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