a health certificate completed by a veterinarian, but not all, even though some laws require it – it's often ignored in recent times. In most cases, in good weather, you can fly with your pet more easily and cheaply than you can fly with a human companion. This would not prove to be the case in my situation.

Back to Wednesday morning – I was meant to board a plane at 7 in the morning for a 9AM arrival at Dublin Airport Ireland the next day. When I checked in to the desk at Delta Airlines, there were problems. They could not check the hound in on the computer. This was followed by nearly 30 minutes of confusion as they had no idea whether it was a computer glitch, policy glitch, or lack of room aboard the plane. I was starting to feel the first tinges of panic. Eventually a supervisor approached me and told me she had bad news. They had booked me for the flight according to Deltas own regulations, however, Dublin Airport itself required that all pets and livestock must fly as cargo. No pets could be checked in as baggage. It took a call from a SeaTac Delta official to Delta's Atlanta headquarters to find this information. This turned out to be as much news to the ticket counter at Delta Airlines as myself. Delta then suggested I contact a few other airlines while they themselves contacted their cargo division to see what was immediately available for Ireland. Delta's passenger booking and cargo booking are two completely different entities. I would have to visit their cargo terminal in person with my pet, crate in tow, in order to get an estimate for cargo costs and availability of flights. I was also informed it would potentially be difficult to plan my arrival at the same time as cargo had planned for Carlow.

It is now nearly 9AM on Wednesday, the 14^th of November. I have been awake for nearly 24 hours. I am standing at the cargo desk at Delta airlines cargo division. It is located about a mile from the passenger air terminal. In order to get here, I had to purchase a hand truck rental, place Carlow and her crate upon it, and then pull her and 2 pieces of luggage along that route. I could not find a free locker at the airport. I am waiting cost and departure information from the helpful man at the counter. He had weighed Carlow in her crate(97 lbs), and was now checking their booking system.

“That comes to $1,580 and we can book her on Sunday, November 18th, at the soonest for a Monday arrival. She can not land in Dublin Airport during the weekend, and all cargo must be booked at least 4 days in advance according to our policies.”

I stared at the man. He stared back, expectantly.

I blinked. He blinked.

“$1,580? … Sunday departure at the soonest?”, I whispered to him to conceal my panic and frustration. He nodded.

Not only would this add the aforementioned $1,580, but a stay over in Seattle for 4 more days would also add nearly $600-700 in hotel fare to my trip as well. I really had no place to go as I had prepared to be in Ireland for quite some time. I had no home, and I had no car. I was stranded at SeaTac airport with Carlow regardless how this was going to play out. I considered crying.

I made some calls. None of which gave me answers I can honestly say pleased me. I had to return to the passenger air terminal to book an alternate flight. Delta Cargo allowed me to leave the crate in their holding while I brought Carlow to the passenger terminal on lead. I could not leave my baggage, so that came along another mile to the terminal. Delta informed me they had a flight in to Amsterdam the next day. It left at 1pm and arrived at 8am in Schiphol Airport. They checked with Amsterdam to make sure I could arrive with Carlow as checked baggage with the paperwork I had in hand. There was only one problem – the ticket was twice the amount my Dublin ticket was. While this was still significantly less than the cost of cargo plus a hotel stay, it was still out of my costs range if I were to also book a ferry or another flight from Amsterdam to Dublin. After some juggling, though, the clerk was able to get me on board the Amsterdam flight for another $450 in costs. I had no option but to take that flight.

I had planned on having more than $1,000 cash on hand for my arrival in Dublin. I now had less than $550 cash in my pocket to make it from the Netherlands to Ireland. I knew it was going to be tight. I knew I couldn't encounter any more such problems. I also knew I likely would encounter more problems. What I didn't know was that I was about to forget to transfer what little else I had in my savings to my checking account so I could transfer those to my debit card whilst in Amsterdam for a safety net. This meant the call I eventually made on Friday would delay any funds being transferred and usable until Tuesday the next week. I had to stay that night in the airport. I simply could not afford the $130 quotes for a hotel room nearby for me and Carlow.

I was unable to get more than a few moments rest here and there in the Airport. The seats in the terminal seemingly are not meant to be comfortable, and there was too much foot traffic to sleep on the floor. I was too concerned Carlow may become loose to truly relax any. Check in was at 11AM. I had retrieved the cargo crate from Delta Cargo by 9AM. So another 2 miles of walking with the crate, Carlow, and the luggage in tow.

During the night, something amazing was happening that I was almost unaware of through the fog of my sleep deprivation. Friends of mine that had heard of my ordeal, especially those in Europe and Ireland, became intensely interested in my plight.

It is now 11AM on Thursday morning, November the 15^th. I am now basically awake for close to 36 hours. I could not concentrate enough during the night to really fixate on any travel plans out of Amsterdam. I only knew I must take a train to the Ferry terminal as a flight was unlikely.

I boarded the plane to find that my ticket was 'affordable' for a reason. It was a small middle seat that could not recline, and also had an equipment box under the footwell before me. I am 6 feet tall, and the space I was meant to be in for the next 11 hours of my life would not be comfortable for someone half my size. There was an elderly woman next to me that was very talkative and inquisitive. I would not find much sleep on the flight. Fortunately, I am offered ample food and drinks during the journey.

Amsterdam:

It is Friday, November 16th. 48 hours into my journey and I might have had 3-4 hours of any quality rest. I am starting to feel my mind go. I am in the baggage terminal awaiting the delivery of Carlow and her crate. I lean against the wall and fall asleep for a few moments. It would be nearly an hour before I see Carlow and enter customs. I dig out the pile of paperwork I have for both me and Carlow, and present them to a very friendly customs officer. She seems more interested asking questions about Greyhounds and of myself than inspecting the documents. She welcomes me to Amsterdam with hardly a cursory review of my paperwork, and shows me to the passport control desk. At the passport checkpoint the man finds I am keen on reaching Ireland as soon as humanly possible. He smiles and says I should spend more time in Amsterdam. “It's really very nice here. Enjoy it!” he says with a thick Dutch accent and a smile. I nod and smile almost painfully. I have always wanted to visit Amsterdam since I was young. Now having landed, I must leave with as much haste as possible. Now is not the time. This doesn't lift my spirits much.

In the terminal I find a charger for my Irish phone - I had lost mine the year or so I had it back in the states. It cost me $35 USD. I have no choice but to purchase it as a new phone is twice that. My US phone does not work in Europe. Fortunately, the Irish phone comes alive after a charge and I have all my previous European contacts easily accessible to me now. I buy a SIM card and 10 Euro credit. It makes my phone behave as though it were Dutch. I have nothing against the Dutch. I just can not understand their language. I visit a shop where the clerk obviously speaks Dutch and ask her kindly if she would decipher the Dutch instructions that are now on my phone and see if she can switch it over to English. She fiddles with my phone in earnest and is successful after a fashion. She hands the phone back to me with a proud smile of success on her face. I thanked her profusely. The voice top up instructions are still in Dutch. The 10 Euro will have to last me until I can figure it out. I resign to only using SMS messages.

In the terminal there is very unreliable internet access for my laptop. I use a combination of laptop and SMS communications to contact my acquaintances in Europe for assistance in an arrival to Ireland. It is today that I find I have garnered a huge facebook following of people from both Europe and America whom have taken interest in my current plight. Folks from Sweden and Holland to the UK to Germany to Ireland to the USA have all commented on threads on the Facebook pages of my friends. Even a friend of mine from Belgium contacts me to lend some verbal support. I suddenly needed fresh air, and so headed towards the front exit of Schiphol. I also wanted to find a green area where I could let Carlow out. A young Polish woman lights up a cigarette next to me where we stood near one of the revolving air terminal doors.

“I'd kill for a cigarette right now.”, I said before I even realized I was speaking aloud.

“OH, here. I have some.”, She motioned to her purse and pulled out a complete pack of smokes and motioned them towards me. I shook my head. I couldn't take an entire pack of smokes off of a stranger, not at the prices they go for in Europe. “No worry! These are Polish! One Euro for pack! Is good!”

Previous to this journey I had quit smoking. This one today was the best cigarette I had smoked in a very long time. I thanked the kind woman profusely, forced a two Euro coin into her hand, and went again on my journey. I wheel my luggage and Carlow with her crate towards the air terminal once more. The Bus terminal would be below it. I need find my way from Amsterdam via train to the Hoek Van Holland Haven port. This will incur a cost of $40 USD. I have much less than five hundred American dollars to get me from Holland to Ireland. It is now that I realize I forgot to contact my bank and transfer funds to my checking account. Though I do so, I know what little cash I have on me is all I would have to make it for this trip until Tuesday.

After purchasing my ticket, I head towards the people-mover that plunges into the bowels of Schiphol. There was just one problem – there were bollards placed before it; presumably so one could not exit the terminal with one of the free hand carts they supply for luggage at the airport. This also meant there was really no way to get Carlow's crate out of the airport. She will have to go on foot. I was just praying she would not vacate her bowels right there in the terminal as I hadn't yet found a green area for her. This is also when I find that the airline had placed industrial grade zip ties on the crate to keep the door closed. There was simply no way anything short of a cutting implement would remove these things. Fortunately I had packed a large folding knife in my luggage. My train was in 8 minutes. I desperately rummaged through my luggage for the better part of a minute until my hand fell upon the knife. I whipped it out and released the blade with one fluid motion, “*SNICK*”. I was now in Amsterdam International Airport with a weapon. Even in the USA I would have quickly attracted attention. So, I fastidiously went about cutting the zip ties free from the crate, completely surrounded by air travelers on their merry way. Perhaps they would afford me some concealment...or perhaps they would notify the police...

I was nearly finished when the state police decide to visit with me.

“So, you know knives are not allowed in the airports terminals, right?”, someone said to me with a thick accent. I turned to find three very tall, very blond, very viking-like Dutch police officers standing before me. At least their Glock handguns were still in the holsters, which were at eye-level as I crouched before Carlow's crate. I had just cut the last tie. I folded the knife back up and placed it upon the top of the crate as I stood.

“So, yeah. Uh, sorry about the knife thing.” I started. They then had a lot of questions for me. I would be missing that train, of course.

After showing them my passport, they almost seemed to relax a bit.

“You know, dis is not America. I am sure everyone in de world got a knife in America, but here you should not use it in airport. It attracts de attention of de police.” No shit?

The Dutch began to explain the MANY differences between our two countries in detail then. Somehow we also ended up speaking extensively how much they preferred the Glock 9mm pistols to the Smith and Wessons, Greyhounds, and how easy it was to get firearms in the US, and how they liked American pizza and TV when I realized I needed to get another train ASAP. I found a good moment to break off the conversation without being rude to the police. One of them says to me, “Sorry about the knife. So go on quick! Have a safe journeys!”

Did the state police just apologize to me for having a knife in their airport? No matter. They let me keep it, and I had a train to catch. I remove Carlow along with one of her stuffed toys from the crate and make for the train platforms.

All the train information is in Dutch. There is a young man on a bench before me, looking at Carlow. She crouches and releases the largest single piece of dog biscuit I have ever seen come out of the back of her. She smiled at me and the bench-sitting stranger, apparently proud of her most recent work. I had nothing with me to clean it up. I considered sacrificing one of my socks when I notice what lay before me was a fairly solid-looking piece of hound dropping. I look at the stranger. He looks at me with genuine interest to see what I was about to do. I smiled at him meekly and nudged the big nugget onto the train tracks down below the plat with the heel of my shoe. Bench guy chuckled. I took the opportunity to ask him for assistance deciphering the train schedule. Two hours later, I am at the Hoek Van Holland Haven.

I book a ferry for Harwich England. There is really no other path I can take from here to Dublin. It sails in six hours and costs me $180. My ass is already stinging like a trucker with hemorrhoids after having sat in a plane seat for 11 hours, an airport torture seat for a night, and a train for two more hours. I stand...for six hours. At least there is some green area outside of the ferry terminal for Carlow to enjoy.

“You know, dis is not America where we can simply leave our bags laying about at the ferry terminals!” A police officer shouts down to me. I had left my luggage on top of the disused train plat that lead up to an older part of the ferry terminal by some green area where I was letting Carlow out on lead. He must have read my tags on the baggage and seen I had departed the US. He then proceeded to give me a long diatribe about safety and ferries and some other stuff I didn't understand both for his accent and the fact I was deeply sleep-deprived. Eventually he relented and literally bid me “Good day!”. I went inside the terminal and decided to lay down on the bench seats and maybe get a bit of rest.

“You know, in dis country we do not put our feet on the benches!” It was the Dutch officer again, and not a moment after I had become comfortable on the bench. “Pleez remove de foot and sit on the bench normals.” I wouldn't be getting any sleep before the ferry. When the time came, I approached the immigration officer and show her my paperwork. She glared at them for a while, especially Carlows European pet passport. She then holds up a finger and quickly turns and disappears into the offices beyond. I wait.

She returns just as the last call to board the ferry I am scheduled for comes over the loud speakers. I am relieved as I am assuming I am about to board that ferry. I was wrong.

It turns out in all the confusion during the journey so far that I had lapsed nearly 18 hours beyond the UK limit for worm treatment. Well, I mean, Carlow had lapsed. The UK didn't give a damn if I arrived full of worms. I was informed you must land in the UK within five days after treating your pet for worms. Apparently Europe has some sort of super worm problem? Seriously, they need to be treated five days at a time?

 I am denied passage on the ferry. Then I am informed that Carlow can not travel less than 24 hours after having had her worm treatment. In order for me to make the evening ferry the next day, I would have to get Carlow treated for worms at a state-qualified veterinary clinic in Holland within the hour. I had a feeling it was not going to be cheap.

“It's not going to be cheap.” The immigration officer says. “The clinic is 45 minutes away, and they say the costs are 150 Euro for the treatment and 125 for the taxi.”

That wasn't cheap.

I send a text message to my contact in Ireland. She sends an update to her Facebook page. I tell her I may be stranded in Holland.

I was almost surprised the taxi driver spoke very little English, but English would have just made this part of the trip that much easier, and I was beginning to understand by now that this journey was never meant to be easy. However, he finds the vet easily. The vets treat Carlow easily while the taxi waits with the meter running. Paying wasn't so easy. Paying that taxi would be even more difficult. He didn't take credit cards. My bank wouldn't have any cash in it until Tuesday morning. The only option I had was to go to the ferry terminal and ask them for a refund so that I could take the cash and pay the taximan.

So now it's dark. I have carlow and all my luggage in tow. The ferry terminal is closed until morning.

The crisp misted air carried the cold down to my bones. The urgency gave way to more of a melancholy. I was aching and exhausted. I poke at my smart phone and give my facebook following an update before I head into the shelter of town and plan to meander about until morning. Perhaps walking will keep me warm. I had enough on a credit card for the ferry, but not both a ferry and a hotel room. At this point I am hoping to stretch out the cash I have for another two days until what little I have transferring to my checking account can get me to Ireland early next week. Still, I wasn't sure Carlow and I could stand the night out in the elements.

“You again?” The officer I met at the Ferry terminal was before me. He was taking the measure of both me and Carlow. I was about to speak when he cut me off.

“The hotels is the opposite way you are going. You have a hotel, yes?” No. I simply stared at my feet. “You can't just wander the street at night.”. I asked him if he could just arrest us and give us a warm jail cell for the night, but oddly it turns out they have no jail in that part of Holland. He walked me over to the Kuiper Duin Inn and basically forces me to get a room. It is a very nice hotel, and I had a very welcome night of sleep in a very warm bed followed by a very nice breakfast. Carlow and I had ran out of food the night before, so I took it upon myself to sneak some breakfast out to her as well. The only thing I had to feed her from here on out would be biscuits and jerky. The jerky was meant as a gift for a friend in Ireland. I had no problem feeding it to Carlow as it is very healthy. The only issue really was that it cost me nearly $20 per pound. I had nothing for myself once breakfast was gone. I talked the Hotelier's price down to whatever change I had in my pocket. I would end up at the ferry on Saturday, four days after the start of this journey, destitute. Any help monetarily during the rest of this trip would be courtesy of all my Facebook friends. I had two more days to go before landing in Ireland.

Four days and twelve hours after I arrived at the ticket desk at Delta in the USA, I was in the Hoek Van Holland Haven ferry terminal. I am told that friends are feverishly working on hoeking me up with a ferry ticket. I go ahead and hand over my newly vetted european pet passport complete with new worming info on it to the immigration control at the ferry terminal. They seem much more pleased. Before long, I am made aware I have a ticket for Harwich England awaiting me. The ferry and I leave Holland nearly 8 hours later on an overnight cruise to England land. On the cruise I have access to the internetz where I am told there would be a Western Union moneygram awaiting me in the morning which should cover train costs to the other side of Wales. It is also suggested I speak to someone in the trucker's lounge to see about a lift across England.

In the truckers lounge of the good ship Britannica are only 6 Brits. Apparently the weekend is not the time to catch a lift off the truckers. They are friendly enough, aside from one stunningly racist driver with an apparently endless catalog of racist jokes at his disposal. A kind husband and wife team offer me passage up to Crewe, at which point I could hop the train to Holyhead. I return to my cabin pleased with my accomplishment.

“Do NOT go with those truckers! They will murder you!” is the consensus on the Facebooks. In all fairness, I could do with a bit of murdering after what I have gone through so far on this journey. And little did I know that 18 hours later I would be praying for death yet again.

I only get 3 hours of sleep on the ferry before I have to disembark. Carlow is looking worse and worse for wear, but there is no stopping this hell ride now. Unless customs have anything to do with it...

UK customs pull me aside and want to give me the third degree and look through my luggage. They ask me who I am, where I am from, where I am going, why I have a dog, if she has a passport and papers, etc etc. One immigration officer asks where I am staying. I tell him that, though I have nothing against England, it is only a means to an end. I planned to be out of England by night fall. He found it an odd response. He looked at me and then the dog. Carlow promptly responded to all the attention by dropping a series of biscuits at their feet. They were not impressed. I apologize profusely and am made to clean the mess up. They find my folding knife and remind me that it is a weapon in England and is to be kept inside my luggage at all times. They further scrutinized my passports while I sort my luggage enough to force the zippers closed. Another immigration officer approaches us during this and whispers to another that they were meant to pull a different person aside. I am handed back my papers and told to enjoy my day in England.

I am outside the terminal awaiting the taxi that was sorted for me the night before by my Facebuds. He is spot on time and my English journey commences.

We drive around for the better part of an hour – there is no Western Union office in this part of England, nor would there be on the other side. I am again stranded without any money. The taxi drivers take pity on me and offer me a place to stay for the day and all the tea I can handle. They are fond of Greyhounds. I am there for about four hours when a kind English lady from Sheffield manages to find me passage on the trains to Holyhead.

I said 'trains'. The clerk at Harwich International Train station hands me an itinerary that is a bit startling. Over the course of the next nine hours I am to transfer to six trains before I arrive at Holyhead. I am informed that missing a single train means I risk staying the night at the station. I would not see a station that is indoor heated and open overnight until Crewe. I would have to remain awake and focused until my final transfer at Crewe for the Holyhead train. That train was a three hour ride, terminating in Wales. I would be able to catch up on a bit of rest then. It was nearly three in the evening. I fed Carlow the last of the jerky. The tea I had that morning would have to see me through to Wales. I am told I have a hotel awaiting me at the end of the line. Now, all I had to do was make it completely across England and Wales by days end.

It is a complete and utter miracle that I find my way to Crewe without incident five trains later. It is Sunday night and the trains are packed with students and travelers returning home from the weekend. There is hardly room for me and Carlow. Most of the passengers near Carlow fawn over her and comment on how beautiful she is. No one mentions how handsome I am. I must look like hell. All I want is sleep. By the time I board the train to Holyhead the hunger pangs start.

Aboard the Virgin fast train to Wales I settle in with Carlow at my feet and begin to try for some sleep. I am nearly unconscious when the conductor awakens me.

“You can't have your hound in the aisle! She is a trip hazard!”, she nearly barks to me. “You either clear this isle or the dog will have to remain at the end of the car. You can not leave her unattended!”. Carlow can not clear the isle even if she were up against the side of the car between the seats.

I am at the end of the box car. The doors are here, and Carlow is anxious the entire time as she thinks we are about to leave the train. We have four more stops. Every time the doors open, I have to hold Carlow back. There would be no rest for me or Carlow on this leg. I receive a text on my Dutch phone. It tells me my hotel information on the Wales side for the night. We're getting there.

It's nearly midnight, November 18^th. I leave the terminal. It's windy with rain. I am told a storm is on it's way. I just want to make it to the hotel before I pass out. A warm, dry bed and the knowledge that there will be biscuits and tea waiting for me there drive me forward in earnest. Welsh publicans help me with directions along the way. In short order I arrive at the WaveCrest Bed and Breakfast in Holyhead, Wales. It is now very early Sunday morning and I am stuffing myself silly with biscuits and emptying all of the tiny milk containers meant for the tea and coffee into my stomach; over a dozen in all. I am drenched in cold rain, but do not care. I text message Ireland that I have arrived at the B&B and immediately pass out.

It is Monday, November the 19^th. Sleep was difficult come morning. The storm had arrived. Next door there was scaffolding against the house. The wind was playing with it like a giant wind chime. If I couldn't sleep in, I was at least going to have some decent food. I head downstairs, take Carlow out to do her business in a near by alley, and then visit the kitchen. The proprietor is a kind man that asks me what would I like for my breakfast. I tell him 'everything'. I get everything. There is enough left over to feed Carlow well. My ferry at 11:50 is canceled for the rough seas. I would have to wait until the late afternoon ferry. This will put me in Dublin by 6pm. I can sense the end is near, and this helps me move onwards. I thank the proprietor, hand him the room keys, and drag Carlow and the luggage back out in to the rain and the wind. Carlow isn't happy. She doesn't believe me when I tell her we are nearly there. No matter – we are nearly there.

A kindly old Welsh man sits next to me in the terminal as I await my ferry. He tells me about World War Two. He tells me about the Falklands. He tells me about the Triumph two thousand he owned. He tells me a very sad story about his wife. He tells me nice stories about his kids. He tells me he is getting old and tired. I smile at him and listen. After a fashion, I tell him I had a ferry to catch. We shake hands and part our separate ways.

When I arrive at the front of the queue I am told I can not bring Carlow aboard an Irish Ferry without her already being in a crate. I'm afraid I left that crate in Amsterdam. The clerk immediately motions to the Stena line queue, which is nearly empty. Stena take me and Carlow on board and welcome us kindly. Three hours to go. Carlow is not happy when I have to crate her one last time. She hates crates – absolutely is terrified of them. I calm her as best as I can. This will be the last time in a long time, I assure her. The lackey, an Irish man with a smile, arrives and makes sure the animals are all secure. I have to smoke. He tells me it is a no smoking cargo hold, but that so long as I avoid the CCTV, I'll be OK. We both have a smoke before I head upstairs to the passenger lounges.

The seas are very rough. I nearly vomit. I pray that Carlow isn't filling her crate up with all that breakfast I got her. An Irish child approaches me and informs me that I look like 'shite'. I agree. He laughs and runs off to somewhere else in the ship. I try to watch the television sets to take my mind off of the ocean. It works, for the most part. I receive a text before land is out of sight. I am to meet with a man at the Dublin port that will drive me and Carlow to our final destination in Ireland. I spend the next couple of hours trying to hold in my breakfast. I look out the window on occasion at the Irish Ferries Ferry which is paralleling our course. It better not collide with us, I tell it. I've come a long way to get here in the oceans.

I start to drift off to sleep just as the ferry starts to shudder. I know what that shudder means – we're nearly docked. I grab my bags and rush down to cargo deck five and wait eagerly for the bulk head doors to unlock and allow me access to my hound. I am excited and exhausted. In 30 minutes time Carlow and I would be on Irish soil, on our way to Tipperary, our journey finally over - nearly six days later

It only hurts when I laugh

It was a typical Irish day. The clouds were overhead, and had been for weeks, sprinkling their soft, soft mist evenly over the greenest place on earth.

Those are images I took during my stays in county Limerick(Loch Derg) and Tipperary.

I'm in the office, speaking to the management in Dublin today; wishing I were elsewhere.

Why? Well, because earlier today I had a bit of a setback...

I was sent out to Leixlip. Hell, since I am in an image posting mood, here's the ONLY image I knowingly possess of my several visits to Leixlip:

Today I am sent to well on the other side of Mondello Park to deliver a vehicle. I gotta say I do like Leixlip and Maynooth. A friend of mine lives in a cottage near the castle. I might have to give him a call after I am done updating this blog. Where was I? Oh yeah, so I am struggling to find this house with no address in the outskirts of Leixlip. Try as I might, I am not having any luck finding this place. I call the owner twice, and really didn't want to call them a third time, especially since I barely understood the man for his accent. It seems I've been driving forever in the middle of nowhere when I see a man trimming his hedge. I decided to try my chances of some information off of a random stranger even though most country folk really do not appreciate you parking a big truck outside of their drive way.

"You're not gonna park that there for long, are you?"

"Uh... Nah. NO. I mean, I was hoping to ask you for directions." I was parked a bit close to his hedge to allow traffic to pass me on the tight country road.

"Here now. Where are ye from then, if you don't mind my asking?" The man sized me up. I think he was expecting something other than my own accent to come outta me. Lots of Eastern Europeans work this type of job, it seems. I told him I was an American. I explained how it was I arrived at his doorstep from Texas to Dublin to now. I also informed him how stunningly beautiful the country was where he lived. 

"Oh my. You've had a long journey then? Sure, you'll have a cup of tea with us."

Uh oh. 

"Oh, um...I can manage a quick drink, I suppose. Do you smoke?". I didn't bother to fight the tea. You just can't fight the tea in Ireland. Don't even try. I knew he smoked. There were cigarette butts among the trimmings on the drive.

"Oh, Lucky Strike? Not only are Americans a bit rare in these parts, but I've never seen those cigarettes before. Moireen!!!", he yelled over his shoulder for his wife to bring us some tea. He didn't have to wait long, she was bringing the tea out nearly the moment we started speaking.

Moireen was lovely and charming. She did seem a bit young to be a wife, I thought. She certainly wasn't acting like his daughter, though.

"You're not parking that lorrie there long, are you?"

I looked at Moireen and was about to respond.

"No, Moireen. He's only just lost."

I was feeling more lost by the moment. She had a very strong Russian accent. Maybe Polish. But an Irish name? That accent was amazingly sexy on her. I wanted her to speak more.

"Uh," I couldn't speak. My nerves had caught my tongue. Now I wanted me to speak more.

Fortunately both Moireen and her husband did enough talking to get my fill of Moireen's accent and also find my way to the drop off. I jumped back up into the truck just in time to avoid a sudden down pour of rain.

"So, I hear horses are as smart as dogs." I was trying to make some conversation after I had dropped the car off in what appeared to be a horse ranch sorta place. The rain was rhythmically tapping on the roof of the stable, and filling the air with the scent of musk. The horses certainly smelled like wild animals, but it was a familiar smell as I had been around horses on numerous previous occasions. What does one call a horse ranch? Don't these people have fancy names for such things? Just, 'Horse Ranch'? I began to rub the horse between his ears. He seemed to like it.

"Oh, thank God, no!", the man looked down at his Labrador admirably and then back to me. "This guy was nothing but trouble until he reached nearly six years of age!". 

He reached out to me and handed me a bill. I wasn't expecting anything. I looked down to see it was a twenty Euro bill. At the time that was the equivalent of nearly thirty five dollars. I couldn't take that much for a tip!

"I can't take this much for a tip!"

"Oh, gowan! Listen, the tow's free to me, so the least I can do is sort you out for coming out to me in the ersatz!"

"I'm just gonna go spend it on cigarettes and alcohol." Did he say 'Ersatz'?

"I want you to! And cheers for the help!"

I dunno what connections he had to make dispatch send me over and drop off his car for free, but I wasn't going to argue. It wasn't any of my business, anyways. I thanked him profusely and went on my way.

None of the roads in the area had names, nor were any of them on the sat nav. Still, I managed to find my way nearly to Mondello Park without any missteps. I was wondering what to do after work with the tip. It's nice having cash on hand for the drive back home. I already had a fresh pack of Luckies on hand. I retrieved the pack from my coat pocket and brought a cigarette to my mouth. Ugh! My hand smelled of ass. Ok, that horse must have been rolling around in the hay or something, because that stank. Dear Lord.

"Dear Lord!!!"

I swerved as hard as I dared in the rain to avoid the lorrie that tried to turn in front of me. He slammed on his brakes, but was still easily 5 feet in my lane. I was on a sweeping right hand curve, so the curvature of the road helped me miss what I could now clearly see was a big Scania semi truck protruding from the other lane. Unfortunately, it also made it easy for me to go on the wet grass on the side of the road. I tried not to slam on my brakes, as I knew it would risk losing control on the grass. I tried to ease the truck off of the shoulder and back onto the tarmac when the truck stopped responding. I didn't know it at the time, but there was a culvert underneath the tall grass. I wasn't going anywhere now but forwards when my left side wheels entered it. Forwards from that was a large hedge. I would estimate I hit that hedge at about 50 miles an hour. It was a horrendous noise. Hedges in Ireland are not simply some bushes laying about. They are designed to control livestock or separate fields, and can be quite substantial. This hedge was more substantial than others. After about thirty or forty yards of plowing through that hedge, I hit a tree stump. It was large enough to nearly instantly stop me. I wasn't wearing my seat belt. I had undone it to reach my cigarettes.

For a moment, it was quiet. Well, truthfully, I had no idea how long I had been sitting there. I knew I was hurt, but I wanted to wait a bit before I checked myself out.

Someone opened the door to my cab. I turned to see a man looking up at me. He had wellies on. He must be the farmer. When I hit the stump, I was forced into the steering wheel. The dash on the Mercedes I was driving was so cavernous it saved me from slamming my face through the windshield. My hands must have hit it, though. They hurt, and the window had cracks. I could barely breathe for the pain in my chest and abdomen.

"Hey! Are we alright then, are we?" shouted the farmer with some urgency.  My ears were ringing, and he sounded like his mouth was full of rocks, so don't take my word for it that that is what he actually said.

"No fucking air bags?! How old is this thing?!" I now noticed I was spitting blood. The farmer noticed, too.  My face must have hit the steering wheel. He handed me a rag that smelled of diesel. I wiped the blood from my face, and then wrapped it around my left hand. It hurt more than my right hand at the time. I slid down onto the ground from the cabin and looked into the side mirror. It was just a slight bloody nose and a cracked lip. I could barely stand. So, I sat down. I had trouble focusing as well. This only helped to make me even more nauseous.

"Oh no! We can't park it here!" 

If it were possible at the time, I would have looked up and gave the man a scowl for saying it, but it hurt just to sit.

"I mean, we mustn't stay here. Your lorrie is leaking fuel."

I really didn't want to move. I reached in to my coat pocket and pulled out a pack of Luckies.

"It's diesel. I doubt it will ignite." I lit a cigarette. This had the added effect of also catching the rag on fire. I stared at it with mild surprise, thought about how to save the cigarette for an instant, then gave up and plunged them both into the cold, wet grass. I sighed. It hurt to sigh. I could use a cigarette.

"OK, you have a point." I leaned on the farmers shoulders after he helped me to my feet. I was led to the man's tractor and sat on the small trailer attached behind it. I stared blankly at the ground.

"What are we going to do now?" he asked as he helped me light another cigarette.

I took a look around for the other truck. It was long gone, and not another soul was around. I thanked him and handed him a twenty Euro bill. He stared at it. There was some blood on it now.

"Now?", I said with a bit of labor. "Now, we lose our job."

Tea with Bourbon

Nowhere in the world have I had to struggle with the formalities of being offered a tea so much as my first visit to Ireland. Southerners are used to having their tea red, cold, and maybe with some sugar. Drinking tea hot was a rare event. We drink hot coffee during the 2-3 weeks of winter. So, at first, I honestly wasn't really eager to accept a warm mug of tea. The first time I was offered some by my Irish GF's mother, maybe 15 years ago or so, it went something like this:

"Cup o' tea?"

"Pardon?"

"You'll have some tea will you?"

"Oh, thanks. But, we must be going soon."

"Just a cup of tea then..."

"Oh no, thank you so much. I'm fine, really."

"Oh sure, you'll have some tea."

"Oh no, please don't put yourself out. I am perfectly fine. We'll only be here a moment before we've got to catch the bus".

"Oh you're silly. Sugar?". I was surprised to see some tea arrive moments later after I gave her a smile and a nod. I thought she simply had said, "You're silly, Sugar".

She dropped two lumps into the mug before me.

"Milk?"

"Oh, nah. Uh, plain is fine for me, thanks."

"Ah, you'll have a bit of milk."

"Oh, really this is just fine", I replied in earnest. Tea with milk? It was an odd suggestion for me at the time.

"Sure have some milk."

"That's really very kind to offer, but I'm -"

"Not a bother", She immediately poured milk in to my tea. At this point I'm wondering where my GF had gone off to. I tried not to act surprised.

"Oh ohohoh. Wait.", she admonished. I stopped my drinking, and looked up to see her disappear from the room. Moments later she sticks her head out from the kitchen doorway and says,

"Biscuit?"

"Uh..." What? Still being new to Ireland, I thought she was literally offering me something like a scone or a danish. In any case, I was beginning to become confused by the whole tea process.

"I couldn't possibly. I'm really only just here for a few, you know. "

"We've some bourbons.", she looked at me and smiled.

"Bourbon? Oh, thanks really. The tea is more than enough." I was hungover as it was. Or, uh, as I was...erm.

She presented herself from around the corner holding a tray heavy with 'cookies' and a few other baked goods I didn't recognize, and I had my first tea and biscuits in Ireland.

I learned to never turn down an offer of tea in Ireland; want it or not.

I ended up getting hooked on the tea - absolutely love it now and couldn't start the day without it. Especially love it with a smoke. Cheers.

Bi-Polar girlfriends are Bi-Polar

I've been busy this week. So, I am going to go ahead and be lazy and put up a story I recently posted to an Irish forum that asked if any of us had ever had a gun pointed at them...

I had a very attractive GF back in university. So hot that I looked past most of her faults. As you do, you come to realize just how insane she is as the days pass, and it eventually comes the time you decide you need to break off the relationship simply to maintain your own sanity. Until then, it's a crazy fun ride though.

So, one evening, after some particularly spirited fun up in my room, I realize I can not drag her along any more and I finally decide the insanity must end as she's preparing to head out. Usually girls breakup with me because I am the crazy one, or they realize they can do better. So, I really didn't feel as much guilt as I probably should have. In any case, she was smoking hot, so I knew she'd find someone far more attractive than me in short order. So, we get to talking and I eventually begin to say stupid stuff like, "It's not you, it's me...", when she opens up my nightstand and starts to reach in.

I had been living in Texas before I moved to Cali for College. So I had not only brought my pick-up, but also my handgun. It's just something you do as a Texan - you keep a handgun in the night stand and think nothing of it. I had never told her about it. I assume she had been poking around my room when I wasn't there. That explains the missing CD's and spare change...

Before I could even blink, she was leveling my Glock 9mm pistol at me, "What stops me from shooting you right here, right now? Is this loaded? Feels heavy...", she hissed coldly. 

I blinked. She was looking at me and the handgun in turn. Her finger was on the trigger.

"Or maybe we can just see where this relationship goes?", is all I could struggle to get out in reply.

She looked at me like she couldn't believe what I had just said. Then a look somewhere between pain, anger, and disgust came across her face. The gun shook in her hands momentarily, pointing directly at my chest. In a split second she jerked it toward her face. At just that exact moment I had preemptively resigned to leap at her and try for the gun. 

It was fortunate for us both then, as I managed to wrestle it out of her hands before she shot herself in the face. She had such a beautiful face, too. The gun was loaded and chambered. Glocks do not have a conventional safety like some other pistols, and pulling the trigger would have discharged a round. We were fortunate the gun didn't go off during the brief struggle for it.

After our bodies managed to purge the tremendous amount of adrenaline dumped into our blood streams during that brief moment, we nearly collapsed. Exhausted, she came back to her senses and apologized to me. We both apologized. 

Eventually, as time passed, we would run in to each other here and there on campus. We never mentioned the episode ever again. She is now a LinkdIn friend, and doing just fine in southern California. We exchange emails several times a year. She looks better than ever. She's still single, though... 

I no longer keep a handgun in the nightstand.

No English

When everything is done right, we never have to actually interact with modern society at all. We show up, the Gards point at a car for us to transfer, or pull out of a hedge, or building, culvert, ditch, lake, river, wall, whatever, and we're on our way. The only time I have to actually say something to someone other than a Gard is when I shout out my lorrie window at the bastard that cut me off and forced me to slam on my brakes and then row through all my gears again to get back up to speed. Man, I hate that. Please don't cut trucks off.

Oh, and occasionally I am criticized for my parking. Sorry, but one of the precious few perks working recovery for the state police is the fact I can park wherever the hell I need to.



"Seriously? You're gonna park there?", a tweed-cladded man hissed at me in disdain.

I was parked halfway up a curb again, about to head in to a news agent.

"Where on Gods green Ireland am I supposed to park a thirty foot long truck in Clondalkin Village?".

"You can park it down the street there so us folk can walk on this pathway here!" He made a few jerky motions I didn't pay much attention to. "Not on a double yellow! Can't you see this?!" He pointed down, seemingly with as much effort as he could muster.

"Oh, that's what those lines mean. Thanks for that." I'll admit I hadn't known what those lines meant before today. We don't do the double lines near a curb thing in The States. But I think we both know the effect that statement was going to have on the codger.

Before he could start again, I walked toward him a few steps, then back a few. I looked at him as he took a step backwards, glaring at me, confusion starting to slowly creep into his eyes. I took a few more steps, shrugged, and then looked vaguely in the direction he may have been indicating earlier.

"What in the -"

I cut him off with a, "Hmmm!", and stomped the tarmac a couple of times. "This sidewalk still seems to work." I gave an overemphasized nod in approval, then gave the man a thumbs up, then locked the truck with a very loud *BEEP* using the remote, then quickly went in to the news agent. I decided to deny the exchange ever happened if he called in to complain.

I just wanted a pack of Lucky Strikes. Was that too much to ask for?

Before long it was night again. I mostly work nights, and will oftentimes swap shifts. Though I am sort of a loner, I mostly like the relative peace and quiet and lack of traffic. The calls get a lot crazier, which I was OK with... mostly.

"Grangecastle? You mean the area that looks like a bomb went off, Grangecastle?", I asked Ray.

"Yep. They don't make them like they used to, though..."

I turned a tight corner and saw the spectacle I was meant to be a part of. In the middle of the street, standing slightly askew, was a new Audio S4, silver in color. Surrounding it were roughly half a dozen Gards. Another three or four of them were milling about, looking in bushes and such. I had the feeling they hadn't actually caught their man before calling me in this time. I flip the truck around and back it up to the Audi. The Gards come up to me quickly as I leave the truck.

"Hey, so. Sure, like, we've not actually caught our man before we rang you this time. So, we've a bit of a search goin' on at the moment. We've no keys for it, either. Sure, why don't ya go on and shackle the yoke up and we'll look after you, like?"

"Sure", I shrugged. I was nonplussed. It seemed unlikely some gang member was going to come at me from the bushes with so many Gards about. I quickly went about my business. The Audi was up on the bed of the rollback wrecker in no time and I was about to raise it and secure the back end of the car when I noticed someone coming at me from the bushes. I glanced around and fell in to a bit of a panic when I realized all the Gards were gone. ALL of them - gone - like fucking Ninjas.

"I'm right here, Fucker! Gimme back my fucken car or I'll fucken stab you, you fuck!", is what I thought he said, but his accent was so thick I could have been mistaken; it's also likely I've left out a 'fuck' or two. For a brief moment I thought about my revolver, but that revolver was back in Texas, and I wasn't in Texas any more.

He was in front of me now; one of the few people I had run in to in Ireland that was my own height.

"I said give me my fuck... fucken car!!!", he shouted directly in my face. The man had clearly been drinking and smoking for hours and hours. It was only by God's own grace he didn't manage to spit all over me as he barked. Between my panic and the smell of him, it was all I could do to focus. Surely the Gards are hearing this? I mean, their cars are still here. And, well, they were just fuckin' here themselves. I began to realize that I had to address this idiot before he decided to resort to violence. I couldn't greet him the Texas way - with a gun. So, I resigned to greet him the Mexican way.

I looked at him, smiled, and said,

"No English."

"Fuck!!!", He turned violently, ran over to the cab of my truck, yanked the keys from the ignition, and threw them in to the bushes, punctuating the action with a loud, "Fuck!".

This had the immediate effect of shutting down the diesel's power take-off. What the man could not have known was that the truck could not disengage the wench that was still hooked to the car's undercarriage without that PTO being operable. Without those keys, neither of us were leaving with our vehicles. This made me angry - very, very angry. I decided I needed to share this anger with Mr. Fuck.

I started towards the bastard as he climbed on to bed of my lorrie, his own keys in hand. The bed was still at enough of an angle that he likely thought he could drive it back down to street level. He had unlocked the door and just kicked a leg in when I reached him. I grasped his belt and began to pull him back with my left hand while my right hand started to come around the other side of my body in anger. This man didn't know it, but he was about to get the fucking kidney-punching of his fucking life. At least, that's what I had planned.

My arm suddenly couldn't move! I snapped my head around to see a Gard had managed to stop me hitting the man. I must have telegraphed that punch all the way from Kenosha. At the same moment I released Mr. Fuck with the other hand, the other Gards instantly jumped him. I myself was released as well. The man who had my arm joined the fray after giving me a quick nod.

So now we've got an Audi, tilted at a fairly steep angle on the back of my lorrie, with Mr. Fuck and an entourage of Gardai all pretending they are in a bar fight. A bar fight inside an Audio S4. That's a damn tight bar. I lit a cigarette.

Mr. Fuck was not making things remotely easy on the police. It was all the men could do to get the guy mostly out of his own vehicle. At one point I thought I could lean in and get a couple of pokes at the guy while he was preoccupied, but just when I had an opening, the Gards denied me once more.

*Snick snick snick!!!* At least three Gards had flicked out their expandable steel batons. I knew better than to get in the middle of things now. One Gard was pressing a baton in to the center of the man's back. It hurt just to look.

"Fuuuuuck! Fuuuuuck! All of yous! Fuck! Get off me! Fucking get off me!"

"Give it up! Get on the ground or I will hit you!"

"Fuuuuuuck! FUCK!", etc.

The Gard hit Mr. Fuck, and hit him hard. Without a functioning knee cap, Fuck collapsed to the ground. The Gards had him in handcuffs before he could roll into a little ball. Two Gards immediately collapsed onto Fuck, obviously glad that all of them were immobile. I contemplated giving the bastard a kick for throwing my keys.

"Here's your keys." I turned and one of the Gards handed me my keys.

"Wow. Thanks, man."

"Is your lorrie alright? Are you alright then?"

"Oh, yeah. He didn't touch me; truck's fine. Where the hell were you guys?"

I was told they thought they had seen someone in the darkness and went to chase. Then they heard the commotion I was in and returned. They stopped me from punching the man because they were afraid he would have retaliated, and much more violently. I couldn't help but feel that I had been used as bait. They found my keys sort of quickly, I thought.

As we walked past Mr. Fuck, he noticed us conversing even over his own swearing and pain.

"You fucking speak English!"

"And better than yourself.", said the Gard, whom with one decisive shove, stuffed Fuck into the back of a Garda van.

"Cheers" we all said, and went about on our own ways.

Is that an AK47, or are you just happy to see me?

I must admit, though I found it odd at first, the fact that most vehicles in Ireland are compacts makes the job much easier than it was in Texas. Unfortunately, it also meant that I would be completely ignorant of most of their names and types.

Qashqai? Tiida? 'ceed? Lada? Twingo? 106? Punto(not puto)? Octavia? Robin? Xantia? Avensis? Pixo? Alto? Ssangyong Kyron?

Nissan's "S-Cargo"(seriously):

None of these things do we have in the US(at least not as of this writing). So part of the time - no wait - most of the time during the first few weeks when I am told to transfer a certain model from a Garda impound lot, I have no freakin' clue WTF I am looking for.

"It's a Nissan Note", Tony tells me over the radio.

"Are you trying to say 'North'?" I politely reply.

"No! It's not me accent, you poxy fucken Yank. It's a NOTE. As in 'a note' of, er, something..."

"You're using 'a note' as an example of what a Note is? That's what you did just then. You know that, right?" I sarcastically replied.

"I note what I did. Now go get the car!". Well, at least I note it was a car I was looking for.

Moments later I am in Sundrive Garda Station in Crumlin. Like many stations in Dublin proper, it's quite crowded with nowhere to really park. So, I put the truck on the curb halfway and hop out on to the pavement to be confronted by an elderly woman directly.

"Yous are really gonna just park it right here, then? Roight in the middle of the path, are yous?"

"Uh...er..I, uh, can't fit the ENTIRE truck on the path. So, uh, yeah. Here she sits." I proudly replied. She obviously wasn't impressed, and walked around the truck shaking her head,

"Fuckin yanks..."

Have I mentioned that I am a Southerner? So I feel a slight tinge of pain every time someone in Europe calls me a 'Yank'. Just saying...

The Garda station was a tight squeeze, and on this evening there were four people ahead of me waiting at the window. That's about two more than the station could hold. So, I have to wait halfway out the door. It's just as well, the man at the window is shouting at the Gard all manner of abuse that I was really in no mood to deal with. After a few minutes, I take a few steps back towards the sidewalk and light a cigarette. It was just what I needed. The noise and rough ride of the recovery vehicle can take it's toll on you. Add in shouting Irishmen in tight spaces, and I needed the break.

"Fock! Yous are still here, are yous?" The elderly woman was back, her hands grasping bags full of goods she apparently just obtained from the Spar around the corner. She waved one bag at me as if to prove it was from 'Spar', and motioned towards the truck with the other,

"I see the lorrie is still there, so. Yes. Of course it's still there!", She shouted as she stepped around it, shaking her head. I was surprised she didn't spit on it.

All four of the men inside the station step past me at that moment. Why couldn't they have been done just thirty seconds sooner? I walked up to the window.

"I'm here for ah..uh.." I forgot what the hell I was there for. That old woman wiped my memory somehow.

"Is it a Nissan Note, are you lookin' fer?" The Gard spoke. He could see by my jacket I was with the recovery service.

"If you say so."

He handed me the keys and said, "She's been gone over fairly well, so she's all yours.", which basically means it's not to be held for later pick-up or impounded, all the evidence is out of it, and generally is ready to go and be recycled. It's not a great policy, but chances are the car wasn't registered right, or it was owned by a gang member, or maybe the Gards just didn't like the owner.

All the cars were back up to the rear wall of the yard, and within inches, too. There was no room in the Garda lot, which is why we take them to a central impound location, after all. There was no remote on the key fob, so I had to stick my head around the ass end of every car to see which one was a Note. Par for the course.

Eventually I am back at the impound lot with the Note. There are no other calls, so I am hanging out at the recycling shed where the vehicles are emptied of all their fluids and then moved to the crusher. There's a pretty cool, if stoic and quiet, Polish guy that runs the recycling shed. Next to him was an annoying Lithuanian guy whom all of us at work called "The Russian".

The Pol has me put the Note on the lift so he can raise it up and drain it's fluids. Russian is standing across from me, speaking Polish to the Pol. I light up a Lucky. It all sounds like Russian to me.

"You know you should not smoke in here...", Russian says as he raises an eyebrow at me.

I glare at him, made as though I was about to say something, then simply continued smoking. Russian frowned and went back to speaking Polish again. The Pol simply grunted in response.

Suddenly there was a metallic crashing noise that echoed throughout the garage, and we all jerked to attention. Something had fallen out from underneath the Note onto the concrete floor.

All three of us move over to it, crouching so as not to hit our heads on the undercarriage.

"Oh my God", the Russian said in perfect English...for once. I couldn't understand whatever it was the Pol said.

"Don't even try to act surprised - like you've never seen such a thing!", I exclaimed to Russian. "Those have got to be growing underneath every rock in Russia."

I knelt down to see, under the dirt and the mud and maybe some blood, was an AK-47 laying on the concrete floor before us.

"Don't touch it.", Russian whispered.

"Der, ya think? I'll tell Tony and he can call the Gards to see if they maybe want it back."

"Gards don't want it back", Tony tells us over the radio. "But they seem to be keen on coming for a look."

"No shit?", I say, looking at the rifle before me, one hand on a cig, the other on the radio.

"Also, they say for none of you to leave. They want to ask questions".

"Lovely.", I exhaled. Only in Ireland would three unarmed foreign nationals be asked to guard a machine gun. I lit another cigarette.

'WYK, why are these posts all out of order and stuff?'

When I was working for the Gardai back during the Celtic Tiger, I was admonished not to speak about work to anyone outside of work. This also had the unfortunate side-effect of me not having as many photos as I would like from that time as well. Most photos I could only take when heads were turned or  when I was alone. Sometimes the weather or darkness was simply too much for any successful photography. At one point my camera had been confiscated. Other times I had to lend it out so the Gardai could copy the images for their own uses as well. I was stunned that very few Gards had their own digital camera aside from their mobile phone.

Well, eventually I noticed my brain was starting to leak as it filled up with information. So, I decided to write everything down before it all went down the drain, and it all is going to culminate in this blog. I'm just gettin' started.

Pretend this post came before the last

Welcome back to October.

-This is Ireland-

I'm still relatively new, so they are giving me a lot of the very mundane work and sending me out to all corners of Dublin to get me familiar with the city and the traffic.

It wasn't too long before I started to notice something odd. There was smoke, lots and lots of smoke. And it was everywhere. Every road I was on, every street I turned, there was smoke.

"What the hell is going on?", I radio in to dispatch.

"Sorry?!" Ray came back with a combination of confusion and impatience.

"Why are there fires everywhere?"

"Saw-Wayne...It's Saw Wayne.", Ray repeated over the radio.

Saw Wayne? What the hell is 'Saw Wayne'? Ray didn't sound like he wanted to be bothered, so I went about my business. It wasn't long until I came upon several sights such as these:

These sights eventually culminated into these:

So, now it's nearly 4 in the morning, and the constant influx of charred, burnt out husks that were once automobiles the day before has started to slow to a trickle, and Ray and I are standing in front of the carnage enjoying a smoke break. Well, truth be told we had to smoke to cover the smell of lingering car death or else the toxic fumes coming off the BBQ'd vehicles, the lot nearly packed to capacity, would've made it impossible to spend any time near them at all. 

We stood there silently for a bit, listening to the rain slowly plop down upon the smoldering carriages. Occasionally you'd hear some metal settling with a sudden pop. The cars were also enjoying a bit of a smoke as well.

"What the hell is going on?", I turned to Ray.

"Saw WAYNE. Holloween... Uh.. Bon Fires...every time this year, bon fires everywhere. ", Ray lit another smoke.

"Oh! Samhain! Ah... I thought it was pronounced differently." I'm such an idiot. "Every year, just like this? Every year?", I added.

"Every year.", Ray stared at the cars blankly.

"This is crazy", I said as I began to chain-smoke another Lucky.

Ray breathed out and gave me a sideways glance,

"This is Ireland"

Cocaine and probably Heroin

Since we basically work for the Gards, we spend a lot of time recovering stolen vehicles and vehicles used in crimes. Many of these vehicles belong to drug dealers and gang members. The following are a small sample of what I've seen thus far.

It's mid day and I am being called out to the north side of Dublin by the Gardai. This is a fairly rare occurance since we are based on the opposite side of Dublin. It also means the situation is serious since the only reason I am here is to take it to the most secure impound lot at the time, which was in West Dublin. The sun was out, and even though it was a very cool November morning, it was a beautiful day.

I arrived to see 2 marked police cars and 4 armed Gardai - another rarity. The general police(Gardai) in Ireland are not armed. Only the special response units are.

"Can ya get this yoke out, so?", their leader asked me as I climbed down from the truck.

The van he motioned towards was parallel parked against a wall, blocked off front and back very closely by other vehicles. I had it out in minutes. This was also one of the rare occasions where the police gave me an escort back to the impound. The van was heavy. Obviously loaded down with a lot of cargo. Once back at the impound, I took one of my recovery tools, broke the lock on the rear door to the van, and saluted the Gardai and was about to return to my truck as I had several more calls lined up already.

"You're not curious what's inside of it?" I was asked by another Gard.

"I see a lot of vans and a lot of crazy stuff working with you guys. I'll take a gander at it when I return".

The Gard chuckled in amusement and opened the door as I turned away.

I spent the day filled with mundane tasks and recoveries, transferring a few cars from police stations to impound lots, etc. Shortly after dinner time I get a call from dispatch telling me the Gards need me urgently in some godforsaken field out in the middle of nowhere; which is to say the Bohernabreena road. I scarf down my stale Esso special breakfast roll and head out into the dark Irish night to find this:

Seems the Gards were a little too aggressive while chasing one of their boy-racer suspects. There it sits where I dropped it off at Clondalkin Station after having dragged it out of the ditch it had been wedged in to earlier that evening. The Gard got too close to his target, so when the kid slammed on his brakes, they both came together. However, instead of the police car taking damage as the kid had hoped, it turned out the fleeing motorist ended up performing a PIT maneuver on himself, sending both cars into a large culvert. No one was injured, and both cars look to be write-offs.

Being a Monday, it slowed down drastically as the evening went on. I was off in an hour, so I headed back to base as I know the dispatchers, if possible, will give you a call closer to home near the end of shift. Good lads they are. As I pull in to the impound I see quite a gathering of various official vehicles and questioned the dispatch on the radio what the hell happened.

"You're the one brought that van in! You should know!" is all I got back.

So I put the air brake on and hop out of the cab, lit a smoke, and headed around the corner towards the secure impound facility. There were no less than twenty official-looking individuals milling about, nearly silhouetted by the glow of the construction lights they've added to the usual impound lot lighting. Some have big professional-looking cameras, some with bunny suits on, and many with guns.

"HEY! You're back! Come have a look, then!" shouted a familiar Gard. So I walk past the wall of humans to see a wall of large evidence bags. These are about twice the size of your average paper grocery bag, and there were probably 30 of them all laid about on a big white tarp. In the middle of that tarp was a large mound of plastic-wrapped, brick-like objects.

"Cocaine and probably heroin...", the Gard nodded.

"And a LOT of weed by the smell off of those bags...", I said. The Gard nodded again and spoke very seriously, "We were hoping to catch the man hisself, but we just couldn't let this van sit any longer. We're still finding bits here and there hidden away inside the interior paneling. As she sits, that's easily a few million Euro right there."

I offered him a smoke, and he took it. I noticed Gordon step out from the office. The sight and smell of all that pot must have been driving him mad. I walked over to him, gave him a smoke, and said, "Looks like prices are about to go up some..." Gordon sighed.